“Oh,” cried one little four-year-old girl, voicing the unanimous feeling of the children, “Mister Peter is just shplendid.”
So the elders nodded and smiled when they met him, and he was pretty well known to several hundred people whom he knew not.
But another year passed, and still no client came.
CHAPTER XII.
HIS FIRST CLIENT.
Peter sat in his office, one hot July day, two years after his arrival, writing to his mother. He had but just returned to New York, after a visit to her, which had left him rather discouraged, because, for the first time, she had pleaded with him to abandon his attempt and return to his native town. He had only replied that he was not yet prepared to acknowledge himself beaten; but the request and his mother’s disappointment had worried him. While he wrote came a knock at the door, and, in response to his “come in,” a plain-looking laborer entered and stood awkwardly before him.
“What can I do for you?” asked Peter, seeing that he must assist the man to state his business.
“If you please, sir,” said the man, humbly, “it’s Missy. And I hope you’ll pardon me for troubling you.”
“Certainly,” said Peter. “What about Missy?”
“She’s—the doctor says she’s dying,” said the man, adding, with a slight suggestion of importance, blended with the evident grief he felt: “Sally, and Bridget Milligan are dead already.”