"Well, now, I think there's a touch of frost, though 'tis far too early for it, if I may say so without offence, seeing that my opinion wasn't asked. I think I'll cover the geranium slips; fine they look, and 'twould be a pity to run risks. Such a lot, too; I shall have to buy some pots. That's just a cross I have to bear—the way some folk forget to return my pots. Now, there's Miss Lavinia has a heap of them in a corner—pots properly belonging to me, and I'm afraid to ask for them, she's so quick to take huff." "Eh—what's that? Some one at the door! I must have left the gate open. 'Tis well if half a score of dogs don't—Oh, a child! Well, little chap, what do you want? And who are you? For I don't know you, and I know every boy in the village." The child stood before her, she standing in the doorway with a lighted candle in her hand. A pretty boy, but ragged and dirty. He had on a sailor suit of dark blue, once very natty, and over his little jacket, he wore a second, equally ragged, and far too large for him. His shoes were broken and nearly soleless, his feet blistered and bleeding, his hair was matted and twisted, but, when he raised appealing dark eyes to Betty's face, the look went to her soft old heart. "Come to Fwank; he's sick; he can't walk any more. I'm fwightened." "'Come to Fwank'! Who's that, and where is he?" "On the woad under the hedge. 'Tis cold, ma'am." Here his eyes lighted on a flat cake of bread lying on the little deal table that served as a counter, and he burst out crying. "I'm so hungwy. 'Dive' me some 'bwead'!" Betty cut a good piece and gave it to him. Before he took a morsel, the little hand was stretched out. "Some for Fwank, though he says he's not hungwy. But we've had none—oh, for ever so long." "Show me where he is," said old Betty; and they set out together, the boy devouring the bread. It was some way off: there was a high hedge growing on a low bank. On the side path, with his head on the sloping bank, lying on his back, with his arms stretched out and his white face upturned towards the clear starry sky, lay Frank. Betty knelt beside him, and touched him; she spoke to him, and at last raised him into a sitting posture, leaning against her arm. But the child neither spoke nor moved, not so much as to open his eyes. "And no jacket at all! No wonder he's cold. I doubt he's colder than is natural, though 'tis a cold night too." She got up as she spoke, and lifted him in her old arms. "Light as a feather, too. Skin and bone—not much of it either. Come, little chap, trot on beside me. I must get this child warm—if I can."