"I am sure we shall get on well together," Mrs. Andrews went on. "I shall never forget that you were a friend to my boy when he was friendless in London."
"It's all the t'other way, ma'am," Bill said eagerly; "don't you go for to think it. Why, just look what George has done for me! There was I, a-hanging about the Garden, pretty nigh starving, and sure to get quadded sooner or later; and now here I am living decent, and earning a good wage; and he has taught me to read, ma'am, and to know about things, and aint been ashamed of me, though I am so different to what he is. I tell you, ma'am, there aint no saying what a friend he's been to me, and I aint done nothing for him as I can see."
"Well, Bill, you perhaps both owe each other something," Mrs. Andrews said: "and I owe you something as well as my son, for George tells me that it is to your self-denial as well as to his own that I owe this delightful surprise of finding a home ready for me; and now," she went on, seeing how confused and unhappy Bill looked, "I think you two ought to make tea this evening, for you are the hosts, and I am the guest. In future it will be my turn."
"All right, mother! you sit down in this armchair; Bill, you do the rashers, and I will pour the water into the pot and then toast the muffins."
Bill was at home now; such culinary efforts as they had hitherto attempted had generally fallen to his share, as he had a greater aptitude for the work than George had, and a dish of bacon fried to a turn was soon upon the table.
Mrs. Andrews had been watching Bill closely, and was pleased with the result of her observation. Bill was indeed greatly improved in appearance since he had first made George's acquaintance. His cheeks had filled out, and his face had lost its hardness of outline; the quick, restless, hunted expression of his eyes had nearly died out, and he no longer looked as if constantly on the watch to dodge an expected cuff; his face had always had a large share of that merriment and love of fun which seem the common portion of the London arabs, and seldom desert them under all their hardships; but it was a happier and brighter spirit now, and had altogether lost its reckless character. A similar change is always observable among the waifs picked up off the streets by the London refuges after they have been a few months on board a training ship.
When all was ready the party sat down to their meal. Mrs. Andrews undertook the pouring out of the tea, saying that although she was a guest, as the only lady present she should naturally preside. George cut the bread, and Bill served the bacon. The muffins were piled on a plate in the front of the fire as a second course.
It was perhaps the happiest meal that any of the three had ever sat down to. Mrs. Andrews was not only happy at finding so comfortable a home prepared for her, but was filled with a deep feeling of pride and thankfulness at the evidence of the love, steadiness, and self-sacrifice of her son. George was delighted at having his mother with him again, and at seeing her happiness and contentment at the home he had prepared for her. Bill was delighted because George was so, and he was moreover vastly relieved at finding Mrs. Andrews less terrible than he had depicted her.
After tea was cleared away they talked together for a while, and then Bill—feeling with instinctive delicacy that George and his mother would like to talk together for a time—said he should take a turn for an hour, and on getting outside the house executed so wild a war-dance of satisfaction that it was fortunate it was dark, or Laburnum Villas would have been astonished and scandalized at the spectacle.
"I like your friend Bill very much," Mrs. Andrews said when she was alone with George. "I was sure from what you told me that he must be a good-hearted lad; but brought up as he has been, poor boy, I feared a little that he would scarcely be a desirable companion in point of manners. Of course, as you say, his grammar is a little peculiar; but his manners are wonderfully quiet and nice, considering all."