“Hush, hush!” said Helen gently, as she took his hands; and, with a look of horror in his eyes, the boy clung to her.
“I don’t mind the cane sometimes,” he whispered, “but don’t let him beat me very much.”
“Nonsense! nonsense!” said the doctor rather huskily. “I was not going to beat you.”
“Please, sir, you looked as if you was,” sobbed the boy.
“I only looked a little cross, because you were clumsy and broke that glass. But it was an accident.”
“Yes, it was; it was,” cried the boy, in a voice full of pleading, for the breakage had brought up the memory of an ugly day in his young career. “I wouldn’t ha’ done it, was it ever so; it’s true as goodness I wouldn’t.”
“No, no, Maria, not yet,” cried Helen hastily, as the door was opened. “We will ring.”
Maria walked out again, and the boy clung to Helen as he sobbed.
“There, there,” she said. “Papa is not cross. You broke the glass, and you have apologised. Come: sit down again.”
If some one had told Helen Grayson two hours before that she would have done such a thing, she would have smiled incredulously, but somehow she felt moved to pity just then, and leading the boy back to his chair, she bent down and kissed his forehead.