For a long time Maurice sat still, then he grew impatient. He was no
longer either in pain or sleepy, and he wanted to get home to Cecile;
he wanted to tell her his adventures, and to show her the violets
which he had gathered that morning, and which, though now quite dead
and withered, he still held in his little hot hand. Why did not Anton
return? What _was_ keeping Joe? It was no distance at all back
to the hut. Of this he was sure. Why, then, did not Joe come? He felt
a little cross as the hours went on, but it never even occurred to
his baby mind to be frightened.
It was late in the evening when Anton at last made his appearance,
and alone. Little Maurice sprang off his stool to meet him.
"Oh, Anton, what a time you've been! And where's Joe?"
"Joe ain't coming to-night, young 'un," said Anton roughly.
He entered the caravan with a weary step, and, throwing himself on a
settle, demanded some supper in French of his companion.
Maurice, unaccustomed to this mode of treatment, stood quite still
for a moment, then, brushing the tears from his big brown eyes, he
went up to Anton and touched his arm.
"See," he said, "I can walk now. Kind man there made my foot nearly
well. You need not carry me, Anton. But will you come back with me to
the hut after you've had some supper?"
"No, that I won't," answered Anton. "Not a step 'ull you get me to
stir again to-night. You sit down and don't bother."
"Cross, nasty man," replied Maurice passionately; "then I'll run
away by myself, I will.
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