ng for me before he went away.

"You'll not go away; not till my father comes home, at least?" For I
had been revolving many plans, which had one sole aim and object, to
keep near me this lad, whose companionship and help seemed to me,
brotherless, sisterless, and friendless as I was, the very thing that
would give me an interest in life, or, at least, make it drag on less
wearily. To say that what I projected was done out of charity or pity
would not be true; it was simple selfishness, if that be selfishness
which makes one leap towards, and cling to, a possible strength and
good, which I conclude to be the secret of all those sudden likings
that spring more from instinct than reason. I do not attempt to
account for mine: I know not why "the soul of Jonathan clave to the
soul of David." I only know that it was so, and that the first day I
beheld the lad John Halifax, I, Phineas Fletcher, "loved him as my own
soul."

Thus, my entreaty, "You'll not go away?" was so earnest, that it
apparently touched the friendless boy to the core.

"Thank you," he said, in an unsteady voice, as leaning against the
fire-place he drew his hand backwards and forwards across his face:
"you are very kind; I'll stay an hour or so, if you wish it."

"Then come and sit down here, and let us have a talk."

What this talk was, I cannot now recall, save that it ranged over many
and wide themes, such as boys delight in--chiefly of life and
adventure. He knew nothing of my only world--books.

"Can you read?" he asked me at last, suddenly.

"I should rather think so." And I could not help smiling, being
somewhat proud of my erudition.

"And write?"

"Oh, yes; certainly."

He thought a minute, and then said, in a low tone, "I can't write, and
I don't know when I shall be able to learn; I wish you would put down
something in a book for me."

"That I will."

He took out of his pocket a little case of leather, with an under one
of black silk; within this, again, was a book. He would not let it go
out of his hands, but held it so that I could see the leaves. It was a
Greek Testament.

"Look here."

He pointed to the fly-leaf, and I read:

"Guy Halifax, his Book.

"Guy Halifax, gentleman, married Muriel Joyce, spinster, May 17, in the
year of our Lord 1779.

"John Halifax, their son, born June 18, 1780."

There was one more entry, in a feeble, illiterate female hand: "Guy
Halifax, died January 4, 1781."

"What shall I w