She ventured to put her hand in his, and lead him forwards into the light. She told Oliver that Roger was willing to forgive and forget; and Oliver said that he was quite willing too. Oliver set a stool for Roger, and offered him his own basin of broth. Ailwin held her tongue;—which was the most that could be expected of her.
Roger did not quite know what to say and do, when he had finished his supper, and fed Spy. He swung his legs, as he sat upon his stool, stared into the fire, and began to whistle. Roger’s shrillest whistle, as it had been sometimes heard in the carr, was anything but agreeable: but his low whistle, when he was not thinking about it, was soft and sweet. A gentle chuckle was soon heard from George, as he lay across Mildred’s knees.
“He likes it! He likes such a whistle as that!” exclaimed Mildred. Her eyes said to Roger, “Do go on!”
Roger went on whistling, better and better,—more and more softly, he drawing nearer, till he quite bent over the poor sick child, who, after many signs of pleasure, dropped off into a sleep,—a quiet, sound sleep.
“Thank you!” said Oliver, heartily. “Thank you, Roger!”
“You will do it again to-morrow, will not you, if he should be fretful?” said Mildred.
Roger nodded. Then he made the cloth drapery hang better over the pillows on which the child was laid,—so as to keep off the dew completely, he said. Then he nodded again, when Oliver gave him a blanket: and once more he nodded good night, before he rolled himself up in it under a neighbouring tree.