“Yes. Son of some miserable tramp who died in the casual ward.”
“How dreadful!” said Helen, glancing once more at the boy, who caught her eye, and smiled in a way which made his face light up, and illumined the sallow cheeks and dull white pinched look.
“Dreadful? Couldn’t be better for my theory, my dear.”
“Very well, papa,” said Helen quietly; “I will help you all I can.”
“I knew you would, my dear,” said the doctor warmly; “and I prophesy that you will be proud of your work, and so shall I. Now, then, to begin,” he added loudly.
“All in—all in—all in!” shouted the boy, jumping up like a grasshopper, and preparing to go through some fresh gymnastic feat.
“Ah! ah! Sit down, sir. How dare you!” shouted the doctor; and the boy dropped into his seat again, and sat like a mouse.
“There!” said the doctor softly; “there’s obedience. Result of drilling. Now, then, what’s the first thing? He must have some clothes.”
“Oh yes; at once,” said Helen.
“And, look here, my dear,” said the doctor testily; “I never use anything of the kind myself, but you girls rub some stuff—pomade or cream—on your hair to make it grow, do you not?”