"
The girl laughed happily.
Once out of her sight, Freckles ran every step of the way to the cabin.
Mrs. Duncan gave him a small bucket of water, cool from the well. He
carried it in the crook of his right arm, and a basket filled with bread
and butter, cold meat, apple pie, and pickles, in his left hand.
"Pickles are kind o' cooling," said Mrs. Duncan.
Then Freckles ran again.
The Angel was on her knees, reaching for the bucket, as he came up.
"Be drinking slow," he cautioned her.
"Oh!" she cried, with a long breath of satisfaction. "It's so good! You
are more than kind to bring it!"
Freckles stood blinking in the dazzling glory of her smile until he
scarcely could see to lift the basket.
"Mercy!" she exclaimed. "I think I had better be naming you the 'Angel.'
My Guardian Angel."
"Yis," said Freckles. "I look the character every day--but today most
emphatic!"
"Angels don't go by looks," laughed the girl. "Your father told us you
had been scrapping. But he told us why. I'd gladly wear all your cuts
and bruises if I could do anything that would make my father look as
peacocky as yours did.
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