The sergeant had not seen Eugene for a week; but although he had not seen him, he could not get him out of his mind.

As he sauntered about the park day after day, his vigilant eyes going hither and thither over roads and foot-paths to see that no trespassers loitered in them and defaced the growing trees, or launched boats without permission on the waterways, Eugene’s pale, thoughtful, and rather unhappy face floated constantly before him.

“It’s queer, the interest I take in him,” he said to himself on the last day of the week. “It must be because he spoke up so frank-like, and asked me to be his friend. He’s of a different cut from any other lad I ever saw. Guess I’ll look him up after I get off to-day. I’d like to inquire about him, anyway; and there’s no one to ask here, for the little miss and her nurse have given up coming too. I guess they’ve been promenading on the sunny side of Commonwealth Avenue on account of the wind in the Fens.”

Every evening at six the sergeant went off duty. On that evening, instead of going home, he bent his footsteps toward No. 29 Lovejoy Street.

While turning a corner swiftly he ran into a girl who was hurrying along with her head bent forward.

It was Virtue Ann, Eugene’s nurse; and on seeing the sergeant, she threw up her head with a quick catching of her breath.

“Did I frighten you?” asked the sergeant.

“Oh, no, sir!” said Virtue Ann miserably.

“Then, what’s the matter with you?” he asked in a puzzled voice.

“It’s not you,” said Virtue Ann, bringing her handkerchief out of her pocket, and rolling it into a little ball.

“What is it then?”

“It’s the little boy—his grandfather’s dead, you know.”

“Not the little French boy’s grandfather?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sorry for this,” said the sergeant soberly. “That’s why you haven’t come to the Fens.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what’s the boy going to do?”

“Oh, oh! that’s what bothers me;” and Virtue Ann’s tears began to shower down like rain. “It’s an awful hard case. There he sits day after day in those little stuffy rooms, waiting for a letter from France; and if what he wants doesn’t come something just too dreadful for anything will happen.”

“Too dreadful!” repeated the sergeant. “Come now, young woman, take it easy, and just stop crying, will you? There’s lots of charitable people in this city, and orphans’ homes and so on. He’ll be all right.”

“Do you suppose he’d go into an orphans’ home?” said Virtue Ann, drying her eyes and speaking half indignantly. “You don’t know him, sir. He’s proud and shy, like a little old man. His grandfather made him just like himself. Oh! he’s got a lot to answer for. He was a queer old man, and went peering about with those little eyes of his, just as if he was looking out for wickedness in everything.”

“Has the boy relatives in France?” asked the sergeant.

“Yes; one rich grand-uncle on his mother’s side. It was to him Master Eugene wrote; and how do you think he began his letter, sir? He had no one else by him; so he read it to me, and put it into English so I could understand. It began this way, ‘Robber, my grandfather is now dead; and I call upon you to restore to me, his rightful heir, the chatto’—is that the right word, sir?”

“I guess so,” said the sergeant.

“Well, anyway,” continued Virtue Ann, “Master Eugene laid down the law to him. He wants him to give up this big house, and the servants and some money, and if he does not that little innocent creature will—oh, dear, dear!” and she fell to catching her breath again, and could not speak.

“What will he do?” asked the sergeant impatiently.

“It’s too miserable—I can’t say it,” replied Virtue Ann. “He’ll make way with himself, the little dear.”

“Are you crazy?” asked the sergeant.

“No, sir—no, sir. You don’t know that boy. If you’d lived with him as I have you’d understand him. He’s just as set in his way as a man. Why, he’s even told me how he’ll kill himself;” and she whispered a few words in the sergeant’s ear that made him start back and stare at her.

“Do go see him,” said Virtue Ann. “He took a kind of a fancy to you; I guess it must have been your uniform.”

“I guess so,” said the sergeant. “Where are you going?”

“To the corner grocery for some bread and olives.”

“Well, you go on then, and I’ll call to see the child.”

“I’ll hurry back,” said Virtue Ann; and she sped on her way.

The sergeant went quickly down the street until he found No. 29. On arriving there, he stepped inside the lobby; and after ringing the bell marked 4, he put his ear to the tube beside it.

Presently he heard in Eugene’s clear voice, “Who is there?”

“Sergeant Hardy,” replied the man.

“Will you have the goodness to walk up?” said Eugene; and as he spoke he pressed a spring that made the entrance door fly open, and enabled the sergeant to enter, and mount the long flight of stairs.

