"I suppose," William King ruminated, "that you'd call Sam a genius?" "No, I wouldn't; he has no patience. You can't have genius without patience. Sam hasn't a particle." "Well," the doctor explained, "he hasn't the slightest sense of responsibility; and I notice that when people have no sense of responsibility, you call them either criminals or geniuses." "I don't," said Dr. Lavendar dryly, "I call 'em poor critters, either way. But Willy, about this little boy; the great point is who needs him? I expect he'll be here on Saturday." "What! This week? But you haven't found anybody to take him." "Oh, he'll stay with me for a while, Mary'll look after him. And I'll play marbles with him. Got any white alleys? Gimme six, and I'll give you an agate." "But Dr. Lavendar, that will be a nuisance to you," William King protested. "Let me take him. Or, at least--I'll ask Martha; she's house-cleaning now, and she says she's very tired; so I'm not sure--" William ended weakly. "No, no; I want him myself," said the old minister. "Well," Dr. King said with evident relief, "shall I speak to Mrs. Richie about him? I'm going up there to-morrow; she's got a sick cook, and she asked me to call. What's his name?" "David Allison. You might sound her William, but don't be definite. Don't give her any chance to say yes or no. I want to know her a little better before I make up my mind. When the boy comes I'll happen along in my buggy with him, and then we'll see. And meantime Willy, keep your eye on Sam's Sam. He mustn't get too much interested up there. A little falling in love with an older woman doesn't hurt most boys; in fact, it's part of their growing up and likely as not it does 'em good. But Sam's Sam isn't like most boys." "That's so," said William King, "he may not be a genius and he certainly isn't a criminal, but he has about as much stability as a sky-rocket." CHAPTER II "You can't think of anybody who might like to take this little David Allison, can you, my dear?" William King asked his wife at breakfast the next morning. "I certainly cannot," Martha said decidedly. "I think it's a very dangerous thing to take unknown children into your family. I suppose you think I ought to offer to do it? But in the first place, I'm very tired, and in the second place, I don't like boys. If it was a girl it might be different." "No doubt we could find a girl," William began, but she interrupted him. "Girls are a great expense. And then, as I said--unknown children!--they might turn into anything. They might have evil tendencies; they probably have. If the parents die early, it's a sign of weakness of some sort. I've no doubt this boy's father drank. I don't want to seem unkind, but I must say flatly and frankly that considering how hard it is for us to make both ends meet--as you keep up a sort of free practice--I don't think it's prudent to suggest any new responsibilities and expenses."