“Yes, old boy; would you like to hear about Him?”
“I would so,” said the boy, eagerly.
And that afternoon, as the shadows darkened and the fleeting ray of the sun crossed the floor of their room, Love lay and heard the old, old story told in simple broken words. He had heard of it before, but till now he had never heeded it. Yet it seemed to him more wonderful even than Robinson Crusoe or the Pilgrim’s Progress. Now and then he broke in with some comment or criticism, or even one of his old familiar tirades against the enemies of his new hero. The room grew darker, and still Reginald went on. When at last the light had all gone, the boy’s hand stole outside the blanket and sought that of his protector, and held it till the story came to an end.
Then he seemed to drop into a fitful sleep, and Reginald, with the hand still on his, sat motionless, listening to the hard breathing, and living over in thought the days since Heaven in mercy joined his life to that of his little friend.
How long he sat thus he knew not. He heard the voices and tread of the other lodgers in the room; he heard the harsh groan of the bolt on the outer door downstairs; and he saw the candle die down in its socket. But he never moved or let go the boy’s hand.
Presently—about one or two in the morning, he thought—the hard breathing ceased, and a turn of the head on the pillow told him the sleeper was awake.
“Gov’nor, you there?” whispered the boy.
“Yes, old fellow.”
“It’s dark; I’m most afeared.”
Reginald lay on the bed beside him, and put an arm round him.