"What is it, Wikkey boy?" he asked, groping his way to him. "Are you worse?"
"I didn't mean for to wake you; but I wish—I wish I hadn't boned them coppers off Jim; it makes me feel so bad when I think as the King saw me;" and Wikkey buried his face in the kind arm which encircled him, in uncontrollable grief. It needed all Lawrence's assurances that the King saw his repentance, and had certainly forgiven—yes, and the prayer for pardon which the young man, blushing red-hot in the darkness at the unwonted effort, uttered in husky tones, with the child's thin hands clasped in his own—before Wikkey was sufficiently quieted to sleep again. Before going down to the office Lawrence wrote to his cousin:
"I can do no more; he has got beyond me. He loves Him more than ever I have done. Come and help us both."
So Reginald came on such evenings as he could spare, and Wikkey, no longer averse, listened as he told him of the Fatherhood of God, of the love of the Son, and of the ever-present Comforter; of creation, redemption, and sanctification, and all the deep truths of the faith, receiving them with the belief that is born rather of love than of reason; for though the acuteness of the boy's questions and remarks often obliged Reginald to bring his own strong intellect to bear on them, they arose from no spirit of antagonism, but were the natural outcome of a thoughtful, inquiring mind. Sometimes, however, Wikkey was too tired for talking, and could only lie still and listen while Lawrence and the curate conversed, the expression of his eyes, as they passed from one to another, showing that he understood far more than might have been expected. One evening, in the middle of March, after he had been carried up-stairs, the cousins sat talking over their charge.
"I have been considering about his baptism," Reginald said.
"His baptism! Do you think he hasn't been christened?"
"No, I don't think so," returned the other, thoughtfully. "I cannot bring myself to believe that we have been working on unconsecrated soil; but still we do not know. Of course I could baptize him hypothetically, but I should like to know the truth."
"Baptize him how?" Lawrence asked, with a frown of perplexity.
"Hypothetically. Don't be alarmed, it isn't a new fad of mine: it means baptizing on the supposition that there has been no previous baptism; for, you know, our Church does not allow it to be done twice. I wonder if anything could be learnt by going down to the place named in the book?"
"Cranbury! I looked in Bradshaw for it, and it seems to be a small place about an hour and a half from Euston Station; I might find a day to run down, though I don't quite see when; and how if I were to find a heap of relations wanting the boy? I could not spare him now, you know."