Ben whistled, called and searched in vain, till one of the lounging men said, lazily: 

“If you are looking after the big poodle you’d better go outside; I saw him trotting off with another dog.”

Away rushed Ben, with Bab following, regardless of the rain, for both felt that a great misfortune had befallen them.  But, long before this, Sancho had vanished, and no one minded his indignant howls as he was driven off in a covered cart.

“If he is lost I’ll never forgive you; never, never, never!” and Ben found it impossible to resist giving Bab several hard shakes which made her yellow braids fly up and down like pump handles.

“I’m dreadful sorry.  He’ll come back—­you said he always did,” pleaded Bab, quite crushed by her own afflictions, and rather scared to see Ben look so fierce, for he seldom lost his temper or was rough with the little girls.

“If he doesn’t come back, don’t you speak to me for a year.  Now, I’m going home.”  And, feeling that words were powerless to express his emotions, Ben walked away, looking as grim as a small boy could.

A more unhappy little lass is seldom to be found than Bab was, as she pattered after him, splashing recklessly through the puddles, and getting as wet and muddy as possible, as a sort of penance for her sins.  For a mile or two she trudged stoutly along, while Ben marched before in solemn silence, which soon became both impressive and oppressive because so unusual, and such a proof of his deep displeasure.  Penitent Bab longed for just one word, one sign of relenting; and when none came, she began to wonder how she could possibly bear it if he kept his dreadful threat and did not speak to her for a whole year.

But presently her own discomfort absorbed her, for her feet were wet and cold as well as very tired; pop-corn and peanuts were not particularly nourishing food, and hunger made her feel faint; excitement was a new thing, and now that it was over she longed to lie down and go to sleep; then the long walk with a circus at the end seemed a very different affair from the homeward trip with a distracted mother awaiting her.  The shower had subsided into a dreary drizzle, a chilly east wind blew up, the hilly road seemed to lengthen before the weary feet, and the mute, blue flannel figure going on so fast with never a look or sound, added the last touch to Bab’s remorseful anguish.

Wagons passed, but all were full, and no one offered a ride.  Men and boys went by with rough jokes on the forlorn pair, for rain soon made them look like young tramps.  But there was no brave Sancho to resent the impertinence, and this fact was sadly brought to both their minds by the appearance of a great Newfoundland dog who came trotting after a carriage.  The good creature stopped to say a friendly word in his dumb fashion, looking up at Bab with benevolent eyes, and poking his nose into Ben’s hand before he bounded away with his plumy tail curled over his back.