"Oh, please, Mr. North," the little fellow said, trying to get his breath, "I'm so tired! and I thought, perhaps, you'd give me a lift."
"Of course I will," Mr. North answered, good-humoredly. "Come, can ye git in there?" and he lifted the little figure into the back of the wagon, where, with many bundles, there was a pile of straw. "You be about as wet as water. I declare to mercy! Where hev you been?"
Jesse was comfortably seated on the straw by this time behind Mr. North's burly figure, and as the wagon jogged on he almost forgot his fright and fatigue.
"I've been in to market with butter and eggs," he said, "and brought back a basketful of things for Aunt Jemima."
"Humph!" Mr. North's exclamation was characteristic as he looked around at the delicate face of the child, which had about it so many tokens of refinement that it was hard to believe he really was the nephew of the coarse, hard-featured woman who lived in grim seclusion at Holsover Farm.
"I say, Jesse," he said, shortly, "how comes it you be a relation o' hern?" He jerked his head toward the cross-roads they were approaching.
Jesse's face flushed. "I'm not, really," he said, with a little quiver of the lip. "I know I have a real aunt somewhere in Boston, if I could only find her; but Aunt Jemima never will tell me anything about her." There was a pause, and then Jesse added, quickly: "Oh, Mr. North, do you suppose you could hunt for her when you go to Boston next time? Oh, I know her name—Marian Lee. I know that because I have a book of hers. 'From Helen to Marian Lee,' it says in it, and Helen was my mother"—the child's eyes looked very wistful and pleading. "And when Bill was home he told me it was my aunt's, and she lived in Boston. I never could get him to say any more."
"Why, how come you to be up to Miss Holsover's?"
Jesse shook his head. "I don't know," he answered. "I've always been there."
They jogged on a few minutes in silence. Jesse felt the soothing effect of the warmth and stillness, and half dozed. Mr. North turned a compassionate gaze on the sad young face which in sleep showed such worn lines.