John looked grave. "I don't know: I suppose I shall manage somehow—like the sparrows," he answered, perceiving not how apposite his illustration was. For truly he seemed as destitute as the birds of the air, whom ONE feedeth, when they cry to Him.
My question had evidently made him thoughtful; he remained silent a good while.
At last I said: "John, do you remember the woman who spoke so sharply to you in the alley that day?"
"Yes. I shall never forget anything which happened that day," he answered, softly.
"She was my nurse once. She is not such a bad woman, though trouble has sharpened her temper. Her biggest boy Bill, who is gone off for a soldier, used to drive your cart, you know."
"Yes?" said John, interrogatively; for I was slow in putting forth my plans—that is, as much of them as it was needful he should know.
"Sally is poor—not so very poor, though. Your twopence a night would help her; and I dare say, if you'll let me speak to her, you might have Bill's attic all to yourself. She has but one other lad at home: it's worth trying for."
"It is indeed. You are very kind, Phineas." He said no more words than these—but their tone spoke volumes.
I got into my little carriage again, for I was most anxious not to lose a day in this matter. I persuaded John to go at once with me to Sally Watkins. My father was not to be seen; but I ventured to leave word for him that I was gone home, and had taken John Halifax with me: it was astonishing how bold I felt myself growing, now that there was another beside myself to think and act for.
We reached Widow Watkins' door. It was a poor place—poorer than I had imagined; but I remembered what agonies of cleanliness had been inflicted on me in nursery days; and took hope for John.