would wearily and vainly ponder on what could be the charm which thus
allured from him his inseparable and beloved companion. Once or twice he
did essay to see for himself, clattering up the steps with his milk-cart
behind him; but thereon he had been always sent back again summarily by a
tall custodian in black clothes and silver chains of office; and fearful
of bringing his little master into trouble, he desisted, and remained
couched patiently before the churches until such time as the boy
reappeared. It was not the fact of his going into them which disturbed
Patrasche: he knew that people went to church: all the village went to the
small, tumbledown, gray pile opposite the red windmill.

What troubled him was that little Nello always looked strangely when he
came out, always very flushed or very pale; and whenever he returned home
after such visitations would sit silent and dreaming, not caring to play,
but gazing out at the evening skies beyond the line of the canal, very
subdued and almost sad.

What was it? wondered Patrasche. He thought it could not be good or
natural for the little lad to be so grave, and in his dumb fashion he
tried all he could to keep Nello by him in the sunny fields or in the busy
market-place. But to the churches Nello would go: most often of all would
he go to the great cathedral; and Patrasche, left without on the stones by
the iron fragments of Quentin Matsys's gate, would stretch himself and
yawn and sigh, and even howl now and then, all in vain, until the doors
closed and the child perforce came forth again, and winding his arms about
the dog's neck would kiss him on his broad, tawney-colored forehead, and
murmur always the same words: "If I could only see them, Patrasche!--if I
could only see them!"

What were they? pondered Patrasche, looking up with large, wistful,