doctor, approaching the bed on which the street-arab had lain many weeks.
"I'm all right now, sir, thank ye. The blooming splinter-boards is off now, and my leg's gettin' strong as a cab-horse's. They say I may leave next week. God knows where I'm a-going."
"Would you like to come with me," said the doctor, "if I never run over you again?"
"If I never get under your horse's feet again, sir. But may I go with you, sir? The only thing is——"
He paused.
"Well, what's the difficulty?"
"I would like to go into the country. The flowers they brought me here—I never seed such a lot before—makes me think of them I picked that one day I was there. They've been readin' to me about gardens and horses and cows and the green grass and the' sweet hay. I'm allus thinking of them."
"But there's rain and cold, hard work and dry seasons in the country, lad. Life there is not all flower-picking and rollicking in hay-fields."
"I know that, sir, and I could work. They allus said I slaved like a brick in town; sure there I could, and I might——"
"Might what?"
The little man whispered, while he brushed away a tear—
"I might find father. He's somewhere there."
The doctor was moved.
"You shall go into the country next week," he promised.
"But I should like to be with you, sir. You've been so good to me—all the times you've been here these two months."
