"She didn't tell me, sir."
I sank back on my seat. No! I was all wrong. It was a positive, undeniable, piteous fact. Seventy millions of people about him, and not one living soul to look to. Not a tie that connected him with anything. A leaf blown across a field; a bottle adrift in the sea, sailing from no port and bound for no haven. I got hold of his other hand, and looked down into his eyes, and an almost irresistible desire seized me to pick him up in my arms and hug him; he was too big to kiss, and too little to shake hands with; hugging was all there was left. But I didn't. There was something in his face that repelled any such familiarity,—a quiet dignity, pluck, and patience that inspired more respect than tenderness, that would make one want rather to touch his hat to him.
Here the cab stopped with so sudden a jerk that I had to catch him by the arms to steady him. Cabby opened the door.
"Morgan House, boss. Goin's awful, or I'd got ye here sooner."
The boy looked up into my face; not with any show of uneasiness, only a calm patience. If he was to walk now, he was ready.
"Cabby, how far is it to the asylum?" I asked.
"'Bout a mile and a half."
"Throw that trunk off and drive on. This boy can't walk."
"I'll take him, boss."
"No; I'll take him myself. Lively, now."