“Is this Judge Sancroft’s house?” he asked, fixing his bright blue eyes on Higby and yet casting a glance beyond at Titus.
Higby nodded.
The boy turned, and the driver came running up the steps with a shabby leather bag.
The boy himself was carrying in his hand a small padlocked wooden box with a perforated cover. After paying the driver he followed Higby, who was taking his bag into the hall.
Titus, in his confusion, was saying nothing, and the boy, turning to him, remarked courteously, “I suppose you are Judge Sancroft’s grandson?”
“Yes,” replied Titus, simply, “I am.” Then he continued staring at his guest, until a half smile on the stranger’s face recalled him to himself.
“Take off your coat,” he said, suddenly, “and come in to the fire. There isn’t any in the parlor,” and he thrust his head in the doorway, “but come in the dining room—there’s sure to be a good one there.”
The boy threw his thin coat over a hall chair, put his small wooden box under it and his hat on top, then followed Titus.
“Are you cold?” inquired Titus, motioning his guest to one of the big leather-covered chairs by the fireplace and taking the other himself.
“Not at all, thank you,” said the boy, but the hands that he held out to the blaze were red and covered with chilblains, and Titus, remembering his thin gloves, felt sorry that he had asked the question.