The Frances Hodgson Burnett MEGAPACK ®. Frances Hodgson Burnett

at him and hear him speak again. He did not see any reason why he should have let him sleep on his sofa or why he should give him a breakfast before he turned him out to face the world. It was first-rate of him to do it. The Rat felt that when he was turned out, after he had had the coffee, he should want to hang about the neighborhood just on the chance of seeing him pass by sometimes. He did not know what he was going to do. The parish officials would by this time have taken his dead father, and he would not see him again. He did not want to see him again. He had never seemed like a father. They had never cared anything for each other. He had only been a wretched outcast whose best hours had been when he had drunk too much to be violent and brutal. Perhaps, The Rat thought, he would be driven to going about on his platform on the pavements and begging, as his father had tried to force him to do. Could he sell newspapers? What could a crippled lad do unless he begged or sold papers?

      Lazarus was waiting for him in the passage. The Rat held back a little.

      “Perhaps they’d rather not eat their breakfast with me,” he hesitated. “I’m not—I’m not the kind they are. I could swallow the coffee out here and carry the bread away with me. And you could thank him for me. I’d want him to know I thanked him.”

      Lazarus also had a steady eye. The Rat realized that he was looking him over as if he were summing him up.

      “You may not be the kind they are, but you may be of a kind the Master sees good in. If he did not see something, he would not ask you to sit at his table. You are to come with me.”

      The Squad had seen good in The Rat, but no one else had. Policemen had moved him on whenever they set eyes on him, the wretched women of the slums had regarded him as they regarded his darting, thieving namesake; loafing or busy men had seen in him a young nuisance to be kicked or pushed out of the way. The Squad had not called “good” what they saw in him. They would have yelled with laughter if they had heard any one else call it so. “Goodness” was not considered an attraction in their world.

      The Rat grinned a little and wondered what was meant, as he followed Lazarus into the back sitting-room.

      It was as dingy and gloomy as it had looked the night before, but by the daylight The Rat saw how rigidly neat it was, how well swept and free from any speck of dust, how the poor windows had been cleaned and polished, and how everything was set in order. The coarse linen cloth on the table was fresh and spotless, so was the cheap crockery, the spoons shone with brightness.

      Loristan was standing on the hearth and Marco was near him. They were waiting for their vagabond guest as if he had been a gentleman.

      The Rat hesitated and shuffled at the door for a moment, and then it suddenly occurred to him to stand as straight as he could and salute. When he found himself in the presence of Loristan, he felt as if he ought to do something, but he did not know what.

      Loristan’s recognition of his gesture and his expression as he moved forward lifted from The Rat’s shoulders a load which he himself had not known lay there. Somehow he felt as if something new had happened to him, as if he were not mere “vermin,” after all, as if he need not be on the defensive—even as if he need not feel so much in the dark, and like a thing there was no place in the world for. The mere straight and far-seeing look of this man’s eyes seemed to make a place somewhere for what he looked at. And yet what he said was quite simple.

      “This is well,” he said. “You have rested. We will have some food, and then we will talk together.” He made a slight gesture in the direction of the chair at the right hand of his own place.

      The Rat hesitated again. What a swell he was! With that wave of the hand he made you feel as if you were a fellow like himself, and he was doing you some honor.

      “I’m not—” The Rat broke off and jerked his head toward Marco. “He knows—” he ended, “I’ve never sat at a table like this before.”

      “There is not much on it.” Loristan made the slight gesture toward the right-hand seat again and smiled. “Let us sit down.”

      The Rat obeyed him and the meal began. There were only bread and coffee and a little butter before them. But Lazarus presented the cups and plates on a small japanned tray as if it were a golden salver. When he was not serving, he stood upright behind his master’s chair, as though he wore royal livery of scarlet and gold. To the boy who had gnawed a bone or munched a crust wheresoever he found them, and with no thought but of the appeasing of his own wolfish hunger, to watch the two with whom he sat eat their simple food was a new thing. He knew nothing of the every-day decencies of civilized people. The Rat liked to look at them, and he found himself trying to hold his cup as Loristan did, and to sit and move as Marco was sitting and moving—taking his bread or butter, when it was held at his side by Lazarus, as if it were a simple thing to be waited upon. Marco had had things handed to him all his life, and it did not make him feel awkward. The Rat knew that his own father had once lived like this. He himself would have been at ease if chance had treated him fairly. It made him scowl to think of it. But in a few minutes Loristan began to talk about the copy of the map of Samavia. Then The Rat forgot everything else and was ill at ease no more. He did not know that Loristan was leading him on to explain his theories about the country and the people and the war. He found himself telling all that he had read, or overheard, or thought as he lay awake in his garret. He had thought out a great many things in a way not at all like a boy’s. His strangely concentrated and over-mature mind had been full of military schemes which Loristan listened to with curiosity and also with amazement. He had become extraordinarily clever in one direction because he had fixed all his mental powers on one thing. It seemed scarcely natural that an untaught vagabond lad should know so much and reason so clearly. It was at least extraordinarily interesting. There had been no skirmish, no attack, no battle which he had not led and fought in his own imagination, and he had made scores of rough queer plans of all that had been or should have been done. Lazarus listened as attentively as his master, and once Marco saw him exchange a startled, rapid glance with Loristan. It was at a moment when The Rat was sketching with his finger on the cloth an attack which ought to have been made but was not. And Marco knew at once that the quickly exchanged look meant “He is right! If it had been done, there would have been victory instead of disaster!”

      It was a wonderful meal, though it was only of bread and coffee. The Rat knew he should never be able to forget it.

      Afterward, Loristan told him of what he had done the night before. He had seen the parish authorities and all had been done which a city government provides in the case of a pauper’s death.

      His father would be buried in the usual manner. “We will follow him,” Loristan said in the end. “You and I and Marco and Lazarus.”

      The Rat’s mouth fell open.

      “You—and Marco—and Lazarus!” he exclaimed, staring. “And me! Why should any of us go? I don’t want to. He wouldn’t have followed me if I’d been the one.”

      Loristan remained silent for a few moments.

      “When a life has counted for nothing, the end of it is a lonely thing,” he said at last. “If it has forgotten all respect for itself, pity is all that one has left to give. One would like to give something to anything so lonely.” He said the last brief sentence after a pause.

      “Let us go,” Marco said suddenly; and he caught The Rat’s hand.

      The Rat’s own movement was sudden. He slipped from his crutches to a chair, and sat and gazed at the worn carpet as if he were not looking at it at all, but at something a long way off. After a while he looked up at Loristan.

      “Do you know what I thought of, all at once?” he said in a shaky voice. “I thought of that ‘Lost Prince’ one. He only lived once. Perhaps he didn’t live a long time. Nobody knows. But it’s five hundred years ago, and, just because he was the kind he was, every one that remembers him thinks of something fine. It’s queer, but it does you good just to hear his name. And if he has been training kings for Samavia all these centuries—they may have been poor and nobody may have known about them, but they’ve been kings. That’s what he did—just by being alive a few years. When I think of him