“You’re the—the best ever, Miss Laura,” Jim said. “I—I didn’t s’pose,” he stumbled on, trying to put his feeling into words, “ladies like you ever—cared about boys that get left out of things—like I have.”
Laura longed to put her arms about him and hold him close, but there was something about the sturdy little fellow that warned her, so, waiting a moment to steady her voice, she answered, “O yes, there are many that care and do all they can; but you see there are so very many little fellows that—get left out, Jim.”
Jim nodded, his face very sober. “I wonder why,” he said, voicing the world-old query.
When she had settled him for the night, she stood looking down at the dark head on the pillow. “Shall I put the light out, or leave it?” she asked.
“Just as you like, Miss Laura,” he said, but she thought there was a little anxiety in his eyes.
“It makes no difference to me, of course. I want it whichever way you like best. I know you are not afraid of the dark.”
A moment’s silence, then in a very small voice, “Yes—I am—Miss Laura.”
“Afraid!” Miss Laura caught herself up quickly.
“Yes’m,” said Jim in a still smaller voice, his eyes hidden now.
“O—then I’ll leave the light, of course.” But there was just a shade of disappointment in Miss Laura’s voice and Jim caught it. “Good-night, dear,” she added, with a light touch on the straight brown hair.