Part 51 (1/2)

”There's company out there,” said f.a.n.n.y, with embarra.s.sed significance. She blushed as she spoke, and Robert blushed also, without knowing why.

”It's no trouble at all to start a fire,” said f.a.n.n.y; ”this chimney draws fine. I'll speak to Ellen.”

Robert, left alone in the freezing room, felt his dismay deepen.

Barriers of tragedy are nothing to those of comedy. He began to wonder if he were not, after all, doing a foolish thing. The hall door had been left ajar, and he presently became aware of Amabel's little face and luminous eyes set therein.

Robert smiled, and to his intense astonishment the child made a little run to him and snuggled close to his side. He lifted her up on his knee, and wrapped his fur coat around her. Amabel thrust out one tiny hand and began to stroke the sable collar.

”It's fur,” said she, with a bright, wise look into Robert's face.

”Yes, it's fur,” said he. ”Do you know what kind?”

She shook her head, with bright eyes still on his.

”It is sable,” said Robert, ”and it is the coat of a little animal that lives very far north, where it is as cold and colder than this all the time, and the ice and snow never melts.”

Suddenly Amabel slipped off his knee, pus.h.i.+ng aside his caressing arm with a violent motion. Then she stood aloof, eying him with unmistakable reproof and hostility. Robert laughed.

”What is the matter?” he said.

”What does he do without his coat if it is as cold as that where he lives?” asked Amabel, severely. There was almost an accent of horror in her childish voice.

”Why, my dear child,” said Robert, ”the little animal is dead. He isn't running around without his coat. He was shot for his fur.”

”To make you a coat?” Amabel's voice was full of judicial severity.

”Well, in one way,” replied Robert, laughing. ”It was shot to get the fur to make somebody a coat, and I bought it. Come back here and have it wrapped round you; you'll freeze if you don't.”

Amabel came back and sat on his knee, and let him wrap the fur-lined garment around her. A strange sensation of tenderness and protection came over the young man as he felt the little, slender body of the child nestle against his own. He had begun to surmise who she was.

However, Amabel herself told him in a moment.

”My mamma's sick, and they took her to an asylum. And my papa has gone away,” she said.

”You poor little soul,” said Robert, tenderly. Amabel continued to look at him with eyes of keenest intelligence, while one little cheek was flattened against his breast.

”I live with Uncle Andrew and Aunt f.a.n.n.y now,” said she, ”and I sleep with Ellen.”

”But you like living here, don't you, you dear?” asked Robert.

”Yes,” said Amabel, ”and I like to stay with Ellen, but--but--I want to see my mamma and papa,” she wailed, suddenly, in the lowest and most pitiful wail imaginable.

”Poor little darling,” said Robert, stroking her flaxen hair. Amabel looked up at him with her little face all distorted with grief.

”If you had been my papa, would you have gone away and left Amabel?”

she asked, quiveringly. Robert gathered her to him in a strong clasp of protection.

”No, you little darling, I never should,” he cried, fervently.

At that moment he wished devoutly that he had the handling of the man who had deserted this child.

”I like you most as well as my own papa,” said Amabel. ”You ain't so big as my papa.” She said that in a tone of evident disparagement.