CHAPTER II.

EVEN SHARKS HAVE TENDER HEARTS.

The old Moss Glen Inn, elm-shaded and half covered by creeping vines, is a favourite resort for travellers in the eastern part of Maine, for there a good dinner can be obtained in a shorter space of time than in any other country hotel in the length and breadth of the State.

"And all because there's a smart woman at the head of it," explained the young man to the little waif beside him. "There she is--always on hand."

A round, good-natured face, crowning a rotund, generous figure, smiled at them from the kitchen window, but while the eyes smiled, the thick, full lips uttered a somewhat different message to a tall, thin woman, bending over the stove.

"Ruth Ann, here's that soapy Hank Dillson round again,--takin' in the farmers, as usual, engagin' them to pay for machinery and buildings more than are needed, considerin' the number of their cows, an' he's got a washed-out lookin' young one with him. She'll make a breach in the victuals, I guess."

Ruth Ann, who was her sister and helper in household affairs, came and looked over her shoulder, just as Dillson sprang from the sleigh.

Mrs. Minley stepped to the door, and stood bobbing and smiling as he turned to her.

"How de do, Mrs. Minley. Give this little girl a place to lie down till dinner's ready, will you? She's dead beat."

'Tilda Jane walked gravely into the kitchen, and although her head was heavy, and her feet as light as if they were about to waft her to regions above, she took time to scrutinise the broad face that would have been generous but for the deceitful lips, and also to cast a glance at the hard, composed woman at the window, who looked as if her head, including the knob of tightly curled hair at the back, had been carved from flint.

"Step right in this way," said Mrs. Minley, bustling into a small bedroom on the ground floor.

'Tilda Jane was not used to being waited on, and for one proud moment she wished that the children in the orphan asylum could see her. Then a feeling of danger and insecurity overcame her, and she sank on one of the painted, wooden chairs.

"You're done out," said Mrs. Minley, sympathetically. "Are you a relation of Mr. Dillson's?"

"No, I ain't."

"You can lie on that bed if you like," said Mrs. Minley, noticing the longing glance cast at it.

"Well, I guess I will," said 'Tilda Jane, placing her bundle on a chair, and stooping down to unloose her shoes.

"Stop till I get some newspapers to put on the bed," said the landlady--"what's in that package? It's moving," and she stared at the shawl.

"It's a dog."

"Mercy me! I don't allow no dogs in my house."

"All right," said the little girl, patiently putting on her shoes again.

"What you going to do, child?"

"I'm goin' to the wood-shed. Them as won't have my dog won't have me."

"Land sakes, child, stay where you be! I guess he can't do no harm if you'll watch him."

"No ma'am, he'll not rampage. He's little, an' he's ole, an' he's lame, an' he don't care much for walkin'. Sometimes you'll hear nothin' out o' him all day but a growl or a snap."

The landlady drew away from the bundle, and after she had seen the tired head laid on the pillow, she softly closed the door of the room.

In two minutes 'Tilda Jane was asleep. The night before she had not dared to sleep. To-day, under the protection of the creamery shark, she could take her rest, her hunger satisfied by the cake he had given her in the sleigh. The shark crept in once to look at her. "Ain't she a sight?" he whispered to Mrs. Minley, who accompanied him, "a half-starved monkey."

She playfully made a thrust at his ribs. "Oh, go 'long with you--always making your jokes! How can a child look like a monkey?"

He smiled, well pleased at her cajoling tone, then, stretching himself out in an armchair, he announced that dinner must be postponed for an hour to let the child have her sleep out.

Mrs. Minley kept a pleasant face before him, but gave vent to some suppressed grumbling in the kitchen. With fortitude remarkable in a hungry man, he waited until one o'clock, then, losing patience, he ate his dinner, and, telling Mrs. Minley that he had business in the neighbourhood, and would not be back until supper-time, he drove away in his sleigh.

At six o'clock 'Tilda Jane felt herself gently shaken, and opening her eyes, she started up in alarm.

