“I wanted a companion for my grandson.”
“I like boys, sir,” murmured the little girl, weakly.
The Judge looked sharply down at her. The lovely color had faded from her face. Large tears were rolling down her cheeks.
“You have surely not got attached to us in this short time,” he said, wonderingly.
“It doesn’t take much to keep me, sir,” said Bethany, desperately. “I’ve been trying not to eat too much—and mousie could get on with less. And I can work, sir. Lots of times I’ve scrubbed down the stairs for Mrs. Tingsby.”
The Judge made some kind of a noise in his throat and looked over the shoulder farthest away from Bethany.
They were gliding swiftly through Broadway. O! the exquisite, clear, cold air and the lovely sunshine. How good it was to be alive, even if one were sixty-two; and he had just been stabbing this faithful little heart beside him. But, pshaw! Nonsense! A child of seven formed no strong attachments in a day. If he sent her away she would cling as closely to a kind stranger as she now apparently did to him.
But Bethany was talking, very weakly and brokenly, but still talking, and he must listen.
“Sir,” she murmured, “I could take care of the birds—those beautiful birds, and if there was not room in the house I could sleep in that lovely loft. I would not be nervous and cry, or make any noise to disturb the horses. Only once in a while, when you were out, I would like to creep in the house to see that little saint with the hood on.”
The little saint was Sukey, and the Judge smiled.