He looked so young, and yet so death-like--so near the mysteries of age, and yet so far away. He might be anything from eight to ten, though he was altogether wasted and fragile. The bright brown eyes looked big and unnatural, the small mouth was drawn as if by constant pain, the waxen fingers twined and intertwined as, without speaking or moving, he sat and looked at her. His little coat had been patched and repatched, and his slippers were a woman’s worn-out pair--Marigold noticed it all with a big gulp in her throat. It was the first time she had come so near to the tragedy of youth and its simple silence. From her--at last--his eyes wandered to the plum-cake, then back to her and at last he smiled. But, when she saw the light come into his sad eyes and his pale lips part in the childish smile, then a big tear rolled out of both her eyes, and she shut the door and ran across to him laughing. “Oh! you naughty boy! Why didn’t you smile before instead of frightening me so? See, here is a piece of plum-cake. Do you like it, or don’t you--or would you rather have something else?” A shy colour had mounted in his cheeks, and he leaned rather to the far arm of the chair. “I like it. Thank you, ma’am.” “You mustn’t call me ma’am. See, I’m in rags--all in rags--worse than you.” This time he turned a little more and looked at her--and then he turned his eyes on himself. And then, with a queer little smile, he looked up at her. “Yes. I’m not in rags; I’m in patches.” And Marigold laughed, yet said to herself: “Who _is_ he like? I love him, I love him better than the great High Priest. He’s more human, poor little fellow, although he’s so near death--nearer my own age, too.” “That’s what we’ll call each other,” she said aloud. “I’m Rags--you’re Patches. Now Patches, does your mother allow you a whole slice of plum-cake, or have you only to have half?” “The doctor said I might eat anything I liked, thank you.” “Fancy a doctor saying that! What a nice man he must be!” “He’s only come lately. The one I used to have got influenza in the winter, and has had to go away. He was a very nice man. He didn’t charge mother much, and he often came to see me; but _this_ one--the _new_ one--he doesn’t charge a penny. He told mother he was a quack--and that the quack was the poor woman’s friend. And he found her work at a rich lady’s house. And she gets real good food there--she didn’t always at the other places. And sometimes they send something home for me.” How earnestly and eagerly he talked, as if trying to get everything in before the long silence came. “I’m not very fond of quacks,” said Marigold seriously. “As a rule, they’re ignorant, meddlesome men who know nothing--after the style of some dissenting clergy.” “You couldn’t help liking him. He tells such lovely stories. And when the pain is bad he always takes your hand--and it all goes away. Only I never like to leave off his hand when once I’ve taken hold. I feel weaker than ever after.”