CHAPTER I.


I had advertised for a page-boy, and having puzzled through some
dozens of answers, more or less illegible and impossible to
understand, had come to the last one of the packet, of which the
above is an exact copy.

The epistle was enclosed in a clumsy envelope, evidently home-made,
with the aid of scissors and gum, and was written on a half-sheet of
letter-paper, in a large hand, with many blots and smears, on
pencilled lines.

There was something quaint and straightforward in the letter, in
spite of the utter ignorance of grammar and spelling; and while I
smiled at the evident pride in the "brutther" who was a "verry good
hite," and the offer to take less wages if "I would do his washin," I
found myself wondering what sort of waif upon the sea of life was
this not very tall person, over thirteen, who "would serve me well."

I had many letters to answer and several appointments to make, and
had scarcely made up my mind whether or not to trouble to write to my
accomplished correspondent, who was "sharp, and could rede and rite,
and hadd figgers," when, a shadow falling on the ground by me as I
sat by the open window, I looked up, and saw, standing opposite my
chair, a boy,--the very smallest boy, with the very largest blue eyes