You hear that boy laughing? You think he’s all fun?
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done.
—Oliver Wendell Holmes.
BEN HOLT, driving slowly along the main business street of Berkeley, Friday morning, about half-past nine o’clock, stopped his horse as he saw the tall figure and met the gray eyes of Elsa Danforth’s uncle.
“Good morning, sir,” the boy said, jumping from the sleigh with a sudden inspiration. “I would like to ask your advice, sir,” he added, diffidently.
Mr. Danforth had instantly recognized the boy of the Club. “Well, Ben, my boy; what is it about?” he asked in his quick way of speaking.
Ben’s usually cheerful face was very sober and earnest. Mr. Danforth noticed on the seat of the sleigh a queer-shaped bundle covered with what looked suspiciously like a blue-and-white flannel night-shirt.
“What do you want my advice about? Christmas presents?” the tall man asked kindly, seeing that the boy found some difficulty in making his request.
“No, sir, it isn’t Christmas presents,” Ben replied sadly, taking a few steps forward and putting his arm around Jerry’s long nose. “I am going to run away, sir; but I had promised to give five of the little Convalescings a sleigh-ride this morning, at eleven o’clock, and I’ve been trying to find some safe fellow—man,” said Ben, correcting himself,—“who will take them for me, somebody the head-nurse will trust. Do you suppose you could do it?” The boy looked up with such a wistful expression that Mr. Danforth felt quite touched, although he felt also, that Ben was looking him over very carefully and trying to decide whether the head-nurse would approve of him. “You could leave Jerry at my house when you come home; it’s not a very long ways to walk back to Elsa’s. Of course I—I couldn’t tell mother of mine that—that I was going to run away.” Ben’s face showed that he was very miserable.