“Mais c’est Monsieur D’Arcy!” screamed the French governess. And Amabel said, “It’s Bogy; but he’s got no leaves.” Lady Adelaide was quite composed. The likeness was very striking, but her maternal eyes saw a thousand points of difference between the Giotto of the painting and her son. “How very odd!” she said. “I wonder who sat for the Giotto? If he really were the boy Amabel thinks she saw in the wood, I think her Bogy and the model must both be the same as a wonderful child Mr. Ammaby was telling me about, who painted the sign of the inn in his village; but his father was a windmiller called Lake, and”—
“Mamma! mamma!” cried D’Arcy, “papa is ill.”
The sound of his son’s voice recalled Mr. Ford’s client to consciousness; but it was a very partial and confused consciousness. He heard voices speaking of the heat, the crush, etc., as in a dream. He was not sure whether he was being carried or led along. The painting was no longer before him, but it mattered little. The shepherd boy’s eyes were as dark as his own; but that look in their upward gaze, which stirred every heart, pierced his as it had moved it years ago from eyes the color of a summer sky. To others their pathos spoke of yearning genius at war with fortune; but for Mr. Ford’s client they brought back, out of the past, words which rang more clearly in his ears than the condolences of the crowd,—
“You’ll remember your promise, D’Arcy? You will be quite sure to take me home to bury me? And you will call my child after my father,—JAN?”
THE DETECTIVE.—THE “JOOK.”—JAN STANDS BY HIS MOTHER’S GRAVE.—HIS AFTER HISTORY.
AS he had resolved, the painter secured the help of the police in tracing Jan’s pedigree. He did not take the bow-legged boy into his confidence, but that young gentleman recognized the detective officer when he opened the door for him; and he laid his finger by his snub nose, with a wink of intense satisfaction.
On hearing the story, the detective expressed his opinion (founded on acquaintance with Sal) that George’s pocket had been picked by his companions, and not by chance thieves in the fair; and he finally proved his sagacity in the guess by bringing the pocket-book and the letter to the artist.