“It must come by degrees, papa,” Helen said; “and any advice given now would only make him more conscious.”
Dexter’s hair still looked horribly short, but his face did not quite resemble now that of a boy who had just risen from a sick-bed. He looked brighter and more animated, and in nowise peculiar; but all the same, in their short walk, Helen was conscious of the fact that they were being observed by every one they passed, and that plenty of remarks were made.
All at once she noticed that Dexter as she was speaking to him gave quite a start, and following the direction of his eyes, she saw that he was looking at a rough-looking boy, who was approaching them with a fishing-rod over his shoulder, and a basket in his hand.
The boy’s mouth widened into a grin as he passed, and Helen asked Dexter if he knew him, the friendly look he had given speaking volumes of a new difficulty likely to be in their way.
“I don’t know whether I know him—or not,” said Dexter. “I’ve spoken to him.”
“Where? At the schools!”
“No; he was fishing on the other side of the river that day I tumbled in.”
“Oh!” said Helen coldly. “Here we are.”
She turned through a great iron gate, walked up a broad flight of steps, and knocked.
“There, Dexter,” she said, as the door was opened. “I hope you will enjoy yourself.”