Harding's luck. Nesbit Edith

with rows on rows of golden-beaded books; the bow-fronted, shining sideboard, with handles that shone like gold, and the corner cupboard with glass doors and china inside, red and blue and goldy. It was a very odd feeling. I don't think that I can describe it better than by saying that he looked at all these things with a double pleasure – the pleasure of looking at new and beautiful things, and the pleasure of seeing again things old and beautiful which he had not seen for a very long time.

      His limping survey of the room ended at the windows, when the lady turned suddenly, knelt down, put her hand under his chin and looked into his eyes.

      "Dickie," she said, "how would you like to stay here and be my little boy?"

      "I'd like it right enough," said he, "only I got to go back to father."

      "But if father says you may?"

      "'E won't," said Dickie, with certainty, "an' besides, there's Tinkler."

      "Well, you're to stay here and be my little boy till we find out where father is. We shall let the police know. They're sure to find him."

      "The pleece!" Dickie cried in horror. "Why, father, 'e ain't done nothing."

      "No, no, of course not," said the lady in a hurry; "but the police know all sorts of things – about where people are, I know, and what they're doing – even when they haven't done anything."

      "The pleece knows a jolly sight too much," said Dickie, in gloom.

      And now all Dickie's little soul was filled with one longing; all his little brain awake to one only thought: the police were to be set on the track of Beale, the man whom he called father; the man who had been kind to him, had wheeled him in a perambulator for miles and miles through enchanted country; the man who had bought him a little coat "to put on o' nights if it was cold or wet"; the man who had shown him the wonderful world to which he awakens who has slept in the bed with the green curtains.

      The lady's house was more beautiful than anything he had ever imagined – yet not more beautiful than certain things that he almost imagined that he remembered. The lady was better than beautiful, she was dear. Her eyes were the eyes to which it is good to laugh – her arms were the arms in which it is good to cry. The tree-dotted parkland was to Dickie the Land of Heart's Desire.

      But father – Beale – who had been kind, whom Dickie loved!..

      The lady left him alone with a book, beautiful beyond his dreams – three great volumes with pictures of things that had happened and been since the days of Hereward himself. The author's charming name was Green, and recalled curtains and nights under the stars.

      But even those beautiful pictures could not keep Dickie's thoughts from Mr. Beale: "father" by adoption and love. If the police were set to find out "where he was and what he was doing?".. Somehow or other Dickie must get to Gravesend, to that house where there had been a bath, or something like it, in a pail, and where kindly tramp-people had toasted herrings and given apples to little boys who helped.

      He had helped then. And by all the laws of fair play there ought to be some one now to help him.

      The beautiful book lay on the table before him, but he no longer saw it. He no longer cared for it. All he cared for was to find a friend who would help him. And he found one. And the friend who helped him was an enemy.

      The smart, pink-frocked, white-capped, white-aproned maid, who, unseen by Dickie, had brought the bath-water and the bath, came in with a duster. She looked malevolently at Dickie.

      "Shovin' yourself in," she said rudely.

      "I ain't," said he.

      "If she wants to make a fool of a kid, ain't I got clever brothers and sisters?" inquired the maid, her chin in the air.

      "Nobody says you ain't, and nobody ain't makin' a fool of me," said Dickie.

      "Ho no. Course they ain't," the maid rejoined. "People comes 'ere without e'er a shirt to their backs and makes fools of their betters. That's the way it is, ain't it? Ain't she arst you to stay and be 'er little boy?"

      "Yes," said Dickie.

      "Ah, I thought she 'ad," said the maid triumphantly; "and you'll stay. But if I'm expected to call you Master Whatever-your-silly-name-is, I gives a month's warning, so I tell you straight."

      "I don't want to stay," said Dickie – "at least – "

      "Oh, tell me another," said the girl impatiently, and left him, without having made the slightest use of the duster.

      Dickie was taken for a drive in a little carriage drawn by a cream-colored pony with a long tail – a perfect dream of a pony, and the lady allowed him to hold the reins. But even amid this delight he remembered to ask whether she had put the police on to father yet, and was relieved to hear that she had not.

      It was Markham who was told to wash Dickie's hands when the drive was over, and Markham was the enemy with the clever brothers and sisters.

      "Wash 'em yourself," she said among the soap and silver and marble and sponges. "It ain't my work."

      "You'd better," said Dickie, "or the lady'll know the difference. It ain't my work neither, and I ain't so used to washing as what you are, and that's the truth."

      So she washed him, not very gently.

      "It's no use your getting your knife into me," he said as the towel was plied. "I didn't arst to come 'ere, did I?"

      "No, you little thief!"

      "Stow that!" said Dickie, and after a quick glance at his set lips she said, "Well, next door to, anyhow. I should be ashamed to show my face 'ere, if I was you, after last night. There, you're dry now. Cut along down to the dining-room. The servants' hall's good enough for honest people as don't break into houses."

      All through that day of wonder, which included real roses that you could pick and smell and real gooseberries that you could gather and eat, as well as picture-books, a clockwork bear, a musical box, and a doll's house almost as big as a small villa, an idea kept on hammering at the other side of a locked door in Dickie's mind, and when he was in bed it got the door open and came out and looked at him. And he recognized it at once as a really useful idea.

      "Markham will bring you some warm milk. Drink it up and sleep well, darling," said the lady; and with the idea very near and plain he put his arms round her neck and hugged her.

      "Good-bye," he said; "you are good. I do love you." The lady went away very pleased.

      When Markham came with the milk Dickie said, "You want me gone, don't you?"

      Markham said she didn't care.

      "Well, but how am I to get away – with my crutch?"

      "Mean to say you'd cut and run if you was the same as me – about the legs, I mean?"

      "Yes," said Dickie.

      "And not nick anything?"

      "Not a bloomin' thing," said he.

      "Well," said Markham, "you've got a spirit, I will say that."

      "You see," said Dickie, "I wants to get back to farver."

      "Bless the child," said Markham, quite affected by this.

      "Why don't you help me get out? Once I was outside the park I'd do all right."

      "Much as my place is worth," said Markham; "don't you say another word getting me into trouble."

      But Dickie said a good many other words, and fell asleep quite satisfied with the last words that had fallen from Markham. These words were: "We'll see."

      It was only just daylight when Markham woke him. She dressed him hurriedly, and carried him and his crutch down the back stairs and into that very butler's pantry through whose window he had crept at the bidding of the red-haired man. No one else seemed to be about.

      "Now," she said, "the gardener he has got a few hampers ready – fruit and flowers and the like – and he drives 'em to the station 'fore any one's up. They'd only go to waste if 'e wasn't to sell 'em. See? An' he's a particular friend of mine; and he won't mind an extry hamper more or less. So out with you. Joe,"