“No, I sha’n’t go pickapack, Posy Pitcher! I shall go on my hands and knees long as I live!”
Posy slid round to the arm of the sofa, dropped her head, and began to cry softly. It was hard to have him so cross; but she could have borne that: it was the idea of his never walking again that broke her heart.
“Where’s Beppo?—Beppo, come here!” called Pollio.
The dog came wagging his tail, and, seeing his master lying down and looking so sad, trotted up to him, and licked his face lovingly.
“Poor fellow! I’m awful worse. I’m going to be a doggie just like you. The doctor says so. How do you like being a dog?”
Beppo snuggled his head close to Pollio’s, and licked his cheek again. The two heads were of nearly the same color; but Beppo’s hair was curly, and Pollio’s straight. Beppo’s eyes were black, like his master’s, and had just now a wistful look.
“He wants something: I guess he wants to talk,” said Pollio.
“I guess so too,” said Posy, trying not to sob.
Pollio lay for some time stroking the dog’s nose. Did Beppo grieve about not talking as boys did about not walking? That would be sad indeed.