Enoch Rosenberg had spent several years with a farmer in the backwoods, and did not talk very correctly. “The school-mistress says you’re round after that little girl o’ yourn.”
“Yes, yes; what do you know of her?”
“Why, I’ve come to tell you she’s safe and sound, and t’other little one too.”
“Are you sure? Is it true? Where are they? Speak quick!”
“At Mr. Harris’s—two miles off—no, considerable scant of two miles—down yonder. They’d have been as dead as door-nails, both of ’em, if I hadn’t happened to have catched up with ’em. One of ’em, she hollered out to me, and then they fell down, one top o’ the other, as near froze as ever you see.”
“But how do you know they are safe now; tell me that!”
“I took ’em to Mr. Harris’s; that’s how I know. I had to scold considerable sharp, and make believe I’se going to set a dog on ’em, afore I could bring ’em to.”
Mr. Parlin drew his hand across his eyes. He could not bear to think his tender child had been in such horrible danger.
“What is your name, my young friend?” said he, offering his hand to Enoch; “and how did you know me? Call round to my office to-morrow; I want to see you again. This is not the time or place to thank you as you deserve.”
Enoch’s black eyes glittered. He understood that Mr. Parlin meant to give him some money, and this was just what he had expected, for he remembered the liberal reward bestowed on his mother for taking care of Dotty a day or two.