Mr. Cross laughed; like every one else, he had been irresistibly attracted by the lad; his perfect genuineness and openness, together with his quaint sharpness, had won his employer's heart, and made him feel he would do all in his power to help on the boy who was so ready to help himself.
"See here, Phil; now that I've made up my mind to keep you, you shall have one of my caps;" and Mr. Cross produced a new shiny cap, with white letters around the crown, "Mr. Cross, News-agent." "Now, you see, you are marked as one of my boys, so you must take care how you behave yourself;" and putting the cap on his head with a good-natured pat, he told him to be off for the two or three hours he wanted to bury his father, but to return in time to fetch the evening papers by the five o'clock train.
After the funeral Phil returned to his work, and his mother went to the Infirmary to fetch her husband's clothes; and Rob, being left alone, stole round to his old friend, and found him as usual smoking his pipe over the stove.
"Ah, Rob, I was looking for you. Come in, child."
Slowly Rob advanced, and then stood silent, a most unusual thing with him.
"What's the matter, Rob, eh?"
"He's buried, Mr. Jasper."
"What? your poor father?"
"Yes; mother and Phil and I have just been to the cemetery; and it was so cold and dismal, I didn't like it. And Phil is gone back to work, and mother is out, and I've nobody to talk to, and I feel so queer. I don't like funerals, Mr. Jasper."
"I don't suppose any of us like them, Rob; but it's got to be, you see. We must all come to it."