“What will you give me, if I consent to be your teacher?”
“Oh, Uncle Morris! You don’t mean it, do you?”
“To be sure I do. When I was young they called me the best skater in town. I could go through all kinds of movements, and even cut my name on the ice with my skates. I guess I haven’t quite forgotten how I used to do it. But what will you give me if I consent to teach you?”
“I will love you ever so much, and so will Carrie.”
“But I thought you loved me ever so much already?”
“Well, so I do, Uncle. I love you better than I love anybody in the world, except ma and pa. But I will love you better and better.”
“That’s pay enough,” said Mr. Morris, warmly pressing the hand of his niece. “The pure fresh love of a child’s heart is worth more to an old man like me than much gold. It makes my heart grow young again—but what have we here?”
They had now reached a stone wall which fronted the estate of Esquire Duncan. An angle in the fence had made a corner, in which was seated a girl of about Jessie’s age and size. She was clothed in rags; her feet were bare. She had no covering on her head save her tangled hair. Her face and arms were brown and dirty. She shivered in the piercing wind, and traces of recent tears were visible in the dirt which covered her woe-worn face.
“Poor little girl! I wonder where she lives?” exclaimed Jessie.
“Where do you live, my dear?” asked Mr. Morris, addressing the child.