"If you please, don't. I am a poor boy, and have run away from a hard master."

"I won't tell anybody."

"And I am very hungry."

"Poor boy! How lucky that I have lots of goodies in my basket!"

exclaimed she. "You shall eat all you can."

"I haven't eat anything since yesterday noon," replied Harry, as he took a handful of doughnuts she handed him.

"Sit down on this rock, and do eat all you want. I never knew what it was to be very hungry."

Harry seated himself, and proceeded to devour the food the sympathizing little maiden had given him, while she looked on with astonishment and delight as he voraciously consumed cake after cake, without seeming to produce any effect upon the "abhorred vacuum."

CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH HARRY BREAKFASTS ON DOUGHNUTS, AND FINDS THAT ANGELS DO NOT ALWAYS HAVE WINGS

Harry was very hungry, and the little girl thought he would never have eaten enough. Since he had told her he had run away, she was deeply interested in him, and had a hundred questions to ask; but she did not wish to bother him while he was eating, he was so deeply absorbed in the occupation.

"What a blessed thing doughnuts are!" laughed she, as Harry leveled on the sixth cake. "I never thought much of them before, but I never shall see a doughnut again without thinking of you."

Our hero was perfectly willing to believe that doughnuts were a very beneficent inst.i.tution; but just then he was too busily occupied to be sentimental over them.

"What is your name, little girl?" asked Harry as he crammed half of the cake into his mouth.

"I have a great mind not to tell you, because you wouldn't tell me what yours is," replied she, roguishly.

"You see how it is with me. I have run away from--well, from somewhere."

"And you are afraid I will tell? I won't though. But, as you killed the snake, I shall tell you. My name is Julia Bryant."

"Mine is Harry West," replied he, unable to resist the little lady's argument. "You must not tell any one about me for three days, for then I shall be out of the way."

"Where are you going, Harry?"

"To Boston."

"Are you? They say that none but bad boys run away. I hope you are not a bad boy." And Julia glanced earnestly at the fugitive.

"I don't think I am."

"I don't think you are, either."

It was a hearty endors.e.m.e.nt, and Harry's heart warmed as she spoke.

The little maiden was not more than nine or ten years old, but she seemed to have some skill in reading faces; at least, Harry thought she had. Whatever might be said of himself, he was sure she was a good girl. In short, though Harry had never read a novel in his life, she was a little angel, even if she had no wings. He even went so far as to believe she was a little angel, commissioned by that mysterious something, which wiser and more devout persons would have called a special providence, to relieve his wants with the contents of her basket, and gladden his heart by the sunshine of her sweet smile.

There is something in goodness which always finds its way to the face.

It makes little girls look prettier than silks, and laces, and ribbons, and embroidery. Julia Bryant was pretty, very pretty. Harry thought so; but very likely it was the doughnuts and her kind words which const.i.tuted her beauty.

"I am pretty sure I am not a bad boy," continued Harry; "but I will tell you my own story, and you shall judge for yourself."

"You will tell me all of it--won't you?"

"To be sure I will," replied Harry, a little tartly, for he misapprehended Julia's meaning.

He thought she was afraid he would not tell his wrong acts; whereas her deep interest in him rendered her anxious to have the whole, even to the smallest particulars.

"I shall be so delighted! I do so love to hear a good story!"

exclaimed Julia.

"You shall have it all; but where were you going? It will take me a good while."

"I was going to carry these doughnuts to Mrs. Lane. She is a poor widow, who lives over the back lane. She has five children, and has very hard work to get along. I carry something to her every week."

"Then you are a little angel!" added Harry, who could understand and appreciate kindness to the poor.

"Not exactly an angel, though Mrs. Lane says I am," replied Julia, with a blush.

"Aunty Gray, over to the poorhouse, used to call everybody an angel that brought her anything good. So I am sure you must be one."

"Never mind what I am now. I am dying to hear your story," interposed Julia, as she seated herself on another rock, near that occupied by Harry.

"Here goes, then"; and Harry proceeded with his tale, commencing back beyond his remembrance with the traditionary history which had been communicated to him by Mr. Nason and the paupers.

When he came to the period of authentic history, or that which was stored up in his memory, he grew eloquent, and the narrative glowed with the living fire of the hero. Julia was quite as much interested as Desdemona in the story of the swarthy Moor. His "round, unvarnished tale," adorned only with the flowers of youthful simplicity, enchained her attention, and she "loved him for the dangers he had pa.s.sed;"

loved him, not as Desdemona loved, but as a child loves. She was sure now that he was not a bad boy; that even a good boy might do such a thing as run away from cruel and exacting guardians.

"What a strange story, Harry! How near you came to being drowned in the river! I wonder the man had not killed you! And then they wanted to send you to prison for setting the barn afire!" exclaimed Julia, when he had finished the story.

"I came pretty near it; that's a fact!" replied Harry, warming under the approbation of his partial auditor.

"And you killed the big dog?"

"I don't know; I hope I didn't."

"But you didn't steal the horse?"

"I didn't mean to steal him."

"No one could call that stealing. But what are you going to do next, Harry?"

"I am going to Boston."

"What will you do when you get there?"