It was two in the afternoon, when John and Arthur reached Mr. Martin's. He was not at home, but Mrs. Martin received them kindly, saying, "she expected they would come that day." She was a grave-looking old lady, who wore spectacles, and the inquisitive manner in which she looked over the top of them into Arthur's face, quite frightened the little fellow, and he could only reply in very low monosyllables to the questions she asked him; so John gave her such information as she desired. Mrs. Martin showed them the small chamber in which Arthur was to sleep, and John carried up the wooden box, and put it down in one corner. After staying half an hour, John thought he must go. A sense of the loneliness of his situation among strangers, where no one familiar voice would be heard, and not one familiar object seen, came over the heart of poor Arthur with such force at this moment, that he burst into a flood of tears, exclaiming-- "Oh, don't leave me here, John! don't leave me, I cannot stay." Brushing the tears from his own eyes, John drew the sobbing child out into the yard, saying, as he put his arms affectionately about his neck,-- "But Arthur, what do you think mother would say to see you coming back with me? How it would distress her! Indeed you _must_ stay, and try to be contented. I think it looks like a pleasant place here. This is a very pretty yard, and yonder is a large garden; I dare say Mr. Martin will let you have a bed in it next spring." "But it is living here all alone, which I dread," said Arthur. "You know mother says we are never all alone," said John. "God will be with you, and if you try to be a good contented boy, he will approve of your conduct, and love you. Only six weeks too, remember, till you come home. Just think how soon they will be gone!" Rover had been gazing wistfully into Arthur's face, as if he wondered what was going on that made them all so sober, and now he gently laid his paw upon his hand. Arthur caressed him fondly, saying-- "Oh, Rover, dear good fellow, how I wish I could have you for company." "I wish you could," said John, "but I don't think it would be right to leave him, for Mr. Martin might not wish to have him." John now untied his horse, saying, "Try to be contented for mother's sake, dear Arthur." Many years after, when John was a middle-aged man, he told me that nothing in his whole life had made him feel worse than leaving little Arthur behind him, that day. "I can see the poor little fellow now," said he, "just as he looked standing at the gate, weeping bitterly." Rover refused at first to leave Arthur, but John lifted him into the wagon, and drove off.