"Should he send Wikkey to the workhouse? What should he do with a boy dying in the house? How should he decide?" Certainly not by going back to meet those wistful eyes.
The decision must be made before seeing the boy again, or, as the soft-hearted fellow well knew, it would be all up with his common sense. Calling Mrs. Evans, therefore, he bade her tell Wikkey that he would come back presently; and then he said, timidly:
"Should you mind it very much, nurse, if I were to keep the boy here? The doctor says he is dying, so that it would not be for long, and I would take all the trouble I could off your hands. I have not made up my mind about it yet, but of course I could not decide upon anything without first consulting you."
The answer, though a little stiff, was more encouraging than might have been expected from the icy severity of Mrs. Evans' manner. (Was she also making her protest on the side of common sense against a lurking desire to keep Wikkey?)
"If it's your wish, Mr. Lawrence, I'm not the one to turn out a homeless boy. It's not quite what I'm accustomed to, but he seems a quiet lad enough—poor child!" the words came out in a softer tone; "and as you say, sir, it can't be for long."
Much relieved, Lawrence sped away; it was still early, and there would be time to get this matter settled before he went down to the office if he looked sharp; and so sharp did he look that in a little more than ten minutes he had cleared the mile which lay between his lodgings and that of his cousin Reginald Trevor, senior curate of S. Bridget's East, and had burst in just as the latter was sitting down to his breakfast after morning service. And then Lawrence told his story, his voice shaking a little as he spoke of Wikkey's strange devotion to himself, and of the weary watch which had no doubt helped on the disease which was killing him, and he wound up with—
"And now, Reg, what is a fellow to do? I suppose I'm a fool, but I can't send the little chap away!"
The curate's voice was a little husky too.
"If that is folly, commend me to a fool," he said: and then, after some moments of silent thought—"I don't see why you should not keep the boy, Lawrence; you have no one to think of except yourself, unless, indeed, Mrs. Evans—"
"Oh, she's all right!" broke in his cousin; "I believe she has taken a fancy to Wikkey."