The first thing Mrs. Constant heard when she entered the house was the cry of,—
“Mother, mother!”
Not with the joyous ring it had in the morning, but with an appeal in it which told her some trouble had come which mother could best heal. All told the story separately and together, laying Blackhawk on her knees, and crying on her shoulder.
“And I’m going to hang Prig for a wicked, bad dog,” said Willie, to conclude. “She is a murderer!” and he fiercely wiped his tears.
“My dear little boy, I don’t think poor Prig was to blame at all.”
“O, mother!” cried a mournful chorus.
“No; Dolly left the door open, you all excited her, and I begin to think you were having too much of what Willie calls a holiday.”
“But it wasn’t her holiday, and she’s killed Blackhawk. O-o-o!” and they all cried again.
Mrs. Constant soothed them, and sympathized.
“Don’t cry any more. You will be sick. I would not kill Prig, for then she would be gone too, and to-morrow you would be sorry. And besides, she was only trying to do as you wanted her to, and following out her doggish instinct.”