While this conversation was going on in the housekeeper’s room, something of a very different kind was in progress in the drawing-room, where the daughter looked up from the letter she was writing, and gazed wonderingly at the boy. For her father pushed the little fellow in before him, and said: “There!” in a satisfied tone, and looked from one to the other.
“Why, papa!” said Helen, after looking pleasantly at the boy.
“Yes, my dear, that’s him. There he is. From this hour my experiment begins.”
“With this boy?” said Helen.
“Yes, my dear, shake hands with him, and make him at home.”
The doctor’s sweet lady-like daughter held out her hand to the boy, who was staring about him at everything with wondering delight, till he caught sight of an admirably drawn water-colour portrait of the doctor, the work of Helen herself, duly framed and hung upon the wall.
The boy burst into a hearty laugh, and turned to Helen, running to her now, and putting his hand in hers. “Look there,” he cried, pointing with his left hand; “that’s the old chap’s picture. Ain’t it like him!”
The doctor frowned, and Helen looked troubled, even though it was a compliment to her skill; and for a few moments there was a painful silence in the room.
This was however broken by the boy, who lifted Helen’s hand up and down, and said in a parrot-like way—
“How do you do?”