The door of Betsy’s room opened a crack; a little dog with sad eyes looked up into her face as she sat on her couch, braiding her hair; an appealing nose was laid on her knee.
“Van, are you sorry?”
That was not the voice of an angry mistress, only a grieved one. There was hope. He burrowed his muzzle in her hand as she stretched it toward him; he whined a little note of love and pleading, as a smile broke across her face; he jumped upon the couch and looked straight into her eyes, coaxing for the forgiveness that was now so near at hand. With apologetic little grunts he worked the muscles of his face, as if he were trying to speak in her own language, and tell her that he would try very hard to be good. Only, she must forgive him when the heart of the hunter in him beat too high for reasoning.
“A little patience, oh, Betsy, my mistress. I will try; oh, I will try to be a good dog.”
But it was hard to remember when the voices of his ancestors called to him. Once when the wayward little Prince had been more than usually exasperating, Dr. Johns undertook to chastise him. Solemnly and deliberately he went through with the disagreeable duty, Van, as always, crouching quietly and without a sound. He took it like a soldier. A cur might howl for mercy, might even lick the hand that hurt him, but not a prince of the blood. When the whipping was over he walked silently away, climbed into his basket, curled up, and began to lick the places that stung. There he thought it over, and later he bobbed up as serenely as if he had quite forgotten or forgiven the injury done him.
If Betsy thought that her uncle was going to help her in the matter of Van’s training, she was to be disappointed. The very next day, as she stood in the door of the honeysuckle porch, waiting for Dr. Johns to come home for lunch, she saw him on the walk, with Van capering about him.
What did that gray-haired back-slider do but sit down on the step, take Van’s bonny brown head in his two hands, look straight into his fearless eyes, and say,
“Vanny-Boy, I’ll never, never whip you again as long as I live, no matter how bad you are. I’d be ashamed to do it. I’m a great big man, and you are so little and so pretty!”
Betsy stole softly away that Dr. Johns might not know that she had overheard these promptings of his gentle heart. But she knew now that she had not one soul to help her; for Mrs. Johns had long ago washed her hands of any part in Van’s up-bringing, and spoiled him like the others. She also knew that if she ever succeeded in making Van as good as he was brave and fearless, she would have to win the fight single-handed. She said to herself, sadly,
“Aunt Kate has to teach me manners, because I belong to her now, and I’ve got to teach Van, because he belongs to me. I’m going to do my duty.”