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.

"Would you give Patrasche a crust?" he said, timidly. "He is old, and he
has had nothing since last forenoon."

The woman shut the door hastily, murmuring some vague saying about wheat
and rye being very dear that season. The boy and the dog went on again
wearily; they asked no more.

By slow and painful ways they reached Antwerp as the chimes tolled ten.