The color
came back to his cheeks. He opened his eyes and looked around at the
small, plain room and at the poor people standing near him.
"Where am I? Where am I?" he asked.
"In my house, my little friend," answered Jacquot.
"_My little friend!_" said the child with a sneer.
He looked at the fire on the hearth, and at the rough table and
benches. Then he said, "Your house is a very poor place, I think."
"I am sorry if you do not like it," said Jacquot. "But if I had not
helped you, you would have been in a worse place."
"How did these clothes come on me?" cried the child. "They are not
mine. You have stolen my clothes and have given me these ugly things."
"Stolen!" said the charcoal man, angrily. "What do you mean, you
ungrateful little rascal?"
"Hush, Jacquot," said his wife, kindly. "He doesn't know what he says.
Wait till he rests a while, and then he'll be in a better humor."
The child was indeed very tired. His eyes closed and he was soon fast
asleep.
"Now tell us, father," whispered Charlot, "where did you find him?"
The charcoal man sat down by the fire. The two boys stood at his knees,
and his wife sat at his side.
Pages:
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139