He was nailing up this box one afternoon, and humming as he did so,—
“But I alone am left to pine,
And sit beneath the withy tree,
For truth and honesty be gone”—
when the painter came in behind him.
“Stop that doleful strain, Giotto, I beg; you’ve been painfully sentimental the last day or two.”
“It’s an old song they sing about here, sir,” said Jan.
“Never mind the song, you’ve been doleful yourself, Giotto! I believe you’re dissatisfied that we do not push the search for your father. Is it money you want, child? Believe me, riches enough lie between your fingers and your miller’s thumb. Or do you want a more fashionable protector than the old artist?”
“No, no, sir!” cried Jan. “I never want to leave you; and it’s not money I want, but”—
“Well, my boy? Don’t be afraid.”
“It’s my mother, sir,” said Jan, with flushed cheeks. “My real mother, I mean. She didn’t desert me, sir; she died—when I was born. I doubt nobody sees to her grave, sir. Perhaps there’s nobody but me who would. I can’t do any thing for her now, sir, I know; but it seems as if I hardly did my duty in not knowing where she lies.”
The painter’s hands were already deep in his loose pockets, from which, jumbled up with chalk, india-rubber, bits of wash-leather, cakes of color, reed pens, a penknife, and some drawing-pins, he brought the balance of his loose cash, and became absorbed in calculations. “Is that box ready?” he asked. “We start to-morrow, mind. You are right, and I was wrong; but my wish was to spare you possible pain. I now think it is your duty to risk the possible pain. If those rascally creatures who stole you are in London, the police will find them. Be content, Giotto; you shall stand by your mother’s grave!”