At the top of the house he found himself in a narrow, uncarpeted hall, where a door stood wide open with Eugene beside it.

“How do you do?” said the boy gravely, extending his hand.

“I’m well,” said the sergeant; “and I’m sorry to hear of your trouble.”

Eugene bowed in his unchildish fashion, and led the way to a small, barely furnished parlor.

The sergeant put his helmet on the table, and sat down by a window, from which an extended view of distant hills could be had over the tops of far and near houses; while Eugene seated himself opposite, and stretching out his slender arms and legs, tried hard to fill the chair that had been a favorite one with his dead grandfather.

His endeavor to look grave and manly was not successful. He only impressed the sergeant as being curiously pitiful and pathetic; and the words, “Poor little chap,” burst almost involuntarily from his lips.

Eugene grew rather white; but he managed to bow again, and to say composedly, “Thank you, Mr. Officer.”

“When did your grandfather die?” asked the sergeant.

“Five days ago.”

“And was it sudden?”

“Extremely so. He came home from the town much fatigued. He lay down on his bed, rose up once, and called in a loud voice, ‘Eugene!’ I ran to him, but the breath had left him.”

“You have written to your relatives?” said the sergeant.

“Yes,” replied Eugene. “I sent a letter to my grand-uncle, who bought from the government the confiscated estate of my grandfather. I demanded money from him to enable me to live. If he sends it, all will be well. If not”—

“Well, if not,” said the sergeant, “there are plenty of people here who will look after you.”

Eugene’s pale face flushed. “Could I become a pauper? No, Mr. Officer. If I do not receive some of the rents from my grandfather’s estate, I shall dispose of myself otherwise.”

“How long since you’ve been out doors?” asked the sergeant abruptly.

“Not since my grandfather died,” said Eugene sadly. “I have not cared for it.”

“Will you go home with me now and have supper?” asked the sergeant. “I would be proud and happy to show you my wife.”

Before Eugene could speak, a clapping of hands was heard. Virtue Ann had come quietly in, and had heard the sergeant’s proposal. “Yes, Master Eugene, do go,” she said joyfully.

Eugene hesitated. “Do, please,” said Virtue Ann coaxingly; “it will do you good.”

“Very well, sir, I accept with alacrity your invitation,” said Eugene, slipping from his chair, and standing before the sergeant. “It is necessary that I put on my velvet suit,” he went on, with a slight sparkle in his eyes, and addressing Virtue Ann as he passed her.

“Yes, yes,” she replied; “I will come and get it down for you.”

In a few minutes she came hurrying back to the sergeant. “I’m right glad you asked him, sir. I never was in such a tight box in my life as to know what to do about this child. You see, I’m a stranger here, as you might say, for I’ve only been four months in the city; and his grandfather didn’t seem to have any friends, and I don’t know any one to go to, and his money is most gone, and he’s such a queer little thing, and flies into a rage if I cross him; and I don’t know what to do, and I wish you’d advise him. I asked Bridget to talk to Mrs. Manning about him,—that’s the little girl’s mother; but she says the lady would clap him into a school or some place with a lot of children, where he’d be most crazy. I’ll go see Bridget again to-night. I wish I’d money to keep the little dear with me, if he’d stay. He’s so sweet and elegant in his ways; but I’m only a poor girl, and I’m getting pretty near my last dollar—oh, here he is! Good-by, Master Eugene; I’ll call for you at nine.”

The sergeant and Eugene went slowly down the staircase, and Virtue Ann stood watching them until they were out of sight. Then she drew a long sigh, and went into the kitchen to get something to eat.

The sergeant and Eugene scarcely spoke as they went along the street. The man was silent because he was wondering what he could do to help the boy beside him. The boy was silent because, despite himself, a soft joy and peace were stealing into his troubled heart, as he once more mingled with his fellow-beings, and breathed the pure evening air.

At last the sergeant stopped before a neat wooden house near the Fens. “This is my home,” he said.

Eugene brought back his eyes from the distant horizon, and flashed a quick, appreciative glance at the small house and the pretty garden.

“Come in,” said the sergeant gruffly. “My wife will be getting the supper.”

Eugene saw no face looking out for them between the ruffled window curtains. All was quiet and still,—the sergeant had evidently no children; and the boy thoughtfully went into the house, and hung up his cap on a rack in the hall.

“I’ll not put you in the parlor,” said the sergeant. “Let’s go find the missis;” and he stalked out toward the kitchen at the back of the house.

