ght, 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 bles