“Tell me where you suffer, Bob.”
“I do not suffer. I am only weak; but he is nourishing me, and Mrs. Mills brings me what he orders.”
“And is there anything you would like to have of which you forgot to tell him?”
“I never tell him anything I wish,” replied the boy, proudly. “He knows beforehand. Did you never draw up close to a delicate flower, lay your cheek softly upon it, so,—close your eyes, so,—and listen to the tale it’s telling? Well, that is what my good friend does always.”
It was like listening to music to hear the slow, drawling words of the invalid. Ruth’s hand closed softly over his.
“I have some pretty stories at home about flowers,” she said; “would you like to read them?”
“I can’t read very well,” answered Bob, in unabashed simplicity.
Yet his spoken words were flawless.
“Then I shall read them to you,” she answered pleasantly, “to-morrow, Bob, say at about three.”
“You will come again?” The heavy mouth quivered in eager surprise.