“Van!” she whispered. “Van, you bad dog, what are you doing here? I told you to go home.”
Van put his nose on the floor between his forepaws, and sighed peacefully, as if he had not heard her. Unless force were used, he intended to stay and see the performance through.
Betsy’s heart was filled with misgivings; but rather than run the gauntlet of the whole school’s eyes, with a dog under her arm, she decided to hold him until the service was over. The teacher had not noticed; her eyes were on the heads and not the feet of the children.
Betsy tucked Van under the seat, where he lay until the lesson was over—as good a dog as ever lived, and far better than some of the children, who found it hard to keep their minds on holy things, with a small brown head and two bright eyes popping out every time a question from the catechism brought forth a childish answer.
Once more the superintendent lifted his voice in prayer, and Van crept softly out from under the seat to see if he could find out what it really meant.
Now the hymn was given out, the pianist took his seat, and began to run over the tune. This was fine! Van liked music and he pricked up his ears. Behind Betsy’s back he jumped up on the seat, and began to roll his eyes and cock his head to one side as if to take in the full beauty of the notes.
A small boy began to giggle, and the children all over the room craned their heads over the backs of the seats; some even climbed up to peer over, and the whisper went around,
“There’s a dog in Sunday School!”
Betsy tried to repress him without being noticed. But there was a decided tide of attention setting her way. The teacher began to take notice, too.
Betsy’s face was crimson. She could not carry Van out, just as they were beginning to sing. She put down her hand and whispered out of the corner of her mouth,