something pushing softly through the jungle of shrubbery on their right. Then a small boy about eight years of age came into view and stood surveying them bashfully, with a big apple turnover clasped tightly in his chubby hands. He was a pretty child, with glossy brown curls, big trustful brown eyes and delicately modeled features. There was an air of refinement about him, in spite of the fact that he was bareheaded and bare-legged, with only a faded blue cotton shirt and a pair of threadbare velvet knickerbockers between head and legs. But he looked like a small prince in disguise.
Just behind him was a big black Newfoundland dog whose head was almost on a level with the lad’s shoulder.
Anne looked at him with a smile that always won children’s hearts.
“Hello, sonny,” said Lewis. “Who belongs to you?”
The boy came forward with an answering smile, holding out his turnover.
“This is for you to eat,” he said shyly. “Dad made it for me, but I’d rather give it to you. I’ve lots to eat.”
Lewis, rather tactlessly, was on the point of refusing to take the little chap’s snack, but Anne gave him a quick nudge. Taking the hint, he accepted it gravely and handed it to Anne, who, quite as gravely, broke it in two and gave half of it back to him. They knew they must eat it and they had painful doubts as to “Dad’s” ability in the cooking line, but the first mouthful reassured them. “Dad” might not be strong on courtesy but he could certainly make turnovers.
“This is delicious,” said Anne. “What is your name, dear?”
“Teddy Armstrong,” said the small benefactor. “But Dad always calls me Little Fellow. I’m all he has, you know. Dad is awful fond of me and I’m awful fond of Dad. I’m afraid you think my dad is impolite ‘cause he shut that door so quick, but he doesn’t mean to be. I heard you asking for something to eat.” (“We didn’t but it doesn’t matter,” thought Anne.)
“I was in the garden behind the hollyhocks, so I just thought I’d bring you my turnover ‘cause I’m always so sorry for poor people who haven’t plenty to eat. I have, always. My dad is a splendid cook. You ought to see the rice puddings he can make.”
“Does he put raisins in them?” asked Lewis with a twinkle.
“Lots and lots. There’s nothing mean about my dad.”
“Haven’t you any mother, darling?” asked Anne.
“No. My mother is dead. Mrs. Merrill told me once she’d gone to heaven, but my dad says there’s no such place and I guess he ought to know. My dad is an awful wise man. He’s read thousands of books. I mean to be just ‘zackly like him when I grow up … only I’ll always give people things to eat when they want them. My dad isn’t very fond of people, you know, but he’s awful good to me.”
“Do you go to school?” asked Lewis.
“No. My dad teaches me at home. The trustees told him I’d have to go next year, though. I think I’d like to go to school and have some other boys to play with. ‘Course I’ve got Carlo and Dad himself is splendid to play with when he has time. My dad is pretty busy, you know. He has to run the farm and keep the house clean, too. That’s why he can’t be bothered having people around, you see. When I get bigger I’ll be able to help him lots and then he’ll have more time to be polite to folks.”
“That turnover was just about right, Little Fellow,” said Lewis, swallowing the last crumb.
The Little Fellow’s eyes beamed.
“I’m so glad you liked it,” he said.
“Would you like to have your picture taken?” said Anne, feeling that it would never do to offer this generous small soul money. “If you would, Lewis will take it.”
“Oh, wouldn’t I!” said the Little Fellow eagerly. “Carlo, too?”
“Certainly Carlo, too.”
Anne posed the two prettily before a background of shrubs, the little lad standing with his arm about his big, curly playmate’s neck, both dog and boy seeming equally well pleased, and Lewis took the picture with his last remaining plate.
“If it comes out well I’ll send you one by mail,” he promised. “How shall I address it?”
“Teddy Armstrong, care of Mr. James Armstrong, Glencove Road,” said the Little Fellow. “Oh, won’t it be fun to have something coming to me mineself through the postoffice! I tell you I’ll feel awful proud. I won’t say a word to Dad about it so that it’ll be a splendid surprise for him.”
“Well, look out for your parcel in two or three weeks,” said Lewis, as they bade him good-by. But Anne suddenly stooped and kissed the little sunburned face. There was something about it that tugged at her heart. He was so sweet … so gallant … so motherless!
They looked back at him before a curve in the lane and saw him standing on the dyke, with his dog, waving his hand to them.
Of course Rebecca Dew knew all about the Armstrongs.
“James Armstrong has never got over his wife’s death five years ago,” she said. “He wasn’t so bad before that … agreeable enough, though a bit of a hermit. Kind of built that way. He was just wrapped up in his bit of a wife … she was twenty years younger than he was. Her death was an awful shock to him I’ve heard … just seemed to change his nature completely. He got sour and cranky. Wouldn’t even get a housekeeper … looked after his house and child himself. He kept bachelor’s hall for years before he was married, so he ain’t a bad hand at it.”
“But it’s no life for the child,” said Aunt Chatty. “His father never takes him to church or anywhere he’d see people.”
“He worships the boy, I’ve heard,” said Aunt Kate.
“‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me,’” quoted Rebecca Dew suddenly.
Chapter III
It was almost three weeks before Lewis found time to develop his pictures. He brought them up to Windy Poplars the first Sunday night he came to supper. Both the house and the Little Fellow came out splendidly. The Little Fellow smiled up from the picture “as real as life,” said Rebecca Dew.
“Why, he looks like you, Lewis!” exclaimed Anne.
“He does that,” agreed Rebecca Dew, squinting at it judicially. “The minute I saw it, his face reminded me of somebody but I couldn’t think who.”
“Why, the eyes … the forehead … the whole expression … are yours, Lewis,” said Anne.
“It’s hard to believe I was ever such a goodlooking little chap,” shrugged Lewis. “I’ve got a picture of myself somewhere, taken when I was eight. I must hunt it out and compare it. You’d laugh to see it, Miss Shirley. I’m the most sober-eyed kid, with long curls and a lace collar, looking stiff as a ramrod. I suppose I had my head clamped in one of those three-clawed contraptions they
