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Updated: May 26, 2025
"Ay, and the licking you got for splitting your Sunday jacket up the back;" and the two "working-men" laughed at the recollection, as they carried the prize to display to Wikkey, with a comical anxiety, almost amounting to dread, lest it should not produce the effect they intended. No fear of that!
The following evening Lawrence found a letter from his cousin on his table. "From what you tell me," Reginald wrote, "I should say that Wikkey must be taught through his affections: that he is capable of a strong and generous affection he has fully proved, so that I advise you not to attempt for the present much doctrinal instruction.
"I'll be as good as ever I know how," said Wikkey, meekly; "and I reckon I sha'n't have much call to tell lies.
There was a touch of injured innocence in the tone; it was simply the statement of a fact which might easily have been otherwise, and the entire matter-of-factness of the assertion inspired Lawrence with a good deal of confidence, together with the cough which returned on the slightest movement, and would effectually prevent a noiseless evasion on the part of poor Wikkey.
If he were going to live it might be; but when he thought how soon all earthly distinctions would be over for Wikkey, it seemed hardly worth while. "Very well," he said. "By-the-by, Wikkey, have you recollected your own other name?" "Yes, I've minded it. It's Whiston." "Do you remember your father and mother?" "I don't remember no father. Mother, she died after I took to the crossing."
"Loves me yes; but that won't do, you know." "It will do a great deal; a soul that loves something better than itself is not far off loving the Best. Good night, old fellow." Lawrence went back to Wikkey, and leant his back against the mantelpiece, looking thoughtfully down at the boy. "What did the other chap call you?" inquired Wikkey. "Granby, do you mean?" Wikkey nodded.
And though He was really a King, He chose to live like a poor man, and was often cold and hungry as you used to be; and He went about helping people, and curing those who were ill, because, you know, Wikkey, He was God, and could do anything. There are beautiful stories about Him that I can tell you." "How do you know all about the King, Lawrence?" "It is written in a book called the Bible.
Wikkey listened in absorbed attention, every now and then commenting on the narrative in a way which showed its intense reality to himself, and gave a marvellous vividness to the details of which Lawrence had before scarcely realized the terrible force.
The cough, which Wikkey scarcely remembered ever being without, increased to such violence as to shake him from head to foot, and his breathing became hard and painful; yet still he clung to his crossing with the pertinacity of despair, scanning each figure that approached with eager, hungry eyes.
Evans, who, beneath a somewhat stern exterior, possessed a really good heart, took Wikkey under her wing, administered warmth and restoratives, washed the grimy little form, cropped and scrubbed the matted locks, and soon the boy, dreamily conscious and wondrously happy, was lying before a blazing fire, clean and fair to look on, enveloped in one of Mrs. Evans' own night-dresses.
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