“For the office cat is always glad to see me,” he said, “and especially so when I come alone!”
He received, immediately, an overwhelming apology and testimonial, all in one. But when it was over, Tiny asked,—
“Why didn’t Jim come with you, papa, really and truly?”
“Jim is slightly ill at his lodging,” said Mr. Leslie. “It is nothing serious,” he hastened to add, as he saw the anxious faces. “I took the doctor to see him, and he says Jim has a slight touch of bilious fever. He is wretchedly uncomfortable, of course, for the old woman of the house does as little for him as she decently can; but I gave her a talking to, and the doctor says, he hopes to have Jim on his legs again in two or three days, though, of course, he will be rather weak for a while.”
This news caused much lamentation, which was instantly changed to joy, when Uncle Isaac said, quietly, and as if it were the only thing to be said under the circumstances,—
“If thee will give me the address, Friend Leslie, I will drive in for the lad to-morrow. Mercy can arrange a bed in the bottom of the spring wagon, and I think the slight risk we shall cause him to run will be justifiable, under the circumstances. The kitchen-chamber is vacant, and he can sleep there, until David goes.”
Mr. Leslie clasped the old man’s hand with affectionate warmth, nor could he help saying softly, so that only Uncle Isaac heard,—
“‘I was a stranger, and ye took Me in; sick, and in prison, and ye visited Me.’”
Aunt Mercy asked Tiny and Johnny to help her make ready the kitchen chamber, the next day, and Johnny will never receive any more delightful flattery than her gentle,—
“Thee is such a carpenter, Johnny, and so handy, that I thought perhaps thee could bore a gimlet-hole in the floor, here by the bed, and then fix a piece of twine along one of the rafters in the kitchen, till it reached the door-bell—no one-ever rings that, thee knows, and that poor boy may want something, and be too weak to call.”