"What kin we do?" he asked, in helplessness.
"Miss Doc's a decent woman," answered Jim, in despair. "She might know
what to do."
"You couldn't bring yourself to that?" asked Keno, thoroughly amazed.
"I could bring myself to anything," said Jim, "if only my little boy
could be well and happy."
"Then you ain't agoin' to take him down to the tree?"
"How can I?" answered Jim. "He's awful sick. He needs something more
than I can give. He needs--a mother. I didn't know how sick he was
gettin'. He won't look up. He couldn't see the tree. He can't be
like the most of little kids, for he don't even seem to know it's
Christmas."
"Aw, poor little feller!" said Keno. "Jim, what we goin' to do?"
"You go down and ask Miss Doc if I can fetch him there," instructed
Jim. "I think she likes him, or she wouldn't have made his little
clothes. She's a decent woman, and I know she's got a heart. Go on
the run! I'm sorry I didn't give in before."
The fat little Keno ran, in his shirt-sleeves, and without his hat.
Jim was afraid the motionless little foundling was dying in his arms.
He could presently wait no longer, either for Keno's return or for
anything else. He caught up two of the blankets from the bed, and,
wrapping them eagerly, swiftly about the moaning little man, left his
cabin standing open and hastened down the white declivity as fast as he
could go, Tintoretto, with puppy whinings of concern, closely tagging
at his heels.
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