“What kind of work?” inquired the Judge.
Bethany looked up at him and smiled—such a demure, knowing little smile. Then she pressed his hand to her lips. “Making boxes, Daddy Grandpa.”
She was swinging on the Judge’s hand, leading him down to the lunch table. Every day she ran up to his study at one o’clock when she came from school. That gave her time for a little chat with him and a play with Sukey before the bell rang for lunch.
She noticed that the Judge was graver than usual to-day, and she said suddenly, “Are you ill, Daddy Grandpa?”
“No, child,” he said, slowly, but he immediately lapsed into gravity. He always felt deeply mortified and ashamed of himself after any indulgence in excitement or annoyance. He had been greatly disturbed this morning—foolishly so. There was no necessity for annoyance. All that he had to do was to take the affair calmly and to send the boy back.
So it was really with kindness and sympathy that he shook the hand of the orphan lad standing beside Titus in the dining room.
The English boy was somewhat puzzled. At first he had been sure that this old gentleman did not want him. Now he was not so sure about it, so fatherly was the Judge’s manner.
Bethany was the life of the table. She was not a chatterbox, but she possessed a peculiar mind, and what she said often amused the Judge and always amused Titus.
The English boy was greatly taken with her. His glance rested often upon her pretty brown head, and he secretly and bitterly envied her. Here, he thought, in ignorance of her past life, is a child born to affluence and delightful surroundings. How little she knows of the cold world and the struggling for existence there.
Bethany was prattling about ghosts, one of her favorite subjects. Last night she had talked with Ellen and Susie, the Judge’s two little daughters.