Eugene followed him curiously, and with some hesitation.

“Isn’t that a picture?” said the sergeant. He had pushed open the kitchen door; and Eugene, looking in, saw a small, exquisitely clean room, with pictures on the walls, and white curtains at the windows, and a woman cooking something over a gas-stove.

“Well, wife,” said the sergeant agreeably, “I’ve brought a visitor home to-night; he’s the little French boy I told you about. He has had a great misfortune,—his grandfather is dead;” and he gently pushed Eugene forward.

The woman raised her head slightly; and Eugene saw that she had a fresh face, rather younger than the sergeant’s, clear blue eyes, and a quantity of soft white hair.

“Stephen,” she said, in a spoiled, almost childish voice, “how could you? there’s only stew enough for two, and you know I don’t like boys.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he said good-naturedly. “Here’s the boy; just look round and tell him so yourself.”

Mrs. Hardy did turn around in the twinkling of an eye, the uplifted spoon in her hand. “How do you do?” she said quickly. “I didn’t see you—don’t mind what I say. I have just a little prejudice against boys, because they tease my cats.”

“And this boy has a little prejudice against you on two scores,” said the sergeant, chuckling amiably.

“What are they?” asked Mrs. Hardy.

“I’ll tell you later on,” said the sergeant.

Mrs. Hardy laughed softly, and bent her white head over the stove; while her husband pointed to a rocking-chair drawn up by one of the windows, and hospitably invited Eugene to sit down on it.

Eugene, however, would not seat himself while his hostess was standing, and contented himself with leaning against it.

The sergeant excused himself, and went away to change his uniform; while Mrs. Hardy, between the intervals of stirring the dish on the stove, looked curiously at Eugene over her shoulder.

She was dressed all in white; and there was something so attractive and unique in her appearance, in her fresh face and her snowy hair, that the boy had difficulty in keeping himself from staring at her.

“So your grandfather is dead,” she said in a low voice, as if she were talking to herself. “You must feel badly about it, though you are only a boy.”

Eugene, without knowing why, felt himself growing sorry for her because she was sorry for him.

“One must suffer in this world,” he said patronizingly. “It is fate.”

“You are young to have found that out,” said the woman quietly. Then, before he could answer her, she said, “Do you like oyster stew?”

“I shall eat with pleasure anything that you prepare, madam,” said the boy courteously; “and, indeed, that is one of my favorite dishes—allow me to assist you;” and he hurried forward to help her in carrying the dish to the near dining-room.

“Did you hear me say that there would not be enough oysters for three?” asked Mrs. Hardy, fixing her bright blue eyes on the boy’s face.

“No, madam,” he said without hesitation.

“But you must have—you were close by.”

Eugene tried not to smile, but he could not help it.

“You are telling a story in order to save my feelings, aren’t you?” she said brusquely.

Eugene shrugged his shoulders. “A story—well, scarcely that.”

“It is better to hurt my feelings,” she said gravely, “than to say what is not true. I spoke too quickly about the oysters. Here is cold meat and a salad—we shall have enough. I suppose you like oil in your salad.”

“I do, madam.”

“I’ve noticed French people do. My husband takes sugar and vinegar on his. Now I will get the chocolate, and we can sit down as soon as Stephen comes.”

“Why, you and my wife are getting on famously,” said the sergeant, rubbing his hands as he entered the room.

Eugene looked at him. His appearance was quite changed. He was now dressed in a suit of dark brown clothes, and he wore a red necktie, and had a white flower in his buttonhole.

“This boy is not like other boys,” said Mrs. Hardy calmly; “he is a gentleman.”

“So you like him,” said the sergeant teasingly. “A pity it is that he can’t like you.”

“Why can’t he like me?” said Mrs. Hardy, sitting down behind the chocolate and milk pitchers, and motioning Eugene to sit beside her.

“Because you are two things that he doesn’t care for.”

“What are they?”

“You are a woman and a former school-teacher.”

“Don’t you like women?” asked Mrs. Hardy of Eugene.

“Madam,” he said gallantly, “the world would be a dreary place without your charming sex.”

“And school-teachers?”

“Oh! I detest them,” he said frankly, “with but few exceptions;” and he bowed to her.

“Do you always talk like this?” asked Mrs. Hardy with undisguised curiosity.

Eugene smiled at her. He knew that he talked like a grown-up man.

