Bess pushed a low stool to her side, and sat down on it, with her arm in her mother’s lap.
“Did you have a pleasant service?” asked the older lady, laying down her book, and giving her daughter’s hair a caressing pat.
“Very. Mr. Washburn did so well to-night, better than usual, and the music was”—
What it was, Mrs. Carter was never destined to know, for at the sound of her daughter’s voice, there was a sudden uprising in the willow basket by the fire, and out jumped a small gray dog, who stretched himself for a moment, and then darted straight at his mistress, and climbed into her lap with sundry growls and yelps of pleasure, wagging, not his tail only, but his whole body, clear to his curly head. Standing up in her lap, he struck out with his forepaws, with an utter disregard for her comfort, and only intent on giving her a cordial welcome. Bess bore it meekly for a time, but a vigorous scratch on her cheek was too much for even her patience, and she pushed the dog gently down with a “That will do. Fuzz”; so he trotted away, and began to search diligently in all the corners of the room.
