"Now, now, Jabez," said Aunt Alvirah, soothingly. "He ain't hurted
the bed. He was wet--the coat frozen right on him--when they brought
him in. I had to git him atween blankets jest as quick as I could.
And your bedroom isn't so cold as the rooms upstairs."

"Well?" grunted Mr. Potter.

"Before bedtime I'll make him up a couch in here near the fire and
put your bed straight for you."

"Young vagabond!" grunted Mr. Potter. "Don't know who he is. May rob
us before morning. Perhaps he come here for just that purpose."

"That's not possible, Uncle," said Ruth, laughing. She told him the
story of their adventure with the bull and Fred Hatfield's
appearance. Yet all the time she looked worried herself. There was
something troubling the girl of the Red Mill.

Ruth took the tray into the bedroom with the supper that Aunt
Alvirah had prepared. There was a flaming red spot in the center of
each of the boy's pallid cheeks, and his eyes were still bright. He
had no little fever after the chill of his plunge into the creek. But
the fever might have been as much from a mental as a physical cause.

It was on Ruth's lips to ask the boy certain questions. That
newspaper clipping fairly burned in the bosom of her frock. But his
suppressed excitement warned her to be silent.

He was hungry still. It was plain that he had been without proper