The child rose and came to her. She was a beautiful little creature of about eight years old, with a fair complexion, fair curly hair, and eyes so deeply blue that they looked quite purple.
"This boy is going to live with your grandfather and me," her grandmother said; "his name's Billy. Will you remember?"
May nodded.
"Billy," she said softly, "Billy." She spoke as though trying to impress the name on her memory.
"He's not a cousin," Mrs. Brown went on to explain, "but he'll be just like one. He's lost his mother—" She paused as her husband entered the kitchen, carrying Billy's box, then exclaimed sharply: "Mind to wipe your boots, William!"
"All right, Maria!" he answered good temperedly, adding: "Please give Billy a candle; he'll light me upstairs."
"Very well. But be quick, for I'm going to make tea."
Billy found he was to have a good-sized bedroom. It was spotlessly clean, with a white-curtained window and a white-curtained bed. He washed his face and hands, whilst his grandfather waited for him; then they went downstairs together. A stout woman, clad in a waterproof, the hood of which was pulled over her head, had come upon the scene in their absence. The minute she saw Billy she made a rush at him, flung her arms around him, and kissed him heartily again and again.
"Oh, the dear little fellow!" she cried, hugging him and half crying. "To think of all he's gone through—the poor, motherless lamb!"
"Elizabeth," said Mrs. Brown sternly, "show more sense! If you go on like that you'll upset him! This is my daughter, Mrs. Dingle, Billy."