“Hello there, Ches! What’s the matter?” he cried.
The boy flung himself into Jim’s arms with a cry. “Ar, I’m scart to deat’,” said he. “Take holt uf me, Mister! Take holt uf me! Dere ain’t anyt’ing but you and me here ’tall!”
Jim gathered up the trembling figure. “Nothing will hurt you, Ches,” he said. “You’re safe here.”
“I wasn’t t’inkin’ of gettin’ hurted,” retorted the boy, with shaky indignation. “Did youse t’ink I’d weaken fur dat? Yer don’t know me, den. Dat ain’t bodderin’ me—I’ve been hurted plenty. I’m just scart, dat’s wat’s der matter.”
“Well, now, you cuddle right up in my arms, like a little puppy dog, and you’ll feel all right.”
“Say, you’re prutty good stuff, Mister Felton,” whimpered the little voice. “Dis is der bulliest time I ever had, even if I am scart.”
“I think you’re a brave boy, Ches. Now go to sleep.”
A small hand reached timidly around until it found the man’s and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “Good night, sir,” said Ches.
Jim lay awake, thinking dreamily, long after the boy’s regular breathing showed that he was at peace again. The man felt a tenderness for the waif so abruptly put in his care that only a lonely man can feel. He speculated about the boy’s future; he wondered what kind of a man he would make. Surely, with a foundation of such courage, the better part could be brought out.
Then he wondered what Anne would say to the adoption, or rather what advice she would give, for he felt entirely sure of her broad humanity, outside of their one difference. He felt the need of her practical sense. Soon he had drifted into thinking of Anne entirely. Not bitterly now, but with a steady longing. The gray light of the waning moon, sifting through the boughs, was the true lumina for reverie. Why had he not answered her letter? Perhaps by this time—