“The name I have now is, like the dog’s, a borrowed one. I shall get my own one day—not here—but there—when—when—I’m hungry enough to go and find it.”
Clare had grown very white. He sat down, and lay back on the grass. He had talked more in those few minutes than for weeks, and want had made him weak. He felt very faint. The dog jumped up, and fell to licking his face.
“What a wicked old woman I am!” said the lady to herself, and ran across the road like some little long-legged bird, and climbed the bank swiftly.
She disappeared within the gate, but to return presently with a tumbler of milk and a huge piece of bread.
“Here, boy!” she cried; “here is medicine for you! Make haste and take it.”
Clare sat up feebly, and stared at the tumbler for a moment. Either he could hardly believe his eyes, or was too sick to take it at once. When he had it in his hand, he held it out to the dog.
“Here, Abdiel, have a little,” he said.
This offended the old lady.
“You’re never going to give the dog that good milk!” she cried.
“A little of it, please, ma’am!”