"I've tried to save Freckles."
"What will your father say?" groaned McLean.
"It strikes me," said the Angel, "that what Freckles said would be to
the point."
"Freckles!" exclaimed McLean. "What could he say?"
"He seemed to be able to say several things," answered the Angel
sweetly. "I fancy the one that concerns you most at present was, that if
my father should offer me to him he would not have me."
"And no one knows why better than I do," cried McLean. "Every day he
must astonish me with some new fineness."
He turned to the surgeon. "Save him!" he commanded. "Save him!" he
implored. "He is too fine to be sacrificed."
"His salvation lies here," said the surgeon, stroking the Angel's
sunshiny hair, "and I can read in the face of her that she knows how she
is going to work it out. Don't trouble for the boy. She will save him!"
The Angel laughingly sped down the hall, and into the street, just as
she was.
"I have come," she said to the matron of the Home, "to ask if you will
allow me to examine, or, better yet, to take with me, the little clothes
that a boy you called Freckles, discharged last fall, wore the night he
was left here.
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