“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” said Virtue Ann in a low voice to Mrs. Hardy; “you’ve done an angel’s deed in comforting him. I’m sure I don’t know what’s to become of the little lad;” and she sighed heavily.
All the evening Mrs. Hardy had been regarding the boy with a curious intentness of gaze. At Virtue Ann’s words her eyes again wandered to Eugene; and she said wistfully, “Do you say that he is quite alone in the world, quite, quite alone?”
“Yes; except his old grand-uncle in France,” said Virtue Ann with a sniff. “He’ll not do anything for him, I misdoubt. I’ve heard the grandfather talking about him; and I guess he’s no better than a skinflint, and”—but here Virtue Ann was obliged to break off abruptly, for Eugene came forward to take leave of his hostess.
Mrs. Hardy listened with a smile on her face to his well-bred assurances that he had had a pleasant visit.
“You were criticising us all the time,” she said keenly; and when Eugene, in discomposure, could do nothing but gaze helplessly at her, she bent down suddenly and kissed him.
“Never mind, little lad,” she said, “I know that this has been a change for you. Good-night, good-night;” and long after her husband went into the house, she stood in the doorway, her eyes wandering down the street that Virtue Ann and her young charge had taken to go home.
Virtue Ann had been quite impressed by the cosiness and pretty furnishings of the little cottage, and by the mingled dignity and oddity of the sergeant’s wife.
“She was like an old picture with that white hair,” she murmured to herself; “and yet there’s no nonsense about her. I guess she’s a good housekeeper too, for everything was as neat as wax. What a good home that would be for Master Eugene!” and she sighed as she glanced at the quiet lad beside her.
Sergeant Hardy was tired that night, and went to bed as soon as Eugene had left his house. About one o’clock he was awakened by the sound of suppressed sobbing; and starting up in bed, he dimly saw his wife standing by the window.