Regarded as luggage it was rather pitiful; a knobby, brown paper parcel about the size—to be perfectly frank—of a tin can, two old boots and some grass, very carefully folded and tied up,—and carried gingerly.
“But—” the lady in the deerstalker began, and then paused.
“Dick,” she said, as he came nearer, “where’s your boots?”
“Oh please, Mum,” said the dauntless one, “they was away being mended. My stepfather thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I didn’t have boots. He said perhaps I might be able to get some more boots out of my salary....”
The lady in the deerstalker looked alarmingly uncertain and Bealby controlled infinite distresses.
“Haven’t you got a mother, Dick?” asked the beautiful voice suddenly. Its owner abounded in such spasmodic curiosities.
“She—last year....” Matricide is a painful business at any time. And just as you see, in spite of every effort you have made, the jolliest lark in the world slipping out of your reach. And the sweet voice so sorry for him! So sorry! Bealby suddenly veiled his face with his elbow and gave way to honourable tears....
A simultaneous desire to make him happy, help him to forget his loss, possessed three women....
“That’ll be all right, Dick,” said the lady in the deerstalker, patting his shoulder. “We’ll get you some boots to-morrow. And to-day you must sit up beside William and spare your feet. You’ll have to go to the inns with him....”
“It’s wonderful, the elasticity of youth,” said the inconspicuous lady five minutes later. “To see that boy now, you’d never imagine he’d had a sorrow in the world.”