his deserts,
wisely agreed with the small maid-servant on the judiciousness of
immediately taking themselves off, in company with the perambulator and
the babies, to avoid any chance of awkward inquiries.

May ran to Tray, clasped him all dripping in her arms, and prepared to
carry him tenderly home. But in spite of the injuries, for which he was
exceedingly sorry, he asserted his spirit of independence, and declined
to be made a baby of.

"I am afraid we have given you a great deal of trouble, Mr. Tom," said
Dora, while May was still devoting herself to her rescued treasure. Dora
spoke shyly, and inadvertently used the old familiar name, which he had
borne when his father was alive.

"Don't mention it," he said gravely, as shy as she was; "I feel
answerable for inflicting that wretched dog on you--that is, on your
sister. I was sure he would lead you a pretty dance after he was in the
shop this afternoon."

"Oh! Mr. Robinson," cried May, tearing herself away from the
contemplation of her darling in order to pour forth her sense of relief
and the depth of her gratitude, "what a good thing it was you came up to
us! What should we have done without you? Oh! you don't think dear
little Tray is lamed for life--do you? Of course that is ever so much
better than having him killed outright in our sight; still if he would
only let me pick him up and rest his poor hurt leg it might help him,"
protested May wistfully.

"Let him alone, he is all right," he said in his short stiff way. Then
he made a bantering amendment on his speech, because he was quick to see
that his want of sympathy vexed the young girl, perhaps rendered her
burden of gratitude more difficult to bear.

"At the worst, you know he would be as well off as Horatius Cocles, and
he is likely to escape the beating which he richly deserves."

"Oh! Mr. Robinson, beat him! when he meant no harm, when he has been all
but drowned or worried to death by that great, coarse, rough creature,"
cried May, opening large brown eyes of astonishment and indignation.

"I wonder what _he_ would call Tray if he could speak--an insolent
little rascal, who had no proper respect for his superiors."

Dora did not join in the conversation. Her colour came and went, and she
kept glancing at the handkerchief which Tom Robinson was fluttering
about in his hand.

It was May who stopped short and cried in fresh dismay, "There is blood
on your handkerchief; I believe you have been b