"I can go to work."

"You are not big enough to work much."

"I can do a good deal."

For some time longer they discussed Harry's story, and Julia regretted the necessity of leaving him to do her errand at Mrs. Lane's. She promised to see him when she returned, and Harry walked down to the brook to get a drink, while she continued on her way.

Our hero was deeply interested in the little girl. Like the "great guns" in the novels, he was sure she was no ordinary character. He was fully satisfied in relation to the providential nature of their meeting. She had been sent by that incomprehensible something to furnish him with food, and he trembled when he thought what might have happened if she had not come.

"I can't be a very bad boy," thought he, "or she would not have liked me. Mr. Nason used to say he could tell an ugly horse by the looks of his eye; and the schoolmaster last winter picked out all the bad boys at a glance. I can't be a very bad boy, or she would have found me out. I _know_ I am not a bad boy. I feel right, and try to do right."

Harry's investigation invested Julia Bryant with a thousand poetical excellences. That she felt an interest in him--one so good as she--was enough to confirm all the n.o.ble resolutions he had made, and give him strength to keep them; and as he seated himself by the brook, he thought over his faults, and renewed his determination to uproot them from his character. His meeting with the "little angel," as he chose to regard her, was an oasis in the desert--a place where his moral nature could drink the pure waters of life.

No one had ever before seemed to care much whether he was a good boy or a bad boy. The minister used now and then to give him a dry lecture; but he did not seem to feel any real interest in him. He was minister, and of course he must preach; not that he cared whether a pauper boy was a saint or a sinner, but only to do the work he was hired to do, and earn his money.

Julia did not preach. Her sweet face was the "beauty of holiness." She hoped he was not a bad boy. She liked a good boy; and this was incentive enough to incur a lifetime of trial and self-sacrifice.

Harry was an orphan. To have one feel an interest in his moral welfare, to have one wish him to be a good boy, had not grown stale by long continuance. He had known no anxious mother, who wished him to be good, who would weep when he did wrong. The sympathy of the little angel touched a sensitive chord in his heart and soul, and he felt that he should go forward in the great pilgrimage of life with a new desire to be true to himself, and true to her who had inspired his reverence.

Even a child cannot be good without having it felt by others. "She hoped he was not a bad boy," were the words of the little angel; and before she returned from her errand of mercy, he repeated them to himself a hundred times. They were a talisman to him, and he was sure he should never be a bad boy in the face of such a wish.

He wandered about the woods for two or three hours, impatient for the return of the little rural G.o.ddess who had taken possession of his thoughts, and filled his soul with admiration. She came at last, and glad was the welcome which he gave her.

"I have been thinking of you ever since I left you," said Julia, as she approached the place where he had been waiting her return.

Harry thought this was a remarkable coincidence. He had been thinking of her also.

"I hope you didn't think of me as a bad boy," replied he, giving expression to that which was uppermost in his mind.

"I am sure I didn't. I am sure you must be a good boy."

"I am glad you think so; and that will help me be a good boy."

"Will it?"

"I never had any one to care whether I was good or bad. If you do, you will be the first one."

The little girl looked sad. She had a father and mother who loved her, and prayed for her every day. It seemed hard that poor Harry should have no mother to love him as her mother loved her; to watch over him day and night, to take care of him when he was sick, and, above all, to teach him to be good. She pitied the lonely orphan, and would gladly have taken him to her happy home, and shared with him all she had, even the love of her mother.

"Poor boy!" she sighed. "But I have been thinking of something," she added, in more sprightly tones.

"What, Julia?"

"If you would only let me tell my father that you are here--"

"Not for the world!" cried Harry.

"O, I won't say a word, unless you give me leave; but my father is rich. He owns a great factory and a great farm. He has lots of men to work for him; and my father is a very good man, too. People will do as he wants them to do, and if you will let me tell him your story, he will go over to Redfield and make them let you stay at our house. You shall be my brother then, and we can do lots of things together. Do let me tell him."

"I don't think it would be safe. I know Squire Walker wouldn't let me go to any place where they would use me well."

"What a horrible man he must be!"

"No; I think I will go on to Boston."

"You will have a very hard time of it."

"No matter for that."

"They may catch you."

"If they do, I shall try again."

"If they do catch you, will you let my father know it? He will be your friend, for my friends are his friends."

"I will. I should be very glad to have such a friend."

"There is our dinner bell!" said Julia, as Harry heard the distant sound. "I must go home. How I wish you were going with me!"

"I wish I was. I may never see you again," added Harry, sadly.

"O, you must see me again! When you get big you must come to Rockville."

"You will not wish to see the little poorhouse boy, then."

"Won't I? I shall always be glad to see the boy that killed that snake! But I shall come up after dinner, and bring you something to eat. Do let me tell mother you are here."

"I would rather you wouldn't."

"Suppose she asks me what I am going to do with the dinner I shall bring you? I can't tell a lie."

"Don't bring any, then. I would rather not have any dinner than have _you_ tell a lie."

Harry would not always have been so nice about a lie; but for the little angel to tell a falsehood, why, it seemed like mud on a white counterpane.

"I won't tell a lie, but you shall have your dinner. I suppose I must go now."

Harry watched the retreating form of his kind friend, till she disappeared beyond the curve of the path, and his blessing went with her.

CHAPTER X

IN WHICH HARRY FARES SUMPTUOUSLY, AND TAKES LEAVE OF THE LITTLE ANGEL

When Harry could no longer see the little angel, he fixed his eyes upon the ground, and continued to think of her. It is not every day that a pauper boy sees an angel, or even one whom the enthusiasm of the imagination invests with angelic purity and angelic affections.