“Don’t go yet, Gahan; I want to speak to you by and by; and you know the
mistress always likes to pet little Billy.”
Without replying, the steward left the room; and the next moment his
hasty footsteps resounded through the long flagged passage that led to
the offices.
“There’s something strange about Gahan, since his wife died,” remarked
Mrs. Hewson. “I suppose ’tis grief for her that makes him look so
darkly, and seem almost jealous when any one speaks to his child. Poor
little Billy! your mother was a sore loss to you.”
The child’s blue eyes filled with tears, and pressing closer to the
lady’s side, he said:—
“Old Peggy doesn’t wash and dress me as nicely as mammy used.”
“But your father is good to you?”
“Oh, yes, Ma’am, but he’s out all day busy, and I’ve no one to talk to
me as mammy used; for Peggy is quite deaf, and besides she’s always busy
with the pigs and chickens.”
“I wish I had you, Billy, to take care of and to teach, for your poor
mother’s sake.”
“And so you may, Charlotte,” said her husband. “I’m sure Gahan, with all
his odd ways, is too sensible a fellow not to know how much it would be
for his child’s benefit to be brought up and educated by us, and the boy
would be an amusement to us in this lonely house. I’ll speak to him
about it before he goes home. Billy, my fine fellow, come here,” he
continued, “jump up on my knee, and tell me if you’d like to live here
always and learn to read and write.”
“I would, Sir, if I could be with father too.”
“So you shall;—and what about old Peggy?”