Titus nodded, and as the Judge noted the kindly look on the boy’s face as he surveyed the sleeping child a light broke over his own face. He was not romantic nor sentimental, but he was a religious man, and he believed in the leadings of Providence.
He had been guided to this boy. What a brother he would make for Titus—that is, and he prudently added an afterthought, if he was without incumbrances, and his antecedents were good—and meanwhile the little child slept on.
“B-b-boy,” said Titus, presently, “wake up, and eat your victuals.”
The child opened his eyes, smiled sweetly at him, and calmly took up a fork.
He went to sleep between oysters and bouillon, and bouillon and ice cream. He slept putting a piece of bread to his mouth—indeed, he slept with such frequency that Titus wondered how he managed to tuck away so much food.
At last he had finished, and then he did something that considerably mystified the Judge and Titus.
After wiping his mouth with his napkin he put the napkin on the table, and unbuttoning his coat he slipped a hand in the front of it.
As he did this the sleepy look left his eyes, and a sorrowful one came in its place. Drawing out a small handkerchief with a border of marvelous lions and tigers, he unrolled it, pretended to take something out of it and put it on the table. Then he placed crumbs of bread and cake before this imaginary thing.
“W-w-what are you doing?” asked Titus, bluntly.
“Feeding the little one,” said the child, solemnly.