“What is the matter?” he said.
“What does he do without his coat if it is as cold as that where he lives?” asked Amabel, severely. There was almost an accent of horror in her childish voice.
“Why, my dear child,” said Robert, “the little animal is dead. He isn't running around without his coat. He was shot for his fur.”
“To make you a coat?” Amabel's voice was full of judicial severity.
“Well, in one way,” replied Robert, laughing. “It was shot to get the fur to make somebody a coat, and I bought it. Come back here and have it wrapped round you; you'll freeze if you don't.”
Amabel came back and sat on his knee, and let him wrap the fur-lined garment around her. A strange sensation of tenderness and protection came over the young man as he felt the little, slender body of the child nestle against his own. He had begun to surmise who she was. However, Amabel herself told him in a moment.
“My mamma's sick, and they took her to an asylum. And my papa has gone away,” she said.
“You poor little soul,” said Robert, tenderly. Amabel continued to look at him with eyes of keenest intelligence, while one little cheek was flattened against his breast.
“I live with Uncle Andrew and Aunt Fanny now,” said she, “and I sleep with Ellen.”
“But you like living here, don't you, you dear?” asked Robert.