A Christmas Posy Part 16

And when we had eaten, if not quite as much as we _could_, any way quite as much as was good for us, we went a little turn round the garden while Eliza was getting our trunks open, and then we said good-night to papa and mamma and went to bed as happy, or almost as happy, as we could be. There was just one thought in both our minds that prevented our being _quite_ happy, but we had fixed not to speak about it.

The next day and the days that followed were delightful. The weather kept fine and the walks were endless. Papa enjoyed it as much as we did.

He took us out himself, and when it was not to be a very, very long walk, mamma came too. Once or twice we carried our dinner with us and didn't come home till evening, and several times we had tea on the moor near our house.

After about a week papa told us one evening that he had to go to London the next day to stay one night. He had ordered a carriage to come to take him to the station early, and he said if it was fine Persis and I and Eliza might drive with him and walk back across the moor, if we didn't think we'd be tired. Of course we didn't, and though we were sorry for him to go, we liked the idea of the drive. And as the morning did turn out fine, it all happened as he had planned. We saw him off, and then we started for our walk back. We had never been at this side of the moor since the day we arrived, and papa told us we might vary the walk by going down a lane that skirted it for some way.

"There is a farmhouse there," he said, "where I daresay they would give you some milk if you are thirsty."

We thought it a very good idea, and after going about half a mile down the lane we came upon the farmhouse just as he had said. A little girl was feeding some chickens just in front, and when we asked her if we could have a cup of milk, she said she would run in and see. While we were waiting we heard a voice, a laughing merry voice it sounded, calling out in a sort of orchard close by--

"Down, Rollo, down--oh, you naughty old dog," it said.

Just then the little girl came out to ask Eliza if she'd mind coming in to fetch the milk, as she couldn't carry both the jug and the cups.

Eliza went in, and I suppose she stayed chatting to the farmer's wife, who, she told us afterwards, was busy churning, for she was certainly five minutes gone. While she was away, the gate into the orchard opened and a girl--not a little girl, but a grown-up young lady--came running out, followed by a beautiful big dog. He was really a splendid fellow, and as she ran, he ran, half jumping against her--I think she had something in her hand he wanted to get--and again we heard the laughing voice call out--

"Down, Rollo--you naughty old fellow. You'll knock me over if you don't take care, you great, clumsy darling."

They rushed across the road--the girl and the dog--and down a little lane just opposite. They were gone like a flash, but we did, at least _I_ did see them, the dog especially, quite clearly. Afterwards I tried to fancy I hadn't, but that was not true. I did see the dog perfectly.

I turned to Persis.

"Did you ever see such a beauty?" I said. But just then Eliza came out with the milk, and we didn't say any more about the dog. We both kept thinking about it all the way home, I know, but somehow we didn't care to talk about it before Eliza. The wish for a dog of our own had become such a very deep-down thought in our hearts that we could not talk about it easily or lightly--not even to each other always.

Papa came back from London the next day, but mamma was disappointed to hear that he was obliged to return there again the end of the week, this time to stay two nights. We did not drive with him again to the station because it was a wet day, otherwise we should have wished it doubly, in the chance of having another sight of the beautiful dog.

It was the very day after papa had gone this second time that a strange thing happened. Persis and I were out in the garden rather late in the evening before going to bed, and we had just gone a tiny bit out into the lane to see if the sky looked red over the moor where the sun set, when we heard a sort of rus.h.i.+ng, pattering sound, and looking round, what should be coming banging along towards us, as fast as he could, but a great big dog. He stopped when he got up to us and began wagging his tail and rubbing his head against us in the _sweetest_ way, and then we saw that his tongue was hanging out, and that his coat was rough and dusty, and he breathed fast and pantingly--he was evidently very tired, and, above all, thirsty. I was off for a mug of water for him before we said a word, and oh how glad he was of it! He really said "Thank you"

with his tail and his sweet nose as plainly as if he had spoken. And he didn't seem to think of leaving us--he was alone, there was no one in sight, and he seemed as if he was sure he had found friends in us.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LOST ROLLO

"He stopped when he got up to us and began wagging his tail and rubbing his head against us in the ~sweetest~ way." P. 161]

"He is very like--he is just like----" Persis began at last. But I interrupted her.

"There are lots of dogs like him," I said. "He is lost--we must take him in for the night. Oh, Persis, just fancy--if he is really _quite_ lost, we may have to keep him for good. Mamma might perhaps let us. Oh, Persis!"

We took him in with us and called to mamma to come out to the door to look at him. She saw what a beauty he was at once, and stroked his head and called him "poor doggie," for, as I said, she is always kind to animals, though she doesn't care for pets.

