The Boy Artist Part 10

Janet looked up. "Mother, dear, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean so bad.

Maurice is better than he was, isn't he? He had quite a colour this morning, and was not so tired as he was yesterday; and by the time Alan comes home, I expect he will be quite well."

Her mother put her work down for a minute, and laid her hand upon Janet's fair hair--

"My good little girl, I didn't think you meant to pain me, and I know how you love your little brother. You both help me beautifully in taking care of him, and if it's G.o.d's will I think he will get quite well--but he sadly wants care. If your dear grandmother was alive, I'd send him into the country to her for a little bit, to my old home. I know _that_ fresh air would soon make him well again."

"Mother, I'd like to see your home. The house with the roses growing over it, and the school where grandmother taught, and the church, and the green fields, and the hills, and the--"

"Hush, Janet; here's the old gentleman."

Mr. Smith came in and sat down. First he cleared his throat, then settled his stiff cravat, crossed his legs, and looked round on the little party.

"Girls go to school, Mrs.--what's your name?"

"Shipton, sir, Mrs. Shipton. No, sir, my little girls stop at home and help me."

"Help, hum! not much help in them, never is in town girls--think of nothing but lark and fine dresses. Do they earn anything?"

"No, sir, not yet; they will by-and-by, but I think they do quite enough now in helping me."

"Hum! got any more children, Mrs. Shipton?"

"One boy at sea, sir."

"At sea!--ran away?"

"No!" burst indignantly from Janet and Ellen; "he went because he got a good chance; and he didn't like going, but he said he wouldn't stop and burden mother."

"He's a good son, sir--my boy Alan!" said the mother proudly.

"Alan!" said the old man, lingering on the name; "why do you call him that?"

"It was his father's name, sir," said the widow, as she bent her head lower over her work.

Ellen noticed that the old gentleman bit his lip and looked down on the ground, and she thought he must be rather kind, because he did not ask any more questions, and did not look at her mother's sad face.

At this moment Maurice roused himself from his heavy sleep, and looked round in stupid, slumbering wonder upon the stranger who seemed to have made himself so much at home.

Janet ran to his side, and eagerly whispered the news, while Maurice rubbed his eyes and took a good look at the new-comer.

"Hum! not much stuff in that little chap," said Mr. Smith.

"He has been very ill," replied the mother, looking anxiously at her youngest child.

"Doctor's bill to pay, I suppose?"

"Yes," she answered hastily.

"Make haste, boy, and get well--sick boys are expensive things."

"What a queer man," said little Maurice.

"Come, Maury, come to mother's room, and I'll put you neat," said Ellen kindly, as she took his little thin hand and led him away.

Then Mr. Smith put on his spectacles and drew the paper from his pocket, and spoke no more until tea-time.

After that meal was over, the mother went out to deliver her parcel of work, and the two little girls sat down with their sewing.

Suddenly their lodger spoke: "Do you like stories, children?"

"Yes, oh yes!" they answered eagerly, while a look of pleasure came over Maurice's pale, shy face.

"What shall it be about?"

"Do you know much about the country, sir?" said Janet.

"Yes, my girl, more than most folks."

"Please, then, tell us about that," said Ellen.

The old man looked satisfied, and began a long description of the country delights of his boyhood. The children listened attentively to them; it was like some fairy tale, or a story of enchanted ground.

"Father used to tell us things like that," said little Janet.

"Did he?" said the old man quickly. "Did your father love the country?"

"Yes; but he ran away and left it, because he thought he would like the town better," replied Ellen.

"And did he?" asked the stranger, while he looked keenly into the little girl's face.

"No," she answered thoughtfully. "He said it wasn't right of him, and that he had often wished himself back again there;--but I don't believe father ever did what was wrong."

"Hum!" Mr. Smith suddenly looked away towards the fire and cleared his throat violently; as he did so, his eyes rested on little Maurice, who was sitting on his little stool in the chimney-corner, with the firelight falling on his face. The old man started and muttered low, "Alan, my little lad!" Then gave an impatient pshaw! and turned again to Ellen.

"The river ran right through the fields, and my brother used to bathe in it, and fish--ay, many's the hour we've spent on its banks with a rod and basket--many's the dish we've brought back in pride to our mother."

Suddenly Maurice got up and came to his side. "Did you ever see a boy drowned?"

Mr. Smith looked at the child in silent amazement for a moment, but Maurice repeated his question.

"Did you?"

"Yes," answered the old man in a tremulous voice, while his hands shook as he clasped them together.

"Uncle Val was drowned," Maurice went on, "quite drowned in the water--father said so--he was drowned deep down under the willow-trees."

"Hush, Maury dear; it was very dreadful: father used to sigh when he spoke of Uncle Val, and Maurice is always thinking about him; please, forgive him, sir."

Mr. Smith did not answer, and at this moment the mother came in.