This offended the old lady.

"You're never going to give the dog that good milk!" she cried.

"A little of it, please, ma'am!"

"--And feed him out of the tumbler too?"

"He's had nothing to-day, ma'am, and we're comrades!"

"But it's not clean of you!"

"Ah, you don't know dogs, ma'am! His tongue is clean as clean as anybody's."

Abdiel took three or four little laps of the milk, drew away, and looked up at his master--as much as to say, "You, now!"

"Besides," Clare went on, "he couldn't get at it so well in the bottom of the tumbler."

With that he raised it to his own lips, drank eagerly, and set it on the road half empty, looking his thanks to the giver with a smile she thought heavenly. Then he broke the bread, and giving the dog nearly the half of it, began to eat the rest himself. The old lady stood looking on in silence, pondering what she was to do with the celestial beggar.

"Would you mind sleeping in the greenhouse, if I had a bed put up for you?" she said at length, in tone apologetic.

"This is a better place--though I wish it was warmer!" said Clare, with another smile as he looked up at the sky, in which a few stars were beginning to twinkle, and thought of the gardeners he had met. "--Don't you think it better, ma'am?"

"No, indeed, I don't!" she answered crossly; for to her the open air at night seemed wrong, disreputable. There was something unholy in it!

"I would rather stay here," said Clare.

"Why?"

"Because you don't quite believe me, ma'am. You can't; and you can't help it. You wouldn't be able to sleep for thinking that a boy just out of prison was lying in the greenhouse. There would be no saying what he might not do! I once read in a newspaper how an old lady took a lad into her house for a servant, and he murdered her!--No, ma'am, thank you! After such a supper we shall sleep beautifully!--Sha'n't we, Abby? And then, perhaps, you could give me a job in the garden to-morrow! I daresay the gardener wants a little help sometimes! But if he knew me to have slept in the greenhouse, he would hate me."

The old lady said nothing, for, like most old ladies, she feared her gardener. She took the tumbler from the boy's hand, and went into the house. But in two minutes she came again, with another great piece of bread for Clare, and a bone with something on it which she threw to Abdiel. The dog's ears started up, erect and alive, like individual creatures, and his eyes gleamed; but he looked at his master, and would not touch the bone without his leave--which given, he fell upon it, and worried it as if it had been a rat.

Clare was now himself again, and when the old lady left them for the third time, he walked with her across the way, bread in hand, to open the gate for her. When she was inside, he took off his cap, and bade her good-night with a grace that won all that was left to be won of her heart.

Before she had taken three steps from the gate, the old lady turned.

"Boy!" she called; and Clare, who was making for his couch under the stars, hastened back at the sound of her voice.

"I shall not be able to sleep," she said, "for thinking of you out there in the bleak night!"

"I am used to it, ma'am!"

"Oh, I daresay! but you see I'm not! and I don't like the thought of it! You may like h.o.a.rfrost-sheets, for what I know, but I don't! You may like the stars for a tester--because you want to die and go to them, I suppose!--but I have no fancy for the stars! You are a foolish fellow, and I am out of temper with you. You don't give a thought to me--or to my feelings if you should die! I should never go to bed again with a good conscience!--Besides, I should have to nurse you!"

The last member of her expostulation was hardly in logical sequence, but it had not the less influence on Clare for that.

"I will do whatever you please, ma'am," he answered humbly. "--Come, Abdiel!"

The dog came running across the road with his bone in his mouth.

"You mustn't bring that inside the gate, Ab!" said Clare.

The dog dropped it.

"Good dog! It's a lady's garden, you know, Abdiel!" Then turning to his hostess, Clare added, "I always tell him when I'm pleased with him: don't you think it right, ma'am?"

"I daresay! I don't know anything about dogs."

"If you had a dog like Abdiel, he would soon teach you dogs, ma'am!"

rejoined Clare.

