Mousey looked at him in surprise, not grasping his meaning. Her mind flew to the home she had just left. She fancied she could hear Uncle Dick saying, "I wish we could have a peep at Mousey, to see how she's getting on!" A glow of warmth crept into her heart as she thought of him, and her face shone with a happy smile.
From his seat at the table Mr. Harding could look into the shop. At last, a customer entering, he rose to interview the newcomer, saying as he left the parlour that he would send Monday to have his tea now.
The next minute the lanky youth took his master's place. He helped himself to a cup of tea, and buttered a slice of bread in silence, watching Mousey the while. She grew red and uncomfortable under his gaze, and wondered how long he was going to stare at her without speaking.
"Think you'll like it here?" he asked at length.
"I—I don't know," she answered hesitatingly.
"Mother dead?" was his next question, put for the sake of making conversation; he had been previously informed of Mrs. Abbot's death.
"Yes; she died a month ago," Mousey answered in trembling accents.
"I never knew my mother," the boy told her, "nor my father either. I was born in the workhouse."
"Indeed!" said Mousey, looking at him with such evident interest that he was encouraged to proceed.
"Mother died when I was born," he went on; "the folks at the workhouse didn't know her name, or anything about her, so they called me Monday because I was born on a Monday, and John after the workhouse master."