Some good people would have tried to get Bill's story out of him whilst Maggie was running for the food. But Hal's grandfather did no such thing, having too much common sense, as well as too much pity for the boy. Besides, his story was so plainly told by every feature of his face, and every inch of tattered garment that he wore. His whole appearance seemed to say, in language that no eyes could fail to read, that it was one thing to get into a scrape and run away in order to escape the consequence, but quite another thing to keep decent clothes upon his back, and pick up food enough to hold the wolf at bay. In short, poor Bill had learnt the value of a home.
THE SQUIRE FINDS BILL THOROUGHLY EXHAUSTED.
Meanwhile, Maggie had scrambled back to the cart-track, making fearful havoc of her zephyr apron in her haste; and had torn home, panting and breathless, taking the ditch at a bound, and astonishing beyond measure her mother, who was just returning up the garden path. On learning what had happened, however, Mrs. Rust quickly made the pap, and, calling up the stairs to Farmer Bluff, set off with Maggie to the spot.
"I made it warm, sir," said she, as she knelt down by Bill's side to feed him from the cup.
Bill took it eagerly, and would have made short work of it, had he not been restrained. It quickly revived him, however, and he sat up, looking very much as if he would like to run away again.
"You'll be all the better for that, my boy," said Mrs. Rust, standing back a step or two with the empty cup in her hand.
But Bill felt rather foolish. He looked from one to another of the group round him, and said nothing.
The Squire was the first to speak. "Well, young man," said he, possessing himself of his gold-headed cane, which he had laid down beside Bill on first stooping to examine him; "I'm glad to see you've come home again. And I hope you've had enough of a lesson about the folly of running away."
Bill hung his head. "I don't know as I'm going home," said he, in a low, dogged tone of voice.