By this time they were at the house-door. The lady told him to wait there, went in, and had a talk with her two maids. In half an hour, Clare and his four-footed angel were asleep--in an outhouse, it is true, but in a comfortable bed, such as they had not seen since their flight from the caravans. The cold breeze wandered moaning like a lost thing round the bare walls, as if every time it woke, it went abroad to see if there was any hope for the world; but it did not touch them; and if through their ears it got into their dreams, it made their sleep the sweeter, and their sense of refuge the deeper.

But although the bewitching boy and his good dog were not lying in the open air over against her gate, and although never a thought of murder or theft came to trouble her, it was long before the old lady found repose. Her heart had been deeply touched.

Chapter LIII.

The gardener.

From the fact that his hostess made him no answer when he breathed the hope of a job in her garden, Clare concluded that he had presumed in suggesting the thing to her, and that she would be relieved by their departure. When he woke in the morning, therefore, early after a grand sleep, he felt he had no right to linger: he had been invited to sleep, and he had slept! He also shrank from the idea of being supposed to expect his breakfast before he went. So, as soon as he got up, he walked out of the gate, crossed the road, and sat down on the spot he had occupied the night before, there to wait until the house should be astir. For, although he could not linger within gates where he was unknown, neither could he slink away without morning-thanks for the gift of a warm night.

As he sat, he grew drowsy, and leaning back, fell fast asleep.

The thoughts of his hostess had been running on very different lines, and she woke with feelings concerning the pauper very different from those the pauper imagined in her. She must do something for him; she must give or get him work! As to giving him work, her difficulty lay in the gardener. She resolved, however, to attempt over-coming it.

She rose earlier than usual, therefore, and as the man, who did not sleep in the house, was not yet come, she went down to the gate to meet him and have the thing over--so eager was she, and so nervous in prospect of such an interview with her dreaded servant.

"Good gracious!" she murmured aloud, "does it rain beggars?" For there, on the same spot, lay another beggar, another boy, with a dog in his bosom the facsimile of the ugly white thing named after Milton's angel! She did not feel moved to go and make his acquaintance. It could not be another of the family, could it? that had already heard of his brother's good luck, and come to see whether there might not be a picking for him too! She turned away hurriedly lest he should wake, and went back to the house.

But looking behind her as she mounted the steps, she caught sight of the gardener at the other gate, casting a displeased look across the road before he entered: he did not like to see tramps about! Her heart sank a little, but she was not to be turned aside.

The gardener came in, and his mistress joined him and walked with him to his work, telling him as much as she thought fit concerning the boy, and interspersing her narrative with hints of the duty of giving every one a chance. She took care not to mention that he had come out of a prison somewhere.

"No one should be driven to despair," she said, little thinking she used almost the very words of the Lord, according to the Sinaitic reading of a pa.s.sage in St. Luke's gospel.

The argument had little force with the rough Scotchman: his mistress was soft-hearted! He shook his head ominously at the idea of giving a tramp the chance of doing decent work, but at last consented, with a show of being over-persuaded to an imprudent action, to let the boy help him for a day, and see how he got on, stipulating, however, that he should not be supposed to have pledged himself to anything.

Miss Tempest's plans went beyond the gardener's scope. She had for some months been inclined to have a boy to help in the house--an inclination justified by a late unexpected accession of income: if this boy were what he seemed, he would make a more than valuable servant; and nothing could clear her judgment of him better, she thought, than putting him to the test of a brief subjection to the cross-grained, exacting Scotchman. By that she would soon know whether to dismiss him, or venture with him farther!

She had but just wrung his hard consent from the gardener, when the cook came running, to say the boy was gone. Upon poor Miss Tempest's heart fell a cold avalanche.

"But we've counted the spoons, ma'am, and they're all right!" said the cook.

This additional statement, however, did not seem to give much consolation to the benevolent old lady. She stood for a moment with her eyes on the ground, too pained to move or speak. Then she started, and ran to the gate. The cook ran after, thinking her mistress gone out of her mind--and was sure of it when she saw her open the gate, and run straight down the bank to the road. But when she reached the gate herself, she saw her standing over a boy asleep on the gra.s.s of the opposite bank.