“You don’t usually have a crying-spell oftener than once in six weeks,” he remarked with assumed cheerfulness. “I guess some one will look out for that boy. I daresay there are lots of rich people in this city that would adopt him if they knew what a grand family he comes of.”
“Rich people aren’t as kind as poor ones, Stephen, you know that.”
“Yes, I do,” he said warmly. “I notice it isn’t the best-dressed people that give nickels to the beggars in the streets. It’s the shabby woman that takes out her purse when she passes some poor wretch. She’s been there, or near enough to pity—not that I approve of encouraging begging,” he added in an official manner.
“It must be terrible not to have enough to eat,” said Mrs. Hardy with a shudder.
The sergeant shuddered too. “Bess,” he said, “it’s easy enough to say that, but not one person in a million can feel it. Most people haven’t the slightest idea what starvation is. I’ve told you about my getting lost out West on the plains. All the man went out of me two days after we ate our last bite of food. I was nothing but a beast. I could have eaten you if you had been there. The pain and the sickness and the dreams of food were awful, and for weeks after we were found I could digest only the simplest things. Do you suppose that boy ever goes hungry?”
“Meat is rather expensive in Boston,” said Mrs. Hardy. “I think by what the girl says they don’t get much of that.”
The sergeant finished his dinner in silence; and in silence he buckled on his belt, and took his helmet and went to the front door. Then he came back again.
“Bess,” he said gruffly, “you said last night what a good husband I’d been to you.”