"All right--'tain't the police," said Mrs. Minley. "I know all about you, little girl. You needn't be scared o' me. Get up and have a bite of supper. Mr. Dillson's going away, and he wants to see you."

'Tilda Jane rose and put on her shoes in silence. Then she followed the landlady to the next room. For an instant she staggered back. She had never before seen such a huge, open fireplace, never had had such a picture presented to her in the steam-heated orphanage. Fresh from troubled dreams, it seemed as if these logs were giants' bodies laid crosswise. The red flames were from their blood that was being licked up against the sooty stones. Then the ghastliness vanished, and she approvingly took in the picture,--the fat young creamery shark standing over the white cat and rubbing her with his toe, the firelight on the wall and snowy table, and the big lamp on the mantel.

"Hello!" he exclaimed, turning around, "did you make your sleep out?"

"Yes sir," she said, briefly. "Where shall I put this dog?"

"Don't put him nowhere till we turn this cat out. Scat, pussy!" and with his foot he gently assisted the small animal kitchenwards.

"Now you can roast your pup here," he said, pointing to the vacated corner.

"Don't touch him," warned 'Tilda Jane, putting aside his outstretched hand. "He nips worse'n a lobster."

"Fine dog that," said the young man, ironically. "Come on now, let's fall to. I guess that rat's rampaging again."

"Yes, he's pretty bad," said 'Tilda Jane, demurely; and she seated herself in the place indicated.

Mrs. Minley waited on them herself, and, as she passed to and fro between the dining-room and kitchen, she bestowed many glances on the lean, lank, little girl with the brown face.

After a time she nudged Hank with her elbow. "Look at her!"

Hank withdrew his attention for a minute from his plate to cast a glance at the downcast head opposite. Then he dropped his knife and fork. "Look here! I call this kind of low-down."

'Tilda Jane raised her moist eyes.

"You've got ham and eggs; fried petetters and toast, and two kinds of preserve, and hot rolls and coffee, and cake and doughnuts, which is more'n you ever got at the asylum, I'll warrant, and yet you're crying,--and after all the trouble you've been to me. There's no satisfying some people."

'Tilda Jane wiped her eyes. "I ain't a-cryin' for the 'sylum," she said, stolidly.

"Then what are you crying for?"

"I'm cryin' 'cause it's such a long way to Orstralia, an' I don't know no one. I wish you was a-goin'."

"I wish I was, but I ain't. Come on now, eat your supper."

"I suppose I be a fool," she muttered, picking up her knife and fork. "I've often heard I was."

"Hi now--I guess you feel better, don't you?" said the young man, twenty minutes later.

He was in excellent humour himself, and, sitting tilted back in his chair by the fireplace, played a tune on his big white teeth with a toothpick.

"Yes, I guess I'm better," said 'Tilda Jane, soberly. "That was a good supper."

"Hadn't you better feed your pup?" asked the young man. "Seems to me he must be dead, he's so quiet."

"He's plumb beat out, I guess," said the little girl, and she carefully removed the dog's queer drapery.

A little, thin, old, brown cur staggered out, with lips viciously rolled back, and a curious unsteadiness of gait.

"Steady, old boy," said the young man; "my soul and body, he ain't got but three legs! Whoa--you're running into the table."

"He don't see very well," said 'Tilda Jane, firmly. "His eyes is poor."

"What's the matter with his tail? It don't seem to be hung on right."

"It wobbles from having tin cans tied to it. Gippie dear, here's a bone."

"Gippie dear," muttered the young man. "I'd shoot him if he was my dog."

"If that dog died, I'd die," said the little girl, passionately.

"We've got to keep him alive, then," said the young man, good-humouredly. "Can't you give him some milk?"

She poured out a saucer full and set it before him. The partially blind dog snapped at the saucer, snapped at her fingers until he smelled them and discovered whose they were, then he finally condescended to lick out the saucer.

"And you like that thing?" said the young man, curiously.

"Like him!--I love him," said 'Tilda Jane, affectionately stroking the brown, ugly back.

"And when did he give away that leg?"

She shook her head. "It's long to tell. I guess you'd ask me to shut up afore I got through."