"And you are afraid I will tell? I won't though. But, as you killed the snake, I shall tell you. My name is Julia Bryant."
"Mine is Harry West," replied he, unable to resist the little lady's argument. "You must not tell any one about me for three days, for then I shall be out of the way."
"Where are you going, Harry?"
"To Boston."
"Are you? They say that none but bad boys run away. I hope you are not a bad boy." And Julia glanced earnestly at the fugitive.
"I don't think I am."
"I don't think you are, either."
It was a hearty endorsement, and Harry's heart warmed as she spoke. The little maiden was not more than nine or ten years old, but she seemed to have some skill in reading faces; at least, Harry thought she had. Whatever might be said of himself, he was sure she was a good girl. In short, though Harry had never read a novel in his life, she was a little angel, even if she had no wings. He even went so far as to believe she was a little angel, commissioned by that mysterious something, which wiser and more devout persons would have called a special providence, to relieve his wants with the contents of her basket, and gladden his heart by the sunshine of her sweet smile. There is something in goodness which always finds its way to the face. It makes little girls look prettier than silks, and laces, and ribbons, and embroidery. Julia Bryant was pretty, very pretty. Harry thought so; but very likely it was the doughnuts and her kind words which constituted her beauty.
"I am pretty sure I am not a bad boy," continued Harry; "but I will tell you my own story, and you shall judge for yourself."
"You will tell me all of it—won't you?"