"Cyril! Cyril! Where are you?" called Mr. Ellison one morning.
"Coming," answered Cyril, from the top of a huge pile of logs. He had found a comfortable, sheltered seat up there, which he called his "retreat," and, though it was hard to climb up to it, he often sat there, thinking about England and the father he had lost. That morning he felt more sorrowful than usual, and his eyes were red and swollen when at last he reached Mr. Ellison's side.
The saw-miller was standing in the middle of the yard, looking at a pretty black pony which a strange man was holding by the bridle.
"Good. You shall have your price," said the saw-miller. "Now, my lad," he added, turning to Cyril, "can you ride?"
"Yes," replied the boy at once, "I have a pony at home." He looked sad as he thought what a long way off that was.
"Well, this shall be your pony then," said Mr. Ellison, smiling; "Blackie—that's his name—is for you. I've just bought him for you."
"Oh, thank you, thank you! How very kind!" exclaimed Cyril delightedly. "Blackie! Woa, my beauty!" He stroked the pretty creature, patting his arched neck.
"Well, sir, take him—take him!" said the man, slipping the bridle into Cyril's hand. "I guess you may ride him bare-back, or any way you like. He's quiet enough, you'll find."
The pony had no saddle on, and Cyril did not wait for one to be brought. Jumping lightly on Blackie's sleek, bare back, he trotted quickly round the yard. His pleasure in the welcome gift, and the pleasant movement through the clear, frosty air, brought a bright colour to his cheeks. He sat erect, and the dark skin cap Mr. Ellison had given him contrasted with his fair, curly hair, and made his face appear brighter than ever.
Mr. Ellison looked admiringly at the boy. He had no child of his own. His wife had long been dead. He was all alone. Like the Captain of the brigands he thought it might be well for him to adopt Cyril, and so felt less inclined than before to hasten his departure to England.