"You won't send me away?" he asked, piteously. "You won't, will you, Mr. Moore."
Moore, touched to the heart at the lad's generous devotion, felt the tears gathering in his eyes, but forced them back with an effort, though his voice shook as he answered:
"My dear, brave, little fellow, how can I doubt Providence when there is one such loyal heart near me? Stay, Buster. We will rise or fall together."
As he spoke he held his hand out to the boy, who took it joyfully.
"Yessir, that we will, sir. You hand me, hand Lord Castlereagh."
The bulldog, as though understanding the situation, thrust his cold nose in Moore's hand, and wagged his tail sympathetically as the poet crossed to the fireplace after patting the ugly head, rough with the scars of years of battling.
"Buster," continued Moore, without turning round.
"Yessir?"
"May God bless you, lad," said the poet, bowing his head on the mantelpiece to hide the tears that would come in spite of him.
"Thank you, sir."