Then she went to where, under the walnut-tree--the one
large tree of that walled garden--a very old Scotch terrier was lying,
and sitting down beside him, began stroking his white muzzle, saying:
"Ossy, Ossy, do you love me?"
Presently, seeing her mother in the porch, she jumped up, and crying
out: "Ossy--Ossy! Walk!" rushed to Gyp and embraced her legs, while the
old Scotch terrier slowly followed.
Thus held prisoner, Gyp watched the dog's approach. Nearly three years
had changed her a little. Her face was softer, and rather more grave,
her form a little fuller, her hair, if anything, darker, and done
differently--instead of waving in wings and being coiled up behind,
it was smoothly gathered round in a soft and lustrous helmet, by which
fashion the shape of her head was better revealed.
"Darling, go and ask Pettance to put a fresh piece of sulphur in Ossy's
water-bowl, and to cut up his meat finer. You can give Hotspur and
Brownie two lumps of sugar each; and then we'll go out." Going down on
her knees in the porch, she parted the old dog's hair, and examined his
eczema, thinking: "I must rub some more of that stuff in to-night. Oh,
ducky, you're not smelling your best! Yes; only--not my face!"
A telegraph-boy was coming from the gate. Gyp opened the missive with
the faint tremor she always felt when Summerhay was not with her.
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