ave done," answered Harry promptly, "even
if you should send me back to Redfield."

"I wouldn't do such a mean thing as that; but I have told somebody
that you are here."

"Have you?" asked Harry, not a little alarmed.

"You will forgive me if I have done wrong--won't you?"

Harry looked at her. He mistook her anxious appearance for sorrow at
what she had done. He could not give her pain; so he told her that,
whatever she had done, she was forgiven.

"But whom have you told?"

"John Lane."

"Who is he?"

"Mrs. Lane's oldest son. He drives the baggage wagon that goes to
Boston every week. He promised not to lisp a word to a single soul,
and he would be your friend for my sake."

"Why did you tell him?"

"Well, you see, I was afraid you would never get to Boston; and I
thought what a nice thing it would be if you could only ride all the
way there with John Lane. John likes me because I carry things to his
mother, and I am sure he won't tell."

"How good you are, Julia!" exclaimed Harry. "I may forget everybody
else in the world; but I shall never forget you."

A tear moistened his eye, as he uttered his enthusiastic declaration.

"The worst of it is, John starts at two o'clock--right in the middle
of the night."

"So much the better," replied Harry, wiping away the tear.

"You will take the wagon on the turnpike, where the cart path comes
out. But you won't wake up."

"Yes, I shall."

"I am sorry to have you go; for I like you, Harry. You will be a very
good boy, when you get to Boston; for they say the city is a wicked
place."

"I will try."

"There are a great many temptations there, people say."

"I shall try to be as good as you are," replied Harry, who could
imagine nothing better. "If I fail once, I shall try again."

"Here, Harry, I have brought you a good book--the best of all books. I
have written your name and mine in it; and I hope you will keep it and
read it as long as you live. It is the Bible."

Harry took the package, and thanked her for it.

"I never read the Bible much; but I shall read this for your sake."

"No, Harry; read it for your own sake."

"I will, Julia."

"How I shall long to hear from you! John Lane goes to Boston every
week. Won't you write me a few lines, now and then, to let me know how
you prosper, and whether you are good or not?"

"I will. I can't write much; but I suppose I can--"

"Never mind how you write, if I can only read it."

The sun had g