"Of course you do. I was sure of it," said the doctor, in an aggravating voice.
"What do you mean by that?" snapped the judge.
"Oh! you'll send him to some expensive institution, and—"
"Just what I will do," cried the judge.
"Poor little beggar!" said the doctor.
"He's damned lucky to have anybody do anything for him," said the judge, angrily.
"Quite so," said the doctor. . . . "He's a bright little cuss."
Two-o'clock dinner was served to the gentlemen. Little Beauling, an unabridged between him and his chair, joined them. But he sat silent and said never a word, for he had learned that his mother would not come back to him any more. He was too good a gentleman to cry at table, but he could not eat. Later, when dinner was over and the judge and the doctor took to their cigars, he was given in charge of the aged cook, and on her flat calico bosom he poured out his sorrow. And when the cup was empty of
