clave to the soul of David." I only know that it was so, and that
the first day I beheld the lad John Halifax, I, Phineas Fletcher,
"loved him as my own soul."

Thus, my entreaty, "You'll not go away?" was so earnest, that it
apparently touched the friendless boy to the core.

"Thank you," he said, in an unsteady voice, as leaning against the
fire-place he drew his hand backwards and forwards across his face:
"you are very kind; I'll stay an hour or so, if you wish it."

"Then come and sit down here, and let us have a talk."

What this talk was, I cannot now recall, save that it ranged over
many and wide themes, such as boys delight in--chiefly of life and
adventure. He knew nothing of my only world--books.

"Can you read?" he asked me at last, suddenly.

"I should rather think so." And I could not help smiling, being
somewhat proud of my erudition.

"And write?"

"Oh, yes; certainly."

He thought a minute, and then said, in a low tone, "I can't write,
and I don't know when I shall be able to learn; I wish you would put
down something in a book for me."