"Oh, come in, you poor little boy! Have you had your supper?"
He hadn't had his supper, though the cone of ice-cream had stilled the worst pangs of hunger.
"Then you shall have some; and after that I'll put you in a nice comfy bed."
"He's a fine kid," the policeman commended, before going away, "and won't give you no trouble, will you, sonny?"
The boy caught him by the hand, looking up pleadingly into his face, as if he would have kept him. But the policeman had children of his own, and this was Christmas Eve.
"See you again, sonny," he said, cheerily, as he went out, "and a merry Christmas!"
The night matron knew by experience all the sufferings of little boys homesick for mothers who have got into trouble. She had dealt with them by the hundred.
"Now, dear, while Mrs. Lamson is getting your supper we'll go to the washroom and you'll wash your face and hands. Then you'll feel more like eating, won't you?"
Deprived of his policeman, despair would have settled on him again, had it not been for the night matron's hearty voice. The deeper his woe, and it was very deep, the less he could resist friendliness. Just as in that first agony, when he was only eight months old, he had turned to the only love available, so now he yielded again. He was not reconciled; he was not even comforted; he was only responsive and grateful, thus getting the strength to go on.