“And you thought I lived alone like the other old men? I’m a miserable old bachelor, but I’ve got plenty of women-folks, thank the Lord.”
A little girl rushed to the door, and a barking Scotch terrier made a spring at the new-comer.
“Oh, what a dog,” Joe exclaimed, stooping to catch frisking, curly Doodles into his arms. Homesick for Mrs. Evans, frightened and glad, he followed the old man into the kitchen with the curly dog in his arms.
“Affy, here’s the boy I’ve been looking for, and you’ve been praying for, I’ve no doubt.”
Aunt Affy turned and looked at the boy: short, stout, dirty, ragged, with a shock of uncombed black hair, a lock falling over his forehead, long black eyelashes concealed the eyes he kept shyly fixed upon the curly bundle in his arms.
“What is your name, dear?” she inquired.
Joe had never heard “dear” before, but supposed she must be speaking to him; he raised his eyes and smiled; they were shy, honest eyes; Aunt Affy smiled too.
“I am Joe,” he said, pulling Doodles’ ears.
“Do you remember your father and mother?”
“No; I don’t remember nobody but Chris and Sam.”