“Oh! so have I—excellently, thank you.”
Then breakfast would be served at once. He would come to table still
half asleep, with heavy eyes, to be scolded and fondled and chided.
“Lazybones! why, it’s close on eight o’clock!”
But he would hop on her shoulder, and put his little round head to her
lips as if to ask pardon.
Then they would talk of serious matters.
“Monsieur Friquet! I say, Monsieur Friquet!”
“Chirp! chirp!”—which meant: “Well, what? I’m all attention!”
“Monsieur Friquet, I want your advice. What shall we have to eat for
Sunday?”
“Chirp!”
“I hear you! Biscuit! biscuit! But people can’t live only on biscuit! We
must have something else _to go with it_. Suppose we bought a couple of
artichokes! Do you like artichokes, Monsieur Friquet? Yes? Ah! I knew an
artichoke would please you. Wait here for me, and I’ll run round to the
greengrocer’s.”
So the Sunday wore away in happy play and merry nonsense between the
pair.
What more was needed to transform the sharp thorns of pain into fragrant
roses of content? She had invested the bold little chattering fellow
with all the treasures of her tenderness; on him she lavished all her
care and devotion; he was father and mother and family to her, and where
he was, was home.
They lived long and happily together, and their love was never
interrupted.
[Illustration: A LOST DOG]