“Why doesn’t his own mother put up his lunch?” Betsy challenged their critic.

“He hasn’t got any mother.  She’s dead,” said Ralph, turning away with his hands in his pockets.  He yelled to the boys, “Come on, fellers, beat-che to the bridge and back!” and was off, with the others racing at his heels.

“Well, anyhow, I don’t care; he is dirty and horrid!” said Stashie emphatically, looking over at the drooping, battered little figure, leaning against the school door, listlessly kicking at a stone.

But Betsy did not say anything more just then.

The teacher, who “boarded ’round,” was staying at Putney Farm at that time, and that evening, as they all sat around the lamp in the south room, Betsy looked up from her game of checkers with Uncle Henry and asked, “How can anybody drink up stockings?”

“Mercy, child! what are you talking about?” asked Aunt Abigail.

Betsy repeated what Anastasia Monahan had said, and was flattered by the instant, rather startled attention given her by the grown-ups.  “Why, I didn’t know that Bud Walker had taken to drinking again!” said Uncle Henry.  “My!  That’s too bad!”

“Who takes care of that child anyhow, now that poor Susie is dead?” Aunt Abigail asked of everybody in general.

“Is he just living there alone, with that good-for-nothing stepfather?  How do they get enough to eat?” said Cousin Ann, looking troubled.

Apparently Betsy’s question had brought something half forgotten and altogether neglected into their minds.  They talked for some time after that about ’Lias, the teacher confirming what Betsy and Stashie had said.

“And we sitting right here with plenty to eat and never raising a hand!” cried Aunt Abigail.

“How you will let things slip out of your mind!” said Cousin Ann remorsefully.

It struck Betsy vividly that ’Lias was not at all the one they blamed for his objectionable appearance.  She felt quite ashamed to go on with the other things she and the little girls had said, and fell silent, pretending to be very much absorbed in her game of checkers.

“Do you know,” said Aunt Abigail suddenly, as though an inspiration had just struck her, “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that Elmore Pond might adopt ’Lias if he was gone at the right way.”

“Who’s Elmore Pond?” asked the schoolteacher.

“Why, you must have seen him—­that great, big, red-faced, good-natured-looking man that comes through here twice a year, buying stock.  He lives over Bigby way, but his wife was a Hillsboro girl, Matey Pelham—­an awfully nice girl she was, too.  They never had any children, and Matey told me the last time she was back for a visit that she and her husband talked quite often about adopting a little boy.  Seems that Mr. Pond has always wanted a little boy.  He’s such a nice man!  ’Twould be a lovely home for a child.”

“But goodness!” said the teacher.  “Nobody would want to adopt such an awful-looking little ragamuffin as that ’Lias.  He looks so meeching, too.  I guess his stepfather is real mean to him, when he’s been drinking, and it’s got ’Lias so he hardly dares hold his head up.”