“Don’t tease the boy,” said the sergeant. “He isn’t a prig, anyway. Do you know,” he went on, addressing Eugene, “that I’m very fond of my wife?”

“You do not surprise me,” said Eugene with his lips; and in his heart he thought, “What astonishing candor! I never met such people.”

“Her father used to be worth his weight in gold,” said the sergeant. “He owned a flour-mill. Then he failed and died; and my wife, like a brave girl, taught and supported herself till I married her. I guess she’ll never do that again, though. She has got a rich old aunt that is going to leave her some money some day, so she will be provided for whatever happens to me.”

“I congratulate you,” said Eugene to his hostess.

“I hope your grand-uncle will do as square a thing by you as her aunt is doing by her,” said the sergeant. “We’ve got it down in black and white.”

Eugene’s face grew so pale that Mrs. Hardy shook her head at her husband. Then she pressed the boy to eat various things that she laid on his plate.

“Your hair is just like a pile of snow to-night,” said the sergeant, affectionately regarding the top of his wife’s head. “Do you know, boy, some people are mischievous enough to ask if that hair has been turned white on account of my sins?” and he laughed uproariously. “What do you tell them, Bess?”

“I tell them no,” she said, shaking her head. “We all turn gray in our family when we’re forty.”

“It gives you the appearance of being in grande toilette,” said Eugene, who had recovered his composure. “One could imagine you just stepping into your carriage to attend a ball.”

Mrs. Hardy looked pleased, and handed him a huge slice of cake.

The Hardys did not spend a very long time at the table; and when supper was over the sergeant withdrew to the garden to smoke, while Eugene begged to assist his hostess in carrying the dishes to the kitchen.

“Do you really want to do it?” she said earnestly; “or is it only your politeness that makes you ask? No, don’t answer quickly; take a minute to think.”

Out through the open window Eugene could see the little garden flooded with electric light from the near street, and the sergeant sauntering about it with a pipe in his mouth.

“You had rather be with him, had you not?” said Mrs. Hardy.

“I had,” replied Eugene, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could recall them.

“Then, run away,” said Mrs. Hardy; “it is good for boys to be in the open air as much as possible, and I am used to washing my dishes myself. That china belonged to my mother, and was very expensive, and you might let it fall; and then, perhaps you would spot your velvet suit.”

Eugene went out-of-doors; and while walking about the moist garden paths, he followed the sergeant’s directions with regard to picking a number of the sweet tremulous flowers to take home with him.

“What games can you play?” asked the sergeant as his eye ran over the pleasing symmetry of Eugene’s figure.

“I can fence and dance,” said Eugene, “and ride passably; also I am fond of fishing, and I can run well at the game one calls ‘prisoner’s base’ in this country.”

“Good; but what have you done here? Do you play base-ball and cricket or foot-ball?”

“Not as yet,” said the boy sadly, but proudly; “we can afford nothing.”

“We must see to that if you stay in Boston,” said the sergeant. “You’ll not make yourself a man if you don’t have manly exercise. Why, here’s Dodo coming home, and old Toddles with her.”

Eugene lifted up his eyes and smiled in amusement at two rather decrepit cats that were climbing the garden fence.

“These are our house cats,” said the sergeant, “promoted from the park to home service on account of old age. Come in, pussies, and have some supper.”

The tortoiseshell pair before entering the house walked purringly around the sergeant, and rubbed themselves against his legs.

“It’s wonderful what affection the creatures have,” he said musingly, as he took his pipe from his mouth, and looked down at them. “Don’t you like dumb animals, boy?”

“I had a pony in France that I rather cared for,” said Eugene, “and I like hunting-dogs imperfectly well.”

“But you don’t understand dumb creatures,” said the sergeant. “I can tell by the way that you speak that you don’t. There’s a whole book of knowledge shut up from you, boy. Some day perhaps it will be opened, and you’ll enjoy life more from knowing that there are more live things to enjoy it and to like you than you have had any suspicion of. Let’s go in now. I guess the missis has got things tidied.”

Mrs. Hardy was standing on the porch, looking like a girl with her slim figure and white gown.

“Would you like to play some games?” she asked her guest softly.

He showed a polite pleasure at the proposal, and during the next two hours Mrs. Hardy initiated him into the mysteries of some American parlor amusements that he had never before heard of.

When Virtue Ann came for him, his cheeks were flushed and his face happy. He looked like a different boy from the little careworn creature that had arrived there a few hours earlier.

