The child was soon curled up under a comfortable travelling rug, between a stout lady and gentleman, who both examined him curiously by the light of the little lamp.
Where was he going so late, and all alone, too? Jack would have liked to tell the truth, but he was in too great fear of being carried back to the Institute. Then he invented a story to suit the occasion. His mother was very ill in the country, where she was visiting. He had been told of this the night before, and he had at once started off on foot, because he had not patience to wait for the next day’s train.
“I understand,” said the lady. And the gentleman looked as if he understood also, but made many wise observations as to the imprudence of running about the country alone, there were so many dangers. Then he was asked in what house in Villeneuve his mother’s friends resided.
“At the end of the town,” answered Jack, promptly,—“the last house on the right.”
It was lucky that his rising color was hidden by the darkness. His cross-examination, however, was by no means over. The husband and wife were great talkers, and, like all great talkers, extremely curious, and could not be content until they had learned the private affairs of all those persons with whom they came in contact. They kept a little store, and each Saturday went into the country to get rid of the dust of the week; but they were making money, and some day would live altogether at Soisy-sous-Etiolles.
“Is that place far from Etiolles?” asked Jack, with a start.
“O, no, close by,” answered the gentleman, giving a friendly cut with his whip to his beast.
What a fatality for Jack! Had he not told the falsehood, he could have gone on in this comfortable carriage, have rested his poor little weary legs, and had a comfortable sleep, wrapped in the good woman’s shawl, who asked him, every little while, if he was warm enough.
If he could but summon courage enough to say, “I have told you a falsehood; I am going to the same place that you are;” but he was unwilling to incur the contempt and distrust of these good people; yet, when they told him that they had reached Villeneuve, the child could not restrain a sob.
“Do not cry, my little friend,” said the kind woman; “your mother, perhaps, is not so ill as you think, and the sight of you will make her well.”