He looked after it with longing eyes. He had waited so long to wear it and it seemed too bad to have it taken away when he had only worn it so few times, and it was made with a pocket, the first he had ever had. As he saw the box slammed down, he remembered with a pang that in the pocket was his little bestest white handkerchief with lace on it and in the corner of the handkerchief, tied in an easy knot, was a penny that Denys had given him.
He had never dared to ask her again for even a ha'penny, but one day she had given him a bright penny that shone like gold and he had treasured it with utmost joy, more because he had not asked for it, than for its value as a penny.
The edge of the box which held his treasures stuck out from under the bed, and he watched it for a long time, resolving in his little mind that one day he would manage somehow to get his own again.
The confinement of his new life irked him as much as his breeches, for he had been used to wandering about the Landslip and the Whitecliff beach at his own pleasure, and now there were but two rooms to wander in, or at best a short and narrow street, beyond whose limits he was forbidden to go, and it was filled with rough and noisy children who pushed him and pinched him and who roared vociferously whenever they saw him, after they discovered that his name was Lyon.
He had always made friends with all the sailors and visitors at Whitecliff, but here the men and women hurried about their business and never even glanced at the golden-headed little chap, and there were no boats to be pulled up and pushed out, and no tide, and no sands, and no—no anything.
Harry stood at the top of the dull street looking forlornly about him, when he came to that conclusion, and when he realised it, he burst into a sudden fit of heart-broken crying.
There were no loving arms now in which to sob out his woes, and he turned his little back upon the world and covering his face with his hands, leaned his head against a big brick wall and wept, and wept, and wept for his mother.
"Oh, mummy—mummy—mummy—"
"Why, Harry!" said his Uncle Jim's voice, "whatever's the matter with you? You shouldn't be crying—you're a big boy now. Have the boys been hitting you?"
Harry did not turn or heed him.