"Will you try to help us to run away, then, if us is very good--Tim,
dear Tim, oh do," they said piteously. And Tim tried to soothe them with
kind words and promises to do his best.
Poor fellow, he was only too ready to run away for his own sake as well
as theirs. The feelings which had been stirred and reawakened by the
children's companionship had not slumbered again; on the contrary, they
seemed to gain strength every day. Every day he felt more and more
loathing for his present life; every night when he tumbled into the
ragged heap which was called his bed he said to himself more strongly
that he _must_ get away--he could not bear to think that his mother,
looking down on him from the heaven in which she had taught him to
believe, could see him the dirty careless gipsy boy he had become. It
was wonderful how her words came back to him now--how every time he
could manage to get a little talk with his new friends their gentle
voices and pretty ways seemed to revive old memories that he had not
known were there. And the thought of rescuing them,--of succeeding in
taking them safe back to their own home,--opened a new door for him.
"Maybe," said Tim to himself, "the old gentleman and lady'd take me on
as a stable-boy or such like if the little master and missie'd speak a
word for me, as I'm sure they would.
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