“Couldn’t you borrow of the lady on the hill who gave me the shoes?” said Helen. “She seems very nice, and she is rich.”
“She has been good to us,” said the mother, “but I hate to bother her. One can wear out generous people by too constant asking for aid.”
“I’ll tell you what to do, mamma,” said little Mary; “we’ll sell the black and tan to the big gentleman who always speaks to me so kind.”
“Oh, no!” said all the other voices together. “Blackie was given to you, and you have played with her, and we couldn’t spare her. She eats very little, and you love her very much. She is the life of the house, she is so frolicsome.”
“But he would pay money for her, and I could spare her if I had to. You said, mamma, we might be turned out of the house, and then what would Blackie do for a home? I think she would be happy in a big house, and we would give the man the basket she sleeps in, so she would be contented and remember us, too.”
“Well, who would take her to the gentleman?” said Mrs. Henson. “I fear he would think it foolish.”
“I will take her,” said the child.
In the afternoon Mary wended her way to the mansion, with Blackie and the basket, and asked for the Hon. Mr. Colebrook. That gentleman rarely had time to see adults, but he would not refuse a child.
When he entered the room he found little Mary Henson with her basket and her dog, her eyes very red with weeping, and the dog whining as though she had heard the whole plan of separation from those she loved in the poor home.