The boy turned quickly.

“Why don’t you go home, lad?  You’ll freeze to death here.”

“This is my home.”

“Sho!  Do you mean to say you live here?”

“Yes.”  The lad hesitated, then asked, “Are you from the country, sir?”

“Wal, yes, I be.  Though folks don’t generally mistrust it when I’m slicked up.  But I don’t stand no quizzing.”

The boy appeared surprised at this sudden outburst, and said, with a frank, manly air that appeased Joe: 

“I thought if you lived a long way off I wouldn’t mind answering your questions.  I’m English, and my name’s John Harper.  I don’t mix with the street boys, so they call me the hermit!”

“Don’t you ‘mix’ with your own folks, neither!”

“They were lost at sea in our passage to this country,” was the low reply.  “Sometimes I wish I’d died with them, and not been saved for such a miserable life.  Can’t get work, though I’ve tried hard enough, and I’d rather starve than beg.  I can’t beg!” he cried, despairingly.  “I’m ordered off for a vagrant if I warm myself in the depots, and I don’t suppose the city o’ Boston’ll let me stay here long.”

“Don’t get down at the mouth—­don’t!” said honest Joe, in a choking voice, as the extent of this misery dawned upon him.

“There, you know all,” said the boy, bitterly.  “I scared your horse, or I wouldn’t tell so much.  Besides, you look kinder than the men I meet.  Perhaps they’re not so hard on such as me where you live?”

But Joe had gone, his face twitching with suppressed emotion.

“I’ll take the hunger out o’ them eyes, anyhow!” He grasped the six-quart lunch pail, and, hastening back, cried, as he brandished it about the lad’s head, “Just you help a feller eat that, old chap.  My wife ’ud rave at me if I brought any of it home.  Help ye’self!”

Hunger got the better of John Harper’s pride.  He ate gladly.  There wasn’t a crumb left when he returned the pail.  The light of hope began to dawn in his sad eyes,—­who could be brave while famishing!

Meantime, Joe had been puzzling his wits and wishing his wife was there to devise some plan for the wayfarer.

“I wonder if you’d mind my horse a spell, while I go about my business?”

So the pale hermit crept out of his box, and mounted the wagon, well protected by an extra coat that comfort-loving Joe always carried.

“He’ll think he’s earned it, if I give him money,” was Joe’s kind thought.  “He’s proud, and don’t want no favors.  I’ll give the lad a lift, and then—­”

After “the lift,” what was before the homeless boy?  Somehow he had crept into Joe’s sympathies wonderfully.  He couldn’t bear to look forward to the hour when Jack and he must leave him to his fate.  A chance word from the paper manufacturer put a new idea into Joe’s brain.  He bought all the cargo at a good price, and engaged the stock at home.