The Italian had made a special pet of him
for the Morrises' sake, and treated him more like a human being than a
dog. Billy rather put on airs when he came up to the farm to see us, but
he was such a dear, little dog, in spite of being almost spoiled by his
master, that Jim and I could not get angry with him. In a few days they
went away, and we heard nothing but good news from them, till last
winter. Then a letter came to Miss Laura from a nurse in a New York
hospital. She said that the Italian was very near his end, and he wanted
her to write to Mrs. Gray to tell her that he had sold all his animals
but the little dog that she had so kindly given him. He was sending him
back to her, and with his latest breath he would pray for heaven's
blessing on the kind lady and her family that had befriended him when he
was in trouble.
The next day Billy arrived, a thin, white scarecrow of a dog. He was
sick and unhappy, and would eat nothing, and started up at the slightest
sound. He was listening for the Italian's footsteps, but he never came,
and one day Mr. Harry looked up from his newspaper and said, "Laura,
Bellini is dead.
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