"Yes, I will. Money is good. It buys sweeties."
"Whose boy is that, dominie?"
"Mrs. Hope's. I thought he would annoy you. He is a great pleasure to me."
"Let him come up to the Keep whiles. I'll no mind him."
When he rose to go he stood a moment before each picture, and then suddenly asked,
"Whar is young Crawford?"
"In Rome."
"A nice place for him to be! He'd be in Babylon, doubtless, if it was on the face o' the earth."
When he went home he shut himself in his room and almost stealthily took out that slip of paper. It had begun to look yellow and faded, and Crawford had a strange fancy that it had a sad, pitiful appearance. He held it in his hand a few moments and then put it back again. It would be the new year soon, and he would decide then. He had made similar promises often; they always gave him temporary comfort.
Then gradually another element of pleasure crept into his life—Mrs. Hope's child. The boy amused him; he never resented his pretty, authoritative ways; a queer kind of companionship sprang up between them. It was one of perfect equality every way; an old man easily becomes a little child. And those who only knew Crawford among coals and pig iron would have been amazed to see him keeping up a mock dispute with this baby.