In the middle of that same afternoon, Bridget and Virtue Ann were sitting in the latter’s kitchen, talking volubly.

“And sure that’s a boss place,” Bridget was saying. “You’d do well to jump at the chance, Virtue Ann. Four girls kept, and you only to do part of the up-stairs work; and it’s lucky you are.”

“But the child,” said Virtue Ann uneasily.

“Troth, and it’s a pity about him,” said Bridget; “but to look out for number one is the game to-day. You can’t tie to your apron-strings a child that hasn’t a ghost of a claim on you.”

“No, I can’t,” said Virtue Ann; “I know I’m standing in my own light, yet there’s something witchy about the little fellow. I wake up in the night and think about him, and vow I’ll never leave him.”

“And in the morning it’s forgetting ye are,” said Bridget with a light laugh. “Faith, I’d shake him off in the winking of an eye. It’s the city that’ll look after him, since his grandfather was an infidel, and they haven’t a claim on the holy church. Och! murder, me boy! Virtue Ann!” and Bridget wound up her remarks with a squeal of dismay; for Eugene stood in the doorway, his black, piercing eyes fixed severely on her face.

He did not speak to her, but turned to his nurse. “Virtue Ann,” he asked in a sad, penetrating voice, “is it true that you wish to leave me?”

“Master Eugene,” stammered the girl, “I thought you were on the sofa asleep, being tired from your walk in the park this morning; I’m sure I never dreamed—if I’d thought you were awake I’d have shut the door.”

“Have you a situation offered to you?” asked Eugene coldly.

“Yes, she has,” interposed Bridget; “and that is the truth of the matter; and you’ll be a good boy, sir, now won’t you?”

Eugene still paid no attention to her; and Virtue Ann went on, “I’ll not leave you, Master Eugene, don’t you be afeard of it. I’m just talking to while away the time.”

“Where is it that you wish to go?” asked Eugene.

“It’s to Brookline,” interposed Bridget. “To a fine house, where she’ll get lots of wages, and maybe find a nice home for you, me boy, if you’ll be a good, peaceable lad, and let her go quiet-like and aisy.”

“When are you required to be there?” pursued Eugene.

“Never, Master Eugene,” said Virtue Ann hysterically. “I’m not going. It’s only talk.”

“And it’s to-morrow morning her new mistress would like to have her,” said Bridget; “for in the evening she gives a grand dinnerparty, and they’ll be glad of extra help for the waiting.”

“How much do I owe you, Virtue Ann?” asked Eugene.

“Nothing, nothing,” said the girl wildly. “Oh! I don’t know what brought us into this scrape. Bridget, I wish you’d held your tongue.”

The boy took out his little purse, and opened it. There was not much money in it. He turned over a few silver pieces with the tips of his slim, aristocratic fingers, and his white face grew whiter. Still he said firmly, “It will be necessary to sell the furniture. I will arrange for it. You may leave me in the morning, Virtue Ann;” and he withdrew as softly as he had come.

“The little impident thing,” said Bridget wrathfully. “He niver once cast a glance at me.”

“He’ll never speak to you again,” said Virtue Ann mournfully, “nor to me either, after I leave him. I know him; he’s the most unforgiving little mortal that ever drew breath. Oh! I wish I hadn’t offended him;” and she put her apron up to her face and began to cry.

“Oh, whisht!” said Bridget impatiently. “Just you leave him here; some one will take care of him.”

“Oh, I can’t, I can’t!” said Virtue Ann. “He’s all alone in the world. He don’t know any one here, or care for any one, unless it’s that police sergeant. I guess I’ll go see him right away.”

“Hist!” said Bridget, “there’s a ring at the bell; go see who it is.”

Virtue Ann sprang up, dried her tears, and hurried into the little hall. Mrs. Hardy’s voice was asking through the tube if she might come up. “Certainly, certainly, ma’am,” said Virtue Ann joyfully; and when a few minutes after she looked over the stair-railing, and saw Mrs. Hardy’s white head, crowned by a big black hat, appearing, she exclaimed, “I’m just tickled to death to see you, ma’am. Would you,” and she lowered her voice to a mysterious whisper, “mind coming to the kitchen for a minute? Master Eugene’s in the parlor, and I want to tell you something.”

Mrs. Hardy nodded her head, and without speaking followed the girl to the kitchen, and stood looking in a puzzled way at Bridget, whom she had not seen before.

Virtue Ann quickly explained the situation of affairs to her.

Mrs. Hardy listened attentively; and when Virtue Ann finished speaking, she said, “Will you take me to the boy? I have just come to ask him to visit us as long as he likes.”

Virtue Ann was almost beside herself with relief. “You’ve the best heart in the world, ma’am,” she said enthusiastically. “This is the most pleasurable thing that could happen to him. Oh, I’m out of my senses for joy!” and she seized Mrs. Hardy’s hand in her own.

The sergeant’s wife smiled at her; then she asked again, somewhat impatiently, where Eugene was.

“Here, ma’am,” said Virtue Ann; and she threw open the door of the small parlor.

Mrs. Hardy’s face changed quickly. The boy sat by the table, his young head bent over a piece of paper, on which he was laboriously writing figures. She knew that his childish head was throbbing with the vain effort to find some way by which he could increase the sum of money that he had on hand.

