The prospect was so cheering that Joe actually snapped the whip at the “trotter” who was meditating with his head between his knees.  Jack, however, did not increase his gait, but plodded on.  It was bitter cold, and Joe had to exercise himself to keep warm.  It was afternoon when the laden cart entered the city.  Hungry Jack had stopped twice, and gazed around at his master in dumb reproach.  Joe was hungry, too; so he hurried into a square, in the business part of the city, covered his pet with an old quilt, and giving him his food, went to dispose of his cargo.  But Joe’s purchasers had gone to dinner, so he returned, mounted the cart, and began upon his own lunch.

“Now, if they don’t want my stuff, my wife’s ‘presentiment’ ’s gone up,” said the elegant Joe, “and I’ve had this cold trip for nothing.”

Just here a remarkable event occurred.  Jack suddenly threw up his meditative head, shied, and stood upon his hind-legs.

[Illustration:  “THE BOY WAS ON HIS KNEES.”]

“Hey there!” cried his master, delighted at this token of life.  “Yer a trotter, after all?”

“Yer old nag scart, mister?” asked several small boys, who hovered about.

“He’s a leetle lively!” said Joe, proudly.  “Keep clear of his heels, boys.”

Jack subsided, but eyed a pile of boxes in a court on the left.

“What ails ye, Jack?”

“It’s the hermit ails him!” cried one, pointing toward a huge box from one side of which somebody’s head and shoulders protruded.

“Quit scaring my horse!” cried Joe.

The face was startlingly pale, and the eyes had a troubled, eager look—­the look of anxious care; but Joe knew their owner was a boy, although he quickly disappeared in the box.  Mr. Somerby resumed his lunch, but kept the reins in case Jack should be startled when the boy came out.  But he did not appear; there was no sign of life in the box.  Joe thought he was either up to some more mischief or afraid; the latter seemed most likely, as he recalled the white, still face.

Joe got down from his cart and quietly peeped in.  He was somewhat astonished at first, for the boy was on his knees.  The sight stirred his sympathies strangely.  The pallid lips were moving; soon, low words came forth: 

“I don’t know how to speak to you, dear Lord; but please help me.  Mother prayed to you, and you helped her.  Oh! help me, I pray, for Jesus’ sake.  Amen.”

The listener drew back to brush the tears from his eyes.

“‘Minds me o’ Parson Willoughby’s sermon—­’Help, Lord, or I perish!’ I wish my wife was here.  I declare I do.  The little chap must be in trouble!”

Joe peeped in again.  The boy did not see him as he was partly turned from the opening.  He threaded a rusty needle, and proceeded to patch his coat.  Joe could see the anxious puckers in his face as he bent over the task.

“I do wish she was here!” Joe cried, aloud.