“What’s your name?” asked mother, turning to the boy and looking him over with an inquiring glance that meant more than words. “Jonathan Nickerson--they call me Jot for short. That is not my whole name, only a part of it. My father is ’way off, I don’t know just where, and my mother is dead; I couldn’t agree with the folks she has been staying with, so I must find work or go hungry.” As he spoke of his mother, his voice grew husky as though he were keeping back the tears. There was a straightforwardness in his answer that pleased mother, as I knew it would, for she liked direct answers to questions. This may account for her keeping Bill Jenkins in her service most of the time since the Civil War, where he had served as a drummer for three months. He had appeared at her father’s door, ragged and disgusted with military life, after the battle of Bull Run, from which he had beaten his way with some of the rest of those who had got back to Washington. Mother looked at the boy keenly from over her spectacles, but made no remarks, while I summed him up, as follows: He was very dark, thin in feature and in person, his eyes dark and bright, chin prominent; and notwithstanding thin-patched clothes and apparent weakness, there was a manner of independence and decision that cannot be expressed in words. “Come here, Mother!” I said, turning to another room. “What do you want now?” asked mother. “Don’t turn him away in the cold and dark,” I pleaded. “Suppose I had no place to sleep tonight, out in the wind and snow.” “He looks clean, if he is patched and darned, and seems a decent boy,” she said in an undertone, as though thinking aloud, and then added, “Yes, David, he can sleep in the ell bedroom. It is cold there, but there are plenty of good comforters, and I guess he can put up with it, if we can; and as our Master said, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least--’” and she left the quotation unended. Supper was ready, and mother said to the boy, “Yes, you can stay here tonight, and if you have not had your supper, sit up to the table with us.” “Thank you, ma’am,” he replied sturdily, “but I have no money to pay for my supper--only enough to pay for my lodging--only twenty five cents at that. “I did not say anything about pay,” said mother; “you are welcome to your supper.” “Mother told me never to take anything without paying in some way for it,” he protested; “and I am not very hungry.” Mother gave him another searching look, as if to learn whether there was any purpose back of his words, and then as though satisfied, said with softening voice, “Never mind about that, my boy; if you are not afraid of work, you may pay for your supper and breakfast too. There is plenty to do here.” When he asked for a place to wash, and had gone to the kitchen sink for that purpose, mother remarked, “The pail is empty and the pump doesn’t work; so you must go to the well for some water.”