And somehow, even the few hours he spent at the Watch House—perhaps too the refining effect of his pretty work—had already made a great change in him. The old half-defiant, half-good-natured, reckless look had left him; he was quite as bright and merry as before, but no one now, not even Flowers, could accuse him of being "impudent."
He came in now with an eager light in his eyes, his brown face ruddier than usual; but he did not forget to stop an instant at the door while he made his usual bow or scrape—or a mixture of both.
"Good evening, Jesse," said Ferdy, holding out his hand. "Why, what have you got there?" as he caught sight of some odd-shaped packages of various sizes, done up in newspaper, which Jesse was carrying.
"Please, Master Ferdy, I've brought 'em to show you. It's my pupils as has done them. They're nothing much, I know, but still I'm a bit proud of 'em, and I wanted to show them to you and Miss here, first of all."
He hastened, with fingers almost trembling with eagerness, to unpack the queer-looking parcels, Miss Lilly, at a glance from Ferdy, coming forward to help him. Ferdy's own cheeks flushed as the first contents came to light.
"Oh," he exclaimed, "I wish I could sit up!"
But in another moment he had forgotten his little cry of complaint, so interested was he in the curious sight before him.
All sorts and shapes of wooden objects came to view. There were pigs' heads, evidently modelled on old Jerry, dogs, and horses, and cows, some not to be mistaken, some which would, it must be confessed, have been the better for a label with "This is a—," whatever animal it was meant to be, written upon it; there were round plates with scalloped edges, some with a very simple wreath of leaves; boxes with neat little stiff designs on the lids—in fact, the funniest mixture of things you ever saw, but all with attempt in them—attempt, and good-will, and patience, and here and there a touch of something more—of real talent, however untrained—in them all, or almost all, signs of love of the work.