“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” said Virtue Ann in a low voice to Mrs. Hardy; “you’ve done an angel’s deed in comforting him. I’m sure I don’t know what’s to become of the little lad;” and she sighed heavily.

All the evening Mrs. Hardy had been regarding the boy with a curious intentness of gaze. At Virtue Ann’s words her eyes again wandered to Eugene; and she said wistfully, “Do you say that he is quite alone in the world, quite, quite alone?”

“Yes; except his old grand-uncle in France,” said Virtue Ann with a sniff. “He’ll not do anything for him, I misdoubt. I’ve heard the grandfather talking about him; and I guess he’s no better than a skinflint, and”—but here Virtue Ann was obliged to break off abruptly, for Eugene came forward to take leave of his hostess.

Mrs. Hardy listened with a smile on her face to his well-bred assurances that he had had a pleasant visit.

“You were criticising us all the time,” she said keenly; and when Eugene, in discomposure, could do nothing but gaze helplessly at her, she bent down suddenly and kissed him.

“Never mind, little lad,” she said, “I know that this has been a change for you. Good-night, good-night;” and long after her husband went into the house, she stood in the doorway, her eyes wandering down the street that Virtue Ann and her young charge had taken to go home.

Virtue Ann had been quite impressed by the cosiness and pretty furnishings of the little cottage, and by the mingled dignity and oddity of the sergeant’s wife.

“She was like an old picture with that white hair,” she murmured to herself; “and yet there’s no nonsense about her. I guess she’s a good housekeeper too, for everything was as neat as wax. What a good home that would be for Master Eugene!” and she sighed as she glanced at the quiet lad beside her.

Sergeant Hardy was tired that night, and went to bed as soon as Eugene had left his house. About one o’clock he was awakened by the sound of suppressed sobbing; and starting up in bed, he dimly saw his wife standing by the window.

“What’s the matter, Bess?” he asked sleepily.

She lifted her white head that she had laid against the window-pane. “O Stephen! did I wake you? I’m sorry. It’s nothing—go to sleep again.”

“People don’t get up out of bed in the middle of the night to go lean up against windows and stare out into the dark for nothing,” he said in a matter-of-fact way. “What’s wrong with you, Bess?”

“Stephen,” she said in a repressed voice, “in all the years that we’ve been married you’ve often heard me say how glad I am that I’ve never had a child.”

“Often, Bess.”

“How glad—how delighted I am,” she went on quietly, though he knew by her tones that she was trembling like a leaf, “that we have not had to launch another little child into this world of care and trouble; it’s such a sad world for children.”

“I know, I know,” he said, trying not to yawn as he listened to her.

“They’re such a worry when they’re growing up,” she continued sorrowfully; “they get ill, and you have to fuss over them in the daytime, and they call you out of your warm bed at night.”

“Of course they do,” he responded. “They’re always bleating like lambs after their parents.”

“And mothers get dragged down and worn out; and then, when the little things grow old enough to be a comfort, they go away from you out into the world, or else you die and leave them, and almost break your heart in the going, because you think other people won’t be as tender with them as you have been.”

“Naturally,” growled the sergeant. “A body would almost think you had been through the experience.”

“There are too many children in the world,” said his wife vehemently. “Hear me say again, Stephen, that I’m glad, glad, glad, that I have never had any;” and she sank out of his sight into a seat in a dark corner, and covered her face with her hands.

“You’re so glad,” said her husband kindly, and yet a little ironically, “that you’re crying your eyes out about it.”

“Let me alone, Stephen,” she said passionately; “let me cry. You have always been kind and indulgent with me, and let me have my own way; and I have got selfish, and look out always for my own comfort.”

“Oh! never mind, never mind, Bess,” he said consolingly. “Get into bed again; you’ll take cold.”

“No, no!” she exclaimed. “Let me be unselfish for once. Let me imagine that in the next room there is a little sick child, that it may call me at any minute, that I must be ready to go to it;” and sobbing as if her heart would break, she drew her white hair over her head like a veil, and curled herself up miserably on the low seat.

The sergeant looked in her direction compassionately and with resignation. “I’d cry with you, Bess, if I could,” he said drowsily, “but I can’t. I’ll get up and make a hot drink for you, though, if you like.”

“No, no; I don’t want a hot drink,” she moaned.

“I guess I’ll just let you alone. You women like to make yourselves miserable sometimes,” he said philosophically; and laying his head down on the pillow, he was soon asleep.