“Look out! It bites,—go easy. There! How’s that for a watch-dog?”
Out of the basket popped two pointed, velvety brown ears, erect and courageous, then the whole head, cocked on one side, eyes dancing with excitement, beauty and breeding in every line.
“Bob! What a darling! But, oh, I can’t keep him. It’s enough to ask Dr. Johns to let me keep Betsy.”
“We have to take some risks in this life, you know, Kate. Come on in and call the kid.”
Out on the carpet Van was tumbled, to be admired at all points; and being a dog of parts, the points were many—his smooth, shining, snowy coat, with the chestnut-brown saddle, and the delicate lines and curves so rare in puppies of his or of any age. Mrs. Johns gave one long look, and said:
“I don’t believe Ben will say one word. I’ll call Betsy. She’s a queer little mite, but I think she’ll like him. Betsy! Betsy! Come here a minute!”
Betsy came slowly down the stairs,—a very different-looking Betsy from the weird little black-robed figure of two weeks ago, but still awkward and shy.
“Betsy, this is Uncle Bob. See what he has brought you.”
Betsy looked.
“It’s a puppy! Pa wouldn’t have any dog to our house. They et too much.”