“Fate calls! ’Oy.”
“And I’d like to say Davie to yer, dear little man. May I call yer by the real beautiful name o’ Davie? I ’ad a Davie of my h’own once.”
“A Davie of ’oor own,” repeated little Roy, and now he came close and stroked the rough, red cheek.
“I’ll get yer some supper, my sweet little darlin’; you set still on the side o’ the pretty bed, and I’ll get a nice supper ready in a jiffy.”
The woman had no candle, but she heaped on coals with a lavish hand, and prepared a mess of bread and milk. Little Roy was very hungry; he found no fault with the tin mug, nor with the pewter spoon. He thought the woman’s rough red face rather nice, and her soft tones fell warm on his baby heart. The dreadful cellar, too, with the flickering firelight making fantastic shadows on its dirty, wet walls, became as a palace in his little mind; he clapped his dimpled hands and said, “Pitty, pitty.” He ceased to ask for Faith, and even twice before he had again dropped asleep, he had answered to the name of Davie.
That night Hannah Searles slept again with a child clasped to her bosom. Her sleep was very sweet to her, but the morning brought fresh cares. She had now quite resolved to keep little Roy. He was not her child, she knew that, but he had been sent to her. She shut her eyes resolutely to the fact of some other woman’s broken heart for the loss of him. No, if he had a mother living she must be strangely careless to allow so great a treasure to go away from her, and to be found in a public-house. But Hannah guessed that little Roy’s mother was dead. If she was alive he would have spoken of his mammie, but no, he only mentioned some mysterious fate: she was his real fate—she would be a mother to him, and make up to him by her love for the loss of his own.
But though his mother might be dead, yet Hannah knew that so nicely dressed a child must have relations who would miss him and take means to have him returned to them. They would put up rewards; the police would get directions to search for the child. She must therefore on no account put his nice, dainty clothes on him, she must fold them up and put them carefully out of sight. Another woman would have pawned the little things, but Hannah did not care to make money by this child who had come in the place of her own. She put the dainty blue frock, the white pinafore, the little shoes and socks, into a box which was well hidden away under the bed; then while Roy still slept she slipped out, and purchased at a pawnbroker’s for a shilling, a set of little garments such as her own child, were he alive, would wear.
When Roy awoke she dressed him in the dingy and ragged clothes. He did not like them and cried a little for his own “pitty fock,” and spoke again in a complaining voice of Faith. But Hannah drew out of her pocket a small many-coloured ball, and for the sake of the ball he forgave her the ragged and ugly garments; he chased the ball into all the dark corners of the dingy cellar, and his gay laugh filled Hannah’s heart with rejoicing.
That day the woman and child spent at home. She was very happy with Roy, but she was puzzled how to act; she dared not leave him alone at home, she dared not confide her secret to the neighbours, still less did she dare to take him with her into the streets, for by this time surely his description would be printed up by the police courts, and no rags could dim the beauty of his lovely little face. But for to-day she had money enough, so she spent her time cleaning the cellar and making it a more fit habitation for the young king who had made it his home.