The woman cleaning the house felt pity for an orphan and fed him while the owners were away. When the wealthy couple returned, they could scarcely believe their eyes.
For years, Eleanor had worked in the Fairfax household. That day, with the family gone, she finished her chores and rested by the window. Suddenly, her gaze fell upon a boy trudging along the garden fence. He was thin, his clothes ragged, his face weary.
“He must be starving,” Eleanor thought, her heart aching. Glancing at the clock, she knew the Fairfaxes wouldn’t return soon, so she stepped outside.
“Hello, lad, what’s your name?” she asked gently, approaching the boy, who watched the street with hollow eyes.
“Oliver,” he muttered, eyeing her with suspicion.
“Come with me,” Eleanor said. “I’ve an apple tart waiting.” Without hesitation, the boy followed—his stomach aching from hunger.
In the kitchen, she cut a generous slice and set it before him.
“This is lovely!” Oliver exclaimed between bites. “Mum used to bake tarts like this.”
“Where is your mum now?” Eleanor asked carefully. The boy stopped eating, his eyes downcast.
“I’ve been searching for her… She’s gone,” he whispered.
“Eat up, dear,” she soothed. “You’ll find her.”
Just then, the door creaked open—the Fairfaxes had returned. Eleanor startled at the footsteps.
“Who’s this, then?” Mr. Fairfax demanded, glaring into the kitchen. His face twisted in shock at the sight of the boy.
“Eleanor, what’s the meaning of this?” he snapped.
“The child’s lost, sir. Hungry, so I fed him,” she replied, unshaken.
“So you invite every stray indoors now? Is that it?” he fumed.
Oliver began to cry.
“I’ll go,” he said, pushing the half-eaten tart away.
Mrs. Fairfax stepped forward.
“Wait, child,” she said softly. “Where did you last see your mother?”
She had always been gentler than her husband, and though he scolded her for it, he couldn’t change her nature.
“I live with my grandad, but he’s cruel,” Oliver confessed, pulling a faded photograph from his pocket. “These are my parents. We were together once.”
Mrs. Fairfax took the photo—and froze. She recognized their daughter, Margaret.
“Edward, it’s her! Our Margaret!” she gasped, shoving the photo into her husband’s hands.
Mr. Fairfax stared in disbelief.
“Oliver, where did you get this?” he asked, voice trembling.
“Found it at Grandad’s. There was an address on the back, so I came here. Thought Mum might be here,” the boy said. “Grandad says she left me, but I don’t believe him.”
“It can’t be!” Mrs. Fairfax whispered, recalling how their daughter had run off with a man named Peter. Years passed without word—until she returned, only to perish in a carriage accident. That day had shattered them.
“And your father?” Mr. Fairfax asked.
“Gone, sir. Six months now,” Oliver wept.
The couple stood stricken. They had found their grandson! Weary of loneliness, they decided to keep him.
“Come, lad,” Mrs. Fairfax said gently. “We’ll show you your room.”
“Will Mum come too?” Oliver asked.
“Your mother’s with your father now,” she answered, sorrow thick in her voice.
The boy paled.
Before long, the adoption papers were signed. The grandfather raised no objection—relieved the boy would live in comfort.
Eleanor was glad. Because of that chance meeting, the Fairfaxes had found joy again. In time, Oliver was no longer a ragged orphan. He became a well-dressed boy, with fine manners and a family who loved him.
