"Eat that slice of hot mutton," adjured the woman pleasantly; "and after that, you'll find those potatoes and beans pretty satisfyin'."
The substantial repast seemed a kingly banquet to Samuel, and he ate with almost wolfish appreciation. His plate was like the widow's cruse of oil, which was promptly refilled as soon as emptied; and the fat man and the little woman looked on, the while, with benevolence shining from their faces.
"Now," said the hostess, when Samuel could take no more, not even a second slice of currant pudding, "while we sip our tea, we'll tell each other who each other is. My husband over there is Mr. Crispin, and I'm Mrs. Crispin. He has the toy-shop that you came through, and he is a shoemaker, besides. We never had any children, and we just live along here, contented with what good things we have. Now Mr. Crispin is the best man in the world—"
"Hush, hush, my dear!" burst out the big man, a tremendous blush spreading over his honest face.
"He is, so there! He talks loud and kind o' scary, but he couldn't say 'no' to a kitten. Now, little Blue Coat, tell us who you are."
Samuel had quite regained his usual bright manner under the spell of their hospitality, and he gladly told them of the home and loved ones he had left behind in Devonshire. Pleased to see the Crispins interested, he described many droll adventures of the boys at school, and these set the worthy pair laughing mightily.
After dinner, Mr. Crispin showed his young visitor all the glories of the toy-shop and the shoemaking den. Mrs. Crispin with much pride exhibited four canaries, a yellow patchwork quilt, and a coral breastpin; and Samuel was warmed to the heart by their simple kindliness.
The afternoon wore away all too soon, and when he was leaving, Samuel held Mrs. Crispin's hand tightly in both of his, as he tried to thank her for the blessed visit.
"'Tain't nothing at all!" protested she earnestly. "Who wouldn't give a nice-spoken lad a bite when he was faintin' with hungriness on the very doorstep, an' him a Blue Coat, too? Now listen, Sammy; you are to come here every Saturday. If we shouldn't be to home, you'll find the key under the rubber door-mat, an' you can come right in an' help yourself in the pantry. 'T ain't just that we feel sorry to see you starvin', but we like children, we always did, 'specially nice ones, an' you seem so gentlemanly mannered, an' we'd feel honored to have you here. Remember, every Saturday, now, rain or shine."