“Surely, he will relent now and let the poor lad come hither?” thought the miller’s wife, glancing at her husband where he smoked by the hearth.

Baas Cogez knew her thought, but he hardened his heart, and would not unbar his door as the little, humble funeral went by.  “The boy is a beggar,” he said to himself; “he shall not be about Alois.”

The woman dared not say anything aloud, but when the grave was closed and the mourners had gone, she put a wreath of immortelles into Alois’s hands and bade her go and lay it reverently on the dark, unmarked mound where the snow was displaced.

Nello and Patrasche went home with broken hearts.  But even of that poor, melancholy, cheerless home they were denied the consolation.  There was a month’s rent overdue for their little home, and when Nello had paid the last sad service to the dead he had not a coin left.  He went and begged grace of the owner of the hut, a cobbler who went every Sunday night to drink his pint of wine and smoke with Baas Cogez.  The cobbler would grant no mercy.  He was a harsh, miserly man, and loved money.  He claimed in default of his rent every stick and stone, every pot and pan, in the hut, and bade Nello and Patrasche be out of it on the morrow.

Now, the cabin was lowly enough, and in some sense miserable enough, and yet their hearts clove to it with a great affection.  They had been so happy there, and in the summer, with its clambering vine and its flowering beans, it was so pretty and bright in the midst of the sun-lighted fields!  Their life in it had been full of labor and privation, and yet they had been so well content, so gay of heart, running together to meet the old man’s never-failing smile of welcome!

All night long the boy and the dog sat by the fireless hearth in the darkness, drawn close together for warmth and sorrow.  Their bodies were insensible to the cold, but their hearts seemed frozen in them.

When the morning broke over the white, chill earth it was the morning of Christmas Eve.  With a shudder, Nello clasped close to him his only friend, while his tears fell hot and fast on the dog’s frank forehead.  “Let us go, Patrasche—­dear, dear Patrasche,” he murmured.  “We will not wait to be kicked out; let us go.”

Patrasche had no will but his, and they went sadly, side by side, out from the little place which was so dear to them both, and in which every humble, homely thing was to them precious and beloved.  Patrasche drooped his head wearily as he passed by his own green cart; it was no longer his,—­it had to go with the rest to pay the rent,—­and his brass harness lay idle and glittering on the snow.  The dog could have lain down beside it and died for very heart-sickness as he went, but while the lad lived and needed him Patrasche would not yield and give way.

They took the old accustomed road into Antwerp.  The day had yet scarce more than dawned; most of the shutters were still closed, but some of the villagers were about.  They took no notice while the dog and the boy passed by them.  At one door Nello paused and looked wistfully within; his grandfather had done many a kindly turn in neighbour’s service to the people who dwelt there.