"Are you ready for your breakfast?" she asked. "Shall I do a little rasher of bacon for you?"
"I'll have what you are having," he said.
He saw the next moment that it was dry bread she was eating, though Johnny had a little butter upon his. He took a crust of bread, and ate it; every morsel threatening to choke him. He had never troubled himself to ask what sort of a meal his wife and boy had, an hour or two before he took his own comfortable and tasty breakfast, at which he had so often grumbled. He could not look much about him, for he was afraid of meeting the eyes of either of them; and all the three were very quiet, scarcely speaking a word to one another.
"Mary," he said, as soon as breakfast was over, "I think, as there is nothing for me to do, I'll go and see if I can find Sandy, and look about a bit for little Gip."
Mrs. Shafto could not believe she had heard him aright. It was so long since he had cared to go out into the streets, except on a Sunday, when he had his black suit on, and went to chapel, that she felt sure she was mistaking what he said. She stood at the table, with his empty cup in her hand, gazing at him in bewilderment; and as he happened to look up, once more his face grew red.
"I have been thinking of Sandy all night," he said; "and as there's nothing for me to do at home, I'll go and see if I can meet with the boy about the Mansion House or one of the stations. Don't soil your hands with my boots, Mary; I'll brush them myself."
Again Mrs. Shafto could not trust her own ears. She had cleaned her husband's boots for him every day ever since they were married, even when her work was very pressing; and he had never offered to brush them before. Now she saw him carry them away into the little scullery behind the kitchen, and presently he returned with them on his feet. He held himself more upright than usual, and there was a light in his eyes, as if they really saw what was lying before them.
"You're sure there's nothing amiss with you, Mr. Shafto?" she said again, with more anxiety than before.
"Nothing that you can set right," he answered; "but, please God, it will come right by-and-by. Good morning, my dear; don't expect me to dinner. Good-bye, Johnny."
They followed him to the shop door, and watched him crossing the grave-yard with a firmer and brisker step than John Shafto could ever remember in his father. But Mr. Shafto felt almost dazed when he turned into the bustling, working-day streets. He had remained so long indolently at home, except on a Sunday, that it was altogether a new thing to be pushed and jostled about as he threaded his way slowly along the crowded pavement. More than once he felt that he must give up his purpose, and go back to his quiet corner and his easy arm-chair, where he could stretch his tired legs across the hearth, and be warm and comfortable. The noise and hurry wearied him; and his head ached with the constant rattle and roll of wheels along the streets. What he was doing would be of no benefit to himself, or to any one belonging to him. A strong temptation came over him to return. What was Sandy, or what was little GIP to him, after all?