Part 25 (2/2)

”This is my tutor,” he finished.

”How do you do,” said Suzanna politely to the young man. She wondered what a tutor was. Then to the boy: ”Drusilla's your grandmother, isn't she?”

”Yes; do you live in this town?”

”Yes, right down that road. Your big house was closed for three years, wasn't it--since I was a little girl of five. That's why we haven't seen one another, I suppose.” Then: ”How did you think of coming to the Indian Drill?”

”Why, one of the school trustees had to see my father on business and he spoke about the entertainment. I thought I'd like to see it.”

”Well, I'm glad you came. Good-bye.”

A carriage drew up. The boy and his companion stepped into it and were driven off.

”That's young Graham Woods Bartlett,” said Mrs. Procter as they started home. ”They live in the big house on the top of the hill. This is the first time it's been open for some years.”

”And Drusilla's his grandmother,” said Suzanna. ”He's an awful nice boy.”

”His father and old John Ma.s.sey are business a.s.sociates,” put in Mr.

Procter.

”Such a fine big house to be occupied only a few months of the year, and then not every year,” put in Mrs. Procter. ”And they rarely stay so late in the season as they're staying this year--way into October.”

”I'll take Maizie and Peter and go and see him tomorrow,” said Suzanna.

”Oh, Suzanna, I don't believe--” began Mrs. Procter. Then sensing immediately that her small daughter would be totally unable to understand social distinctions, she did not finish her sentence.

So it was that the next afternoon right after school, Suzanna, who never lost time in carrying out a resolve, prepared for her visit.

”I wonder where Peter is?” Mrs. Procter asked.

As if in answer to his mother's question, Peter opened the kitchen door.

He wore primarily a guilty expression. His hat was on one side of his head, the suit which two seasons before he had outgrown, was short in the legs, tight as to chest, and there was a very symphony of entreaty in his eyes. By a frayed string he held a stray dog, the fourth one since spring.

Mrs. Procter looked at him sternly. As mothers do, she took in with one glance Peter's prayerful att.i.tude and the appealing one of the shrinking animal.

”You take that dog right away and lose it!” she commanded.

”Oh, mother,” began the small boy entering the kitchen, the dog perforce entering also. ”He followed me all the way home and we're awful good friends already. Can't he stay?”

”Not one minute,” returned Mrs. Procter. She regarded the animal scornfully. ”He's not anybody's dog,” she said. ”He's simply a stray, and I'm tired of feeding every stray dog that comes into the neighborhood.”

Peter turned reluctantly away. ”He'll be awful lonely out there,” he said, ”and he's hungry, too. No lady ever thinks a dog eats. Can't I give him a bone or something before I turn him loose?”

”Take him out on the back porch and give him that soup bone left from supper last night. And then I don't want to see him again. Now, Peter, this time I mean it.”

Peter made one last effort. ”He's a fine breed, his roof is black,” he said. ”He'd make an awful good watch dog.”

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