We entered the parsonage. Mr. Clarke was in the parlor, sitting in the easy-chair exactly as I had left him the day before, with his silk robe on—and his eyes, heavy with grief, were bent upon the floor. Emboldened by the affection which had sprung up in my heart for this lone man, I went up to him as his own child might have done, and kissed the hand which fell languidly by his side.
He did not lift his eyes, but resting his hand on my head, whispered softly,
“Bless thee—bless thee, my poor orphan.”
He evidently mistook me for his own child.
“It is not little Cora, only me,” I said—“me and Mr. Turner.”
He looked up, saw Turner standing near the door, shook his head sadly, and dropped into the old position.
I swept the white blossoms, to one end of my basket and exposed the cherries underneath, red and glowing as if the sunshine that had ripened them were breaking back to the surface again.
“I picked them for you my ownself,” I said, holding up the basket—“for you and Cora.”
Poor man, his lips were white and parched; it is probable he had not tasted food all the previous day! With a patient, thoughtful smile he took a cluster of the cherries, and my heart rose as I saw how much the grateful fruit refreshed him.
“This is a strange little creature,” he said at last, addressing Turner. “She was with us yesterday; it seemed as if God had sent one of his cherubs. Truly of such is the kingdom of heaven!”