Part 27 (2/2)

said her mother. ”Four or five thousand miles would be considerably nearer the truth.”

After a little more conversation they sat down to dinner. d.i.c.k seated himself in an embarra.s.sed way. He was very much afraid of doing or saying something which would be considered an impropriety, and had the uncomfortable feeling that everybody was looking at him, and watching his behavior.

”Where do you live, d.i.c.k?” asked Ida, familiarly.

”In Mott Street.”

”Where is that?”

”More than a mile off.”

”Is it a nice street?”

”Not very,” said d.i.c.k. ”Only poor folks live there.”

”Are you poor?”

”Little girls should be seen and not heard,” said her mother, gently.

”If you are,” said Ida, ”I'll give you the five-dollar gold-piece aunt gave me for a birthday present.”

”d.i.c.k cannot be called poor, my child,” said Mrs. Greyson, ”since he earns his living by his own exertions.”

”Do you earn your living?” asked Ida, who was a very inquisitive young lady, and not easily silenced. ”What do you do?”

d.i.c.k blushed violently. At such a table, and in presence of the servant who was standing at that moment behind his chair, he did not like to say that he was a shoe-black, although he well knew that there was nothing dishonorable in the occupation.

Mr. Greyson perceived his feelings, and to spare them, said, ”You are too inquisitive, Ida. Sometime d.i.c.k may tell you, but you know we don't talk of business on Sundays.”

d.i.c.k in his embarra.s.sment had swallowed a large spoonful of hot soup, which made him turn red in the face. For the second time, in spite of the prospect of the best dinner he had ever eaten, he wished himself back in Mott Street. Henry Fosd.i.c.k was more easy and unembarra.s.sed than d.i.c.k, not having led such a vagabond and neglected life. But it was to d.i.c.k that Ida chiefly directed her conversation, having apparently taken a fancy to his frank and handsome face. I believe I have already said that d.i.c.k was a very good-looking boy, especially now since he kept his face clean. He had a frank, honest expression, which generally won its way to the favor of those with whom he came in contact.

d.i.c.k got along pretty well at the table by dint of noticing how the rest acted, but there was one thing he could not manage, eating with his fork, which, by the way, he thought a very singular arrangement.

At length they arose from the table, somewhat to d.i.c.k's relief.

Again Ida devoted herself to the boys, and exhibited a profusely ill.u.s.trated Bible for their entertainment. d.i.c.k was interested in looking at the pictures, though he knew very little of their subjects. Henry Fosd.i.c.k was much better informed, as might have been expected.

When the boys were about to leave the house with Mr. Greyson for the Sunday school, Ida placed her hand in d.i.c.k's, and said persuasively, ”You'll come again, d.i.c.k, won't you?”

”Thank you,” said d.i.c.k, ”I'd like to,” and he could not help thinking Ida the nicest girl he had ever seen.

”Yes,” said Mrs. Greyson, hospitably, ”we shall be glad to see you both here again.”

”Thank you very much,” said Henry Fosd.i.c.k, gratefully. ”We shall like very much to come.”

I will not dwell upon the hour spent in Sunday school, nor upon the remarks of Mr. Greyson to his cla.s.s. He found d.i.c.k's ignorance of religious subjects so great that he was obliged to begin at the beginning with him. d.i.c.k was interested in hearing the children sing, and readily promised to come again the next Sunday.

When the service was over d.i.c.k and Henry walked homewards. d.i.c.k could not help letting his thoughts rest on the sweet little girl who had given him so cordial a welcome, and hoping that he might meet her again.

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