"We must take him in for the night any way," she said. "Perhaps in the morning we may find out where he comes from."

There was an empty kennel in the yard, and we found some nice clean hay in the hampers that we had brought with groceries from London. And the cook gave us some sc.r.a.ps and one or two big bones. So "Bruno," as of course we called him, was made very comfortable.

And you can fancy--no, I really--I don't think you _can_--the state of excitement in which Persis and I went to bed.

CHAPTER III

WE got up very early indeed the next morning, and of course we both rushed straight to the yard. We had had a dreadful feeling that perhaps somebody would have come to claim the dog, and that we should find him gone. But no--there he was, the beauty, and as soon as ever he saw us, out he came wagging his dear tail and looking as pleased as pleased.

"Do you see how he knows us already, Archie?" said Persis. "Isn't he _too_ sweet? Couldn't you really think the fairies had sent him to be our very own?"

We could scarcely eat any breakfast, and the moment it was over we dragged mamma out to look at him. She was as nearly much taken with him as we were, we could see, only she said one thing which I wished she hadn't.

"How unhappy his owners must be at having lost him!" it was.

And then she began talking about what could be done to find them.

Persis and I didn't say anything. We wouldn't speak even to each other about what we both knew deep down in our hearts--we wouldn't even think of it.

Papa was not to be back till the next day. Nothing could be done till he came, any way, so all that day Persis and I had the full happiness of Bruno. He was so good and obedient and seemed so perfectly at home with us, that we even ventured to take him out a walk, though not of course a very long one. He gambolled over the moor with us, seemingly as happy as could be, and the very moment we called him back he came. It was wonderful how he seemed to know his name, especially when we called it out rather long, making the last "o" sound a good deal--"Bru_no_--_o_,"

like that, you know. Oh, he was so delightful! All our fancies about having a dog seemed nothing compared to the reality.

The next day papa came back. He was almost as pleased with Bruno as we were.

"Yes," he said, after looking him well over, "he is a beauty and no mistake. A collie of the very best kind. But some one or other must be in trouble about him."

"That's just what I have been saying," mamma put in. "If this weren't such an out-of-the-way place, no doubt we should have seen advertis.e.m.e.nts about him."

"I'll look in the local papers," said papa.

And that evening when we were at tea, he came in with a little thin-looking newspaper in his hand, which he seemed to be searching all through for something. Persis and I s.h.i.+vered, but we didn't dare to say much.

"Have you been at Local, papa?" I asked. "Is it far from here?"

"Been at where?" papa said. "What in the world is the child talking about?"

Papa has _rather_ a sharp way sometimes, but he doesn't mean it, so we don't mind.

"At Local," I said again, "the place where you said there was a newspaper. Is it anywhere near the station?" (I _hoped_ of course it was not, for the nearer the station the more likely that the dog should be advertised for in the newspaper. You know of course what I mean by "near the station.")

To my surprise papa burst out laughing.

"You little goose," he said, holding out the paper. "There, look for yourself;" and I saw that the name of the paper was _The Wildmoor Gazette_. I was quite puzzled, and I suppose my face showed it.

"Local," said papa, "only means connected with the place--with any place. I just meant that I would get the newspaper of this place to see if any such dog as Bruno was advertised for. But I don't see anything of the kind. I think I must put in an advertis.e.m.e.nt of having found him."

"Oh, papa, you surely won't!" Persis burst out.

Papa turned upon her with a sort of sharpness we did mind this time, for we saw he was quite in earnest.

"My dear child," he said, "what are you thinking of? It would not be honest not to try to restore the dog to those he belongs to. I have already told all the neighbours about him."

Persis said no more, but she grew very red indeed. I think I did too, but I'm not quite sure, and I couldn't ask Persis afterwards, for we had fixed in our minds we wouldn't speak of that thing. I turned my face away, however, for fear of papa seeing it. He would have thought there was something very queer the matter if he had seen we were both so red.

That afternoon he went out without saying where he was going, but we both felt quite sure he had gone about putting that horrid advertis.e.m.e.nt in the paper. And even without that, we knew that if he went telling about Bruno to everybody he'd be _sure_ to be claimed. The country's not like town, you see. Everybody knows everybody else's affairs in the country.

We took Bruno out, feeling that we only loved him the more for not knowing how soon he might be taken from us. We both hugged him and cried over him that afternoon, and the dear fellow seemed to understand. He looked up in our faces with such _very_ "doggy" eyes.

And after that, there never, for some days, came a knock at the door, or the sound of a strange voice in the kitchen, without our trembling. And we never came in from a walk with Bruno without getting cold all over at the thought that perhaps some one might be waiting for him.