Big Brother | Page 5

to adopt him. She could not be ready to
take him, though, before they moved into their new house, which they
were building several miles away. The old farmer wanted the older boy
to help him with his market gardening, and was willing to keep the
little one until his daughter was ready to take him. So they could be
together for a while, and virtually they would always remain in the
same family.
Mr. Dearborn was known to be such an upright, reliable man, so
generous and kind-hearted in all his dealings, that it was decided to
accept his offer.
"Do they go much farther?" asked the interested listener, when he had
told her all he knew of the desolate little pilgrims.
"Only a few miles the other side of Kenton," he answered.
"Why, Kenton is where I live," she exclaimed. "I am glad it will be so
near." Then as he passed on she thought to herself, "It would be cruel to
separate them. I never saw such devotion as that of the older boy." His
feet could not reach the floor, but he sat up uncomfortably on the high
seat, holding Robin in his lap. The curly head rested heavily on his
shoulder, and his arms ached with their burden, but he never moved
except to brush away the flies, or fan the flushed face of the little
sleeper with his hat.
Something in the tired face, the large appealing eyes, and the droop of
the sensitive mouth, touched her deeply. She crossed the aisle and sat
down by him.
"Here, lay him on the seat," she said, bending forward to arrange her
shawl for a pillow.
He shook his head. "Robin likes best for me to hold him."

"But he will be cooler and so much more comfortable," she urged.
Taking the child from his unwilling arms, she stretched him full length
on the improvised bed.
Involuntarily the boy drew a deep sigh of relief, and leaned back in the
corner.
"Are you very tired?" she asked. "I have not seen you playing with the
other children."
"Yes'm," he answered. "We've come such a long way. I have to amuse
Robin all the time he's awake, or he'll cry to go back home."
"Where was your home?" she asked kindly. "Tell me about it."
He glanced up at her, and with a child's quick instinct knew that he had
found a friend. The tears that he had been bravely holding back all the
afternoon for Robin's sake could no longer be restrained. He sat for a
minute trying to wink them away. Then he laid his head wearily down
on the window sill and gave way to his grief with great choking sobs.
She put her arm around him and drew his head down on her shoulder.
At first the caressing touch of her fingers, as they gently stroked his
hair, made the tears flow faster. Then he grew quieter after a while, and
only sobbed at long intervals as he answered her questions.
His name was Steven, he said. He knew nothing of the home to which
he was being taken, nor did he care, if he could only be allowed to stay
with Robin. He told her of the little white cottage in New Jersey, where
they had lived, of the peach-trees that bloomed around the house, of the
beehive in the garden.
He had brooded over the recollection of his lost home so long in silence
that now it somehow comforted him to talk about it to this sympathetic
listener.
[Illustration]

Soothed by her soft hand smoothing his hair, and exhausted by the heat
and his violent grief, he fell asleep at last. It was almost dark when he
awoke and sat up.
"I must leave you at the next station," Mrs. Estel said, "but you are
going only a few miles farther. Maybe I shall see you again some day."
She left him to fasten her shawl-strap, but presently came back,
bringing a beautifully illustrated story-book that she had bought for the
little daughter at home.
"Here, Steven," she said, handing it to him. "I have written my name
and address on the fly-leaf. If you ever need a friend, dear, or are in
trouble of any kind, let me know and I will help you."
He had known her only a few hours, yet, when she kissed him good-by
and the train went whirling on again, he felt that he had left his last
friend behind him.
When one is a child a month is a long time. Grandfathers say, "That
happened over seventy years ago, but it seems just like yesterday."
Grandchildren say, "Why, it was only yesterday we did that, but so
much has happened since that it seems such a