“Yes, yes, I will indeed,” said Dexter, with the full intention of keeping his word out of gratitude for his escape.
“Now, that’s like being a good boy,” said the old lady, smiling, and extricating her fingers from his button-hole, so as to stroke his hair. “It will do you no end of good; and how you have improved since you have been here, my dear, your hair’s grown so nicely, and you’ve got such a good pink colour in your cheeks. It’s the camomile-tea done that.”
Mrs Millett leaned forward with her hands on the boy’s shoulder, and kissed him in so motherly a way that Dexter felt a catching of the breath, and kissed her again.
“That’s right,” said the old lady. “You ain’t half so bad as Maria pretends you are. ‘It’s only a bit of mischief now and then,’ I says to her, ‘and he’s only a boy,’ and that’s what you are, ain’t it, my dear?”
Dexter did not answer.
“I shall put your dose on your washstand, and you mind and take it the moment you get out of bed to-morrow morning.”
“Yes,” said Dexter dismally.
“No! you’ll forget it. You’ve got to take that camomile-tea to-night, and if you don’t promise me you will, I shall come and see you take it.”
“I promise you,” said Dexter, and the old lady nodded and went upstairs, while the boy hung about in the hall.
How was it that just now, when he was going away, people were beginning to seem more kind to him, and something began to drag at his heart to keep him from going?