Abdiel, lying on his bosom, watched her with keen friendly eyes. Clare was dreaming some agreeable morning-dream; for a smile of such pleasure as could haunt only an innocent face, nickered on it like a sunny ripple on the still water of a pool. “No!” said Miss Tempest to herself; “there’s no duplicity there! Otherwise, a tree is not known by its fruit!” Clare opened his eyes, and started lightly to his feet, strong and refreshed. “Good morning, ma’am!” he said, pulling off his cap. “Good morning--what am I to call you?” she returned. “Clare, if you please, ma’am.” “What is your Christian name?” “That is my Christian name, ma’am--Clare.” “Then what is your surname?” “I am called Porson, ma’am, but I have another name. Mr. Porson adopted me.” “What is your other name?” “I don’t know, ma’am. I am going to know one day, I think; but the day is not come yet.” He told her all he could about his adoptive parents, and little Maly; but the time before he went to the farm was growing strangely dreamlike, as if it had sunk a long way down in the dark waters of the past--all up to the hour when Maly was carried away by the long black aunt. The story accounted to Miss Tempest both for his good speech and the name of his dog. The adopted child of a clergyman might well be acquainted with _Paradise Lost_, though she herself had never read more of it than the apostrophe to Light in the beginning of the third book! That she had learned at school without understanding phrase or sentence of it; while Clare never left passage alone until he understood it, or, failing that, had invented a meaning for it. “Well, then, Clare, I’ve been talking to my gardener about you,” said Miss Tempest. “He will give you a job.” “God bless you, ma’am! I’m ready!” cried Clare, stretching out his arms, as if to get them to the proper length for work. “Where shall I find him?” “You must have breakfast first.” She led the way to the kitchen. The cook, a middle-aged woman, looked at the dog, and her face puckered all over with points of interrogation and exclamation. “Please, cook, will you give this young man some breakfast? He wanted to go to work without any, but that wouldn’t do--would it, cook?” said her mistress. “I hope the dog won’t be running in and out of my kitchen all day, ma’am!” “No fear of that, cook!” said Clare; “he never leaves me.” “Then I don’t think--I’m afraid,” she began, and stopped. “--But that’s none of my business,” she added. “John will look after his own--and more!” Miss Tempest said nothing, but she almost trembled; for John, she knew, had a perfect hatred of dogs. Nor could anyone wonder, for, gate open or gate shut, in they came and ran over his beds. She dared not interfere! He and Clare must settle the question of Abdiel or no Abdiel between them! She left the kitchen.