“Of no use,” replied the boy with a relieved gesture; “for this morning I find myself capable of running away. As soon as we arrive in New York I will leave you;” and a bright smile stole over his face.
The curé seized his black hat, and went for a stroll on the deck, where he was a few minutes later joined by a new Eugene,—a happy, contented boy, who seized his hand, and begged forgiveness for the determined manner in which he had just addressed him.
“Droll little lad,” said the priest, “I wonder what thy life will be? I say to thee as that good man said yesterday, thou hast a friend in me away in France. My cottage door will always be open to thee.”
Eugene pressed one of the curé’s hands in both of his, while tears stood in his eyes. Then they went below to have breakfast; and while the boy was eating and drinking in a dainty, half-famished way, the curé cast frequent and curious glances at him. A transformation had certainly been effected in the lad. He was no longer buried in unhappy reserve. His face was glowing; and he looked often and fearlessly at his companion, and smiled, as if some of the affection that he felt for his adopted mother was shed upon every one that had come within the circle of her influence.
When they steamed into New York Harbor, the curé gazed about him in wonder and admiration. Eugene, plunged in a delicious revery, took no notice of the lofty buildings, the crowded wharves, and the maze of shipping, but stood close to the curé, and stared directly in front of him in intense abstraction of mind.
The Curé slowly pronounced a Blessing.
After they landed, they had several hours of tiresome quest,—first in search of the steamer that was to take the curé to Havre, then to find a railway station from which Eugene could be sent back to Boston. The dreamy boy and the foreign man were directed and informed, and redirected and reinformed; and some hours elapsed before the curé had deposited his bag on the steamer, and had finally and repeatedly been assured that the trains from the station in which he was then standing certainly did run to Boston, and certainly would carry the boy there as speedily as steam could take him.
“Go in, little one—into the carriage and take thy seat,” said the curé in an agony of excitement. “Oh! never did I see such a place as this city. My head spins; it is worse than Paris!”