“Let us be content to work—
To do the thing we can, and not presume
To fret because ’tis little.”
And it was managed very much to John’s satisfaction, and very easily managed. One morning John hailed an early market-man, returning home with his empty waggon, and asked him if he would take passengers for a little way into the country. The man hesitated only for a minute.
“Well, yes, I guess so—just as well as not. Glad of your company,” said he, after a second glance at John’s face, and away they went together. It paid to have their company their new friend told them, as he took his leave of them.
“If you think of walking back to town to-night, I guess you’ve come far enough,” said he, when they came to the top of the hill.
He left them on a little knoll, sheltered by a few great maple-trees, and having a sloping, stony pasture between it and the lake, and here they spent the morning. John had a book, and he enjoyed it, while his patient slept. But he could not quite put away all anxious thoughts, and he laid it down at last to face them.
What was to be done with this silent lad, who had fallen into his hands? Since the night of their meeting, he had spoken no word about himself, except as he had muttered or cried out unconsciously while the fever was upon him. He had not asked a question or hesitated a moment in letting John do with him as he would, accepting all help and tendance as quietly and naturally as they were cheerfully given.
And John liked all this, in a way. But it could not continue. For the lad’s sake something must be said, something must be done.
“He must be made stronger, and put in the way of doing for himself, before I leave,” said John, thinking rather of the lightness of his purse than of any desire he had to see the country or even to get home again.
“Yes, we must lose no time,” he repeated, and looked up to meet the lad’s eyes fixed on him.
“You have never told me your name,” said he gravely.