There was that in Mr. Maclin’s voice that brought a faint flush to Miss Clementina’s cheek.
“I suppose,” went on the gentleman, “when he’s digging in your geranium bed he thinks he’s your dog, and when he’s chewing my doormat he’s probably laboring under the delusion that he’s my dog. Miss Clementina, it would be so easy to make him our dog. Don’t you think we’d better?”
“I—I don’t know,” faltered Miss Clementina.
But the words were muffled against Mr. Maclin’s coat, and he took the liberty of assuming that she did know.
LOVE AND YOUTH
Butterfly,
Your little day flit on;
Youth drifts as gayly by,
And soon as you is gone.