"Good-night, boys, and God bless you," said the teacher.
He was an elderly man, with a noble forehead and a long beard. His face,
a sad one, was lighted up by a feeble smile; his voice was soft, and his
manner gentle. When the boys were gone he swung over his shoulders a
black cloak with a red lining, and followed them into the street.
He had not gone far into the snowy haze before he began to realise that
his playful warning had not been amiss.
"Well, well," he thought, "only a few steps, and yet so difficult to
find."
He found the right turnings at last, and coming to the porch of his
house in Soho Square, he almost trod on a little black and white object
lying huddled at the base of one of the pillars.
"A boy," he thought, "sleeping out on a night like this! Come, come," he
said severely, "this is wrong," and he shook the little fellow to waken
him.
The boy did not answer, but he began to mutter in a sleepy monotone,
"Don't hit me, sir. It was snow. I'll not come home late again.
Ninepence, sir, and Jinny is so cold."
The man paused a moment, then turned to the door rang the bell sharply.