“Oh, John Ridd,” he cried. “John Ridd best of all. He was so big, so strong, so brave, so—”
He paused, at loss for a word.
“So steadfast,” she said, helping him, “so honest, so good, so true. Yes, I think I like him best, too—better than David or Ivanhoe or Henry Esmond. And now, Tommy,” she continued, more seriously, “I want you to do something for me—something I am sure you can do, and which will help me very much.”
“Oh, if I could!” he cried, with bright face.
“I am sure you can. How many children do you suppose there are in that row of houses where you live?”
He stopped for a moment to compute them.
“About twenty-five,” he said at last.
“And how many of them come to school?”
“None of them but me.”
“Don’t you think they ought to come? Aren’t you glad that you came?”