“Stay,” said I, as the boy turned to leave, “you never told me that one of your names was Robin.”
“’Cause it wasn’t w’en I saw you last; I only got it a few days ago.”
“Indeed! From whom?”
“From Granny Willis. She gave me the name, an’ I likes it, an’ mean to stick by it—Good arternoon, gen’lemen. Ta, ta, Punch.”
At the word my doggie bounced from under my hand and began to leap joyfully round the boy.
“I say,” said Robin, pausing at the door and looking back, “she’s all right I ’ope. Gittin’ better?”
“Who do you mean?”
“W’y, the guv’ness, in course—my young lady.”
“Oh, yes! I am happy to say she is better,” said the doctor, much amused by the anxious look of the face, which had hitherto been the quintessence of cool self-possession. “But she has had a great shake, and will have to be sent to the country for change of air when we can venture to move her.”
I confess that I was much surprised, but not a little gratified, by the very decided manner in which Slidder avowed his determination to stand fast by the poor old woman in whom I had been led to take so strong an interest. Hitherto I had felt some uncertainty as to how far I could depend on the boy’s affection for Mrs Willis, and his steadiness of purpose; now I felt quite sure of him.