In a moment Dexter’s arms were about her neck, and he was clinging to her with passionate energy, sobbing now wildly, while the doctor got up and walked to the window for a few moments.
“There, there,” said Helen gently, as she pressed the boy down into his seat, and kissed him once again, after seeing that her father’s back was turned. “That’s all over now. Come, papa.”
The doctor came back, and as he was passing the back of the boy’s chair, he raised his hand quickly, intending to pat him on the head.
The boy flinched like a frightened animal anticipating a blow.
“Why, bless my soul, Dexter! this will not do,” he said huskily. “Here, give me your hand. There, there, my dear boy, you and I are to be the best of friends. Why, my dear Helen,” he added in French, “they must have been terribly severe, for the little fellow to shrink like this.”
The boy still sobbed as he laid his hand in the doctor’s, and then the meal was resumed; but Dexter’s appetite was gone. He could not finish the lamb, and it was only with difficulty that he managed a little rhubarb tart and custard.
“Why, what are you thinking about, Dexter!” said Helen after the lunch; and somehow her tone of voice seemed to indicate that she had forgotten all about the workhouse clothes.
“Will he send me back to the House?” the boy whispered hoarsely, but the doctor heard.
“No, no,” he said quickly; and the boy seemed relieved.
That night about eleven, as she went up to bed, Helen Grayson went softly into a little white bedroom, where the boy’s pale face lay in the full moonlight, and something sparkled.