ck was
turned. "That's all over now. Come, papa."

The doctor came back, and as he was passing the back of the boy's chair,
he raised his hand quickly, intending to pat him on the head.

The boy flinched like a frightened animal anticipating a blow.

"Why, bless my soul, Dexter! this will not do," he said huskily. "Here,
give me your hand. There, there, my dear boy, you and I are to be the
best of friends. Why, my dear Helen," he added in French, "they must
have been terribly severe, for the little fellow to shrink like this."

The boy still sobbed as he laid his hand in the doctor's, and then the
meal was resumed; but Dexter's appetite was gone. He could not finish
the lamb, and it was only with difficulty that he managed a little
rhubarb tart and custard.

"Why, what are you thinking about, Dexter!" said Helen after the lunch;
and somehow her tone of voice seemed to indicate that she had forgotten
all about the workhouse clothes.

"Will he send me back to the House?" the boy whispered hoarsely, but the
doctor heard.

"No, no," he said quickly; and the boy seemed relieved.

That night about eleven, as she went up to bed, Helen Grayson went
softly into a little white bedroom, where the boy's pale face lay in the
full moonlight, and something sparkled.

"Poor child!" she said, in a voice full of pity; "he has been crying."

She was quite right, and as she bent over him, her presence must have
influenced his dreams, for he uttered a low, soft sigh, and then smiled,
while, forgetting everything now but the fact that this poor little waif
of humanity had been stranded, as it were, at their home, she bent over
him and kissed him.

Then she started, for she became aware of the fact that her father was
at the door.

The next moment she was in his arms.

"Bless you, my darling!" he said. "This is like you. I took this up as
a whim as well as a stubborn belief; but somehow that poor little
ignorant fellow, with his rough ways, seems to be rousing warmer
feelings towards him, and, please God, we'll make a man of him of whom
we shall not be ashamed."

Poor Dexter had cried himself to sleep, feeling in his ignorant fashion
that he had disgraced himself, and that the two harsh rulers were quite
right,--that he was as bad as ever he could be; but circumstances were
running in a way he little thought.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

TAMING THE WILD.

"Ah!" said the doctor, laying down his pen and rubbing his hands.