"I trust this will not be our last meeting. When my son gets well again, I hope to see more of you. Perhaps we may see a few of the sights of London together, if your mother has no objection."
Paul thanked him and went out. He was glad that he had met Hibbert's father, though he was not a bit like the man he had pictured. He had somehow pictured him with something of the deformity that marked Hibbert, with the same sad, pathetic eyes; but they were as unlike as could be, except the voice. Hibbert's voice had somehow struck a familiar note when he first heard it. So did the father's. But there the resemblance began and ended.
That same evening Paul went to the sick-room as usual, and inquired after Hibbert. This time Mrs. Trounce beckoned him in.
"He's always asking after you, and it's cruel to keep you out," she whispered.
"Who wants to keep me out?"
"Mr. Weevil thinks it makes the lad feverish, but I asked the doctor expressly to-day, and he says it will do him good rather than harm to see any friend he asks for. Poor little dear, he hasn't many friends. His father didn't seem to care over much for him, and his visit was a short one. He asked after you directly his father was gone. I've been obliged to deny him all this time, but I can't deny him any longer. He's dozing now. Step softly to the bed. Won't he be pleased when he wakes up and sees you! I've never had a boy on my hands who is half so good and patient as he is—I fear he is too patient, poor dear."
It was quite certain that during this time of trouble, Hibbert had found one more friend in Mrs. Trounce—the kind-hearted matron, who always tried to make the boys believe that she was a perfect virago with a heart of flint. Paul followed her on tiptoe to the bed and looked down on the sleeper. And as he looked, it seemed as though ice-cold fingers were clutching him by the heart-strings, so strangely still were the face and form of the little sleeper.