“How stupid. I forgot that we had but one shovel,” said Harry with a light laugh.
“I will fill both,” I answered.
“No, I came to help you. I will sit still while you fill yours; then you shall rest till mine is ready, and we can start even.”
There seemed to be no other way, and I assented.
“There, old fellow,” said he as the gravel lay piled in my barrow, “now it’s my turn.”
“Oh, Harry, it will tire you out; let me,” I persisted.
“My back is no better than yours; go and sit down.”
Overcome by his kindness, I went and sat on the bank, hardly conscious of my own identity. I had felt so bitterly in the morning, thinking my lot so hard; and now to find that Harry had stayed at home to take me out for the evening, and then, fearing I should not finish in time, helping me himself—the boy that never had waited on himself doing this heavy work, and all for me.
“There, I am done,” leaving the shovel standing upright in the middle of his load.
“You will find it heavy; you had better tip out some,” I suggested.