Poor little one! and vain task beyond his years, she thought pitifully; but she restrained herself from any open expression of sympathy, for she knew that he would not appreciate it.

He got up slowly when he saw her, and offered her his seat; and with a sharp pang at her heart she noticed the curious facility and unchildishness with which he put his own trouble from him, and waited courteously to hear the object of her visit.

“I have come to see you,” she began absently, then she paused. Could this indeed be the same little boy that her husband had seen scampering merrily over the Fens only that morning?

“Did you win any of the races to-day?” she said irrelevantly.

Some color came into Eugene’s face, and made him look like a delicate bit of porcelain. “I did,” he said eagerly. “I amused myself very much; and I am invited to go again to-morrow if—if other matters will permit;” and he grew grave again.

“What do you mean by other matters?” asked Mrs. Hardy.

“My servant wishes to leave me,” said Eugene. “I shall dismiss her in the morning.”

Mrs. Hardy did not know whether to laugh or to cry. She certainly took a strange interest in this boy. “And what will you do,” she asked, “after the girl goes away?”

“I shall remain here,” said Eugene, “until my letter arrives from France.”

“But you cannot stay alone.”

“Why not, madam?”

“Who ever heard of such a thing?” she said; “you are a mere child. You cannot. Who will cook for you?”

“There are cafÉs and bake-houses near by,” said Eugene calmly.

Mrs. Hardy stretched an appealing black-gloved hand to him. “Come to us,” she said. “I am here to-day to ask you to make us a long visit. My husband joins with me in this invitation.”

“You are most kind, most sagacious,” said Eugene slowly; “but it is impossible.”

“Why is it impossible?”

“What demand have I on you?” he said civilly, yet haughtily.

“Every one that is in trouble has a claim to hospitality,” said Mrs. Hardy warmly. “We have to help each other in this world. We could not go on if we did not.”

“And what is your imagination about my trouble?” he asked.

Mrs. Hardy had offended the proud little lad, but she did not stop to choose her next words. “Your trouble is that you are old before your time,” she said hurriedly. “You are just like a graybeard. Only the bitter in life seems to be left for you. Come to me, and let me make you a child again;” and she seized one of his slim hands in hers.

To her distress, nay, her horror, the boy drew back from her with a slight sneer. “Madam,” he said icily, “my grandfather often said to me, ‘Distrust women; you may have the happiness to amuse them for a time, but later on they will throw you aside.’ I have not great age myself, but so far I think he has reason.”

“And do you think that I only want to amuse myself in taking care of you?” gasped Mrs. Hardy.

“Why not?” and Eugene elevated his eyebrows. “It is either that, or you wish to establish a claim on me, so that I may share my fortune with you.”

“Your fortune!” ejaculated Mrs. Hardy; “you have none.”

“You know that I expect one,” said Eugene in a condescending manner.

“Then, you don’t think I came here to-day just out of the kindness of my heart—that I am willing to take care of you, and treat you just as if you were my own little boy, simply from love.”

Eugene shrugged his shoulders. “No; why should you? I have no right to this.”

“Oh, you naughty, naughty boy!” said Mrs. Hardy, pushing back her chair and angrily confronting him. “I never heard any one talk like you in my life. I don’t know what your grandfather could have been thinking of to bring you up like this. You are not like the Boston bad boy at all; you are much worse. I wouldn’t have you in my house;” and the little woman flung herself out of the room.

Virtue Ann and Bridget could not detain her. She fairly ran home; and, throwing herself on a sofa, she mourned in silence and alone until her husband came in for his supper. Then she gave him an account of her visit.

The sergeant laughed until he grew purple in the face. “Bess,” he said, “you want an adopted mother yourself. You’re not used to managing children. You mustn’t fly into a temper so quickly.”

“He was so aggravating,” sobbed Mrs. Hardy.

“Of course; but think of the way he’s been brought up. Why, he’s just like a hunted animal now. The weakest thing will turn at the last. Have you ever seen a rat in a corner? He’ll fix his teeth in the biggest stick you can poke at him.”

“Don’t—don’t compare that prince of a boy with a rat,” said his wife dolefully.

“There, now,” pursued the sergeant, “you’re not mad with him. You won’t let any one abuse him but yourself. You still want him, I see; so he has got to come here—and anyway, law and order must be preserved. Even the cats in the park understand that. What do you think I found the king doing just now?”

“I don’t know,” sighed Mrs. Hardy in an absent-minded way.

“Well, I came across Squirrel, King Boozy’s chum, sitting on a stump, badly mauled. He was by turns polishing himself off with his tongue, and watching the king, who was licking a strange cat. Another strange cat, that had already been whipped, was running away, and I figured the matter out this way. Squirrel had been attacked by the two strangers; and as soon as he could get away, he had brought the king up, who was punishing them thoroughly.”

“I don’t see what the cats have to do with the boy,” said Mrs. Hardy.

“They have a good deal. Don’t you see that Boozy is an old head now; he was disciplining the young strangers that had interfered with Squirrel. Now, this French lad is young—a good bit younger than you and me. Of course he’s disagreeable. Who wouldn’t be, brought up as he has been? Parents and guardians have to lick young ones into shape. Now, you get the supper ready, and I’ll have the boy here in a jiffy, and you can punish him any way that you like. I guess it will be with kindness;” and with a soothing pat on her head her husband left her.