Though he could not exactly say, “Poverty had come in at the door and Love had flown out of the window”—for the young gentleman had departed by the door—he yet had made up his mind that Cupid had taken to himself wings and flown away, with no intention of ever returning to the scene of his late struggle.
But a glance at the starved, emaciated figure before him explained very simply the mystery of this strange apparition. The boy’s hands and lips were blue with cold, and his cheek-bones seemed almost to protrude through his pallid, grimy cheeks. He looked, in fact, what he was, the picture of misery, and he had no need of any other eloquence to open the heart of his late “governor.”
“Say, what’s yer name,” he said, in a hollow imitation of his old voice, “beg yer pardon, gov’nor—won’t do it no more if yer overlook it this time.”
“Come in out of the cold and warm yourself by the fire,” said Reginald, poking it up to a blaze.
The boy obeyed, half timidly. He seemed to be not quite sure whether Reginald was luring him in to his own destruction. But at any rate the sight of the fire roused him to heroism, and, reckless of all consequences, he walked in.
“Don’t do nothink to me this time, gov’nor,” whimpered he, as he got within arm’s length; “let us off, do you hear? this time.”
“Poor boy,” said Reginald kindly, putting a stool for him close beside the fire; “I’m not going to do anything but warm you. Sit down, and don’t be afraid.”
The boy dropped almost exhausted on the stool, and gazed in a sort of rapture into the fire. Then, looking up at Reginald, he said,—
“Beg your pardon, gov’nor,—ain’t got a crust of bread you don’t want, ’ave yer?”
The hint was quite enough to send Reginald flying to his little “larder.”