“You are not going to stay here alone, man?” he said.
“Yes,” he was answered. “I have something to do; I must be alone.”
Tom hesitated a moment.
“Well,” he said, at length, “I suppose I’ve done, then. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” he was answered. “The Lord—the Lord will reward you.”
And then Tom crossed the room slowly and reluctantly, passed out, and closed the door after him.
When he opened his own door, he struck his foot against something and stumbled over it. It was a primitive wooden cradle—somewhat like a box on rockers—a quilt of patchwork covered it, and upon the small pillow rested the round black head of his new possession. He stopped short to regard it. Aunt Mornin had left it there while she occupied herself with preparing supper in the kitchen. It really looked quite comfortable. Gradually a smile established itself upon Tom’s countenance.
“By thunder!” he said, “here you are, youngster, ain’t you? You’ve come to stay—that’s what you’ve come for.”
And, being answered by a slight stirring of the patchwork quilt, he put his foot out with much cautiousness, touched the rocker, and, finding to his great astonishment that he had accomplished this much safely, he drew up a chair, and, sitting down, devoted himself with laudable enthusiasm to engineering the small ark with a serious and domestic air.