“Oh, let me see him,” she cried; “the dear child! Is he hurt very badly?”
Jim wriggled a little in the minister’s arms, and opening his eyes, smiled on her. “Now don’t you worry,” he said cheerily, “I ain’t hurt.”
“But I’m ’fraid I’ve spoilt my suit,” he added when the minister had placed him on the lounge in Miss Lucinda’s little sitting-room.
“Oh, never mind the suit!” Miss Lucinda cried, and Jim looked up at her in reproachful surprise.
But it was quite true that he was not hurt, though rather weak from the fright, and presently he came out again, between the minister and Miss Lucinda, to sit on the piazza and watch the neighbors’ fireworks.
Jim, on the little stool at Miss Lucinda’s feet, leaned his head against her knee. “I don’t care, it’s been a fine Fourth o’ July,” he murmured.
“So it has,” echoed the minister; “don’t you think so, Lucinda?” But Miss Lucinda’s only answer was a blush and a consenting silence.
“Do you mind now if I call you aunt?” Jim’s voice asked.
Miss Lucinda laid her hand gently on Jim’s head. “No, dear,” she said softly; “no.”
“You might call me uncle,” suggested the minister.