RICHARD HUNTER'S WARD.

It was about half-past five o'clock in the afternoon when the carriage containing Richard Hunter and the match boy stopped in front of his boarding-place in St. Mark's Place. Richard helped the little boy out, saying, cheerfully, "Well, we've got home."

"Is this where you live?" asked Mark, faintly.

"Yes. How do you like it?"

"It's a nice place. I am afraid you are taking too much trouble about me."

"Don't think of that. Come in."

Richard had ascended the front steps, after paying the hackman, and taking out his night-key opened the outside door.

"Come upstairs," he said.

They ascended two flights of stairs, and Richard threw open the door of his room. A fire was already burning in the grate, and it looked bright and cheerful.

"Do you feel tired?" asked Richard.

"Yes, a little."

"Then lie right down on the bed. You are hungry too,—are you not?"

"A little."

"I will have something sent up to you."

Just then Fosdick, who, it will be remembered, was Richard Hunter's room-mate, entered the room. He looked with surprise at Mark, and then inquiringly at Richard.

"It is a little match boy," explained the latter, "who fell in a fainting-fit in front of our office. I think the poor fellow is going to be sick, so I brought him home, and mean to take care of him till he is well."

"You must let me share the expense, Dick," said Fosdick.

"No, but I'll let you share the care of him. That will do just as well."

"But I would rather share the expense. He reminds me of the way I was situated when I fell in with you. What is your name?"

"Mark Manton," said the match boy.

"I've certainly seen him somewhere before," said Fosdick, reflectively. "His face looks familiar to me."

"So it does to me. Perhaps I've seen him about the streets somewhere."

"I have it," said Fosdick, suddenly; "don't you remember the boy we saw sleeping in the cabin of the Fulton Ferry-boat?"

"Yes."

"I think he is the one. Mark," he continued, turning to the match boy, "didn't you sleep one night on a Brooklyn ferry-boat about three months ago?"

"Yes," said Mark.

"And did you find anything in your vest-pocket in the morning?"

"Yes," said the match boy with interest. "I found a dollar, and didn't know where it came from. Was it you that put it in?"

"He had a hand in it," said Fosdick, pointing with a smile to his room-mate.

"I was very glad to get it," said Mark. "I only had eight cents besides, and that gave me enough to buy some matches. That was at the time I ran away."

"Who did you run away from?"

"From Mother Watson."

"Mother Watson?" repeated Dick. "I wonder if I don't know her. She is a very handsome old lady, with a fine red complexion, particularly about the nose."

"Yes," said Mark, with a smile.

"And she takes whiskey when she can get it?"

"Yes."

"How did you fall in with her?"

"She promised to take care of me when my mother died, but instead of that she wanted me to earn money for her."

"Yes, she was always a very disinterested old lady. So it appears you didn't like her as a guardian?"

"No."

"Then suppose you take me. Would you like to be my ward?"

"I think I would, but I don't know what it means," said Mark.

"It means that I'm to look after you," said Dick, "just as if I was your uncle or grandfather. You may call me grandfather if you want to."

"Oh, you're too young," said Mark, amused in spite of his weakness.

"Then we won't decide just at present about the name. But I forgot all about your being hungry."

"I'm not very hungry."

"At any rate you haven't had anything to eat since morning, and need something. I'll go down and see Mrs. Wilson about it."

Richard Hunter soon explained matters to Mrs. Wilson, to whom he offered to pay an extra weekly sum for Mark, and arranged that a small single bed should be placed in one corner of the room temporarily in which the match boy should sleep. He speedily reappeared with a bowl of broth, a cup of tea, and some dry toast. The sight of these caused the match boy's eyes to brighten, and he was able to do very good justice to all.

"Now," said Richard Hunter, "I will call in a doctor, and find out what is the matter with my little ward."

In the course of the evening Dr. Pemberton, a young dispensary physician, whose acquaintance Richard had casually made, called at his request and looked at the patient.

"He is not seriously sick," he pronounced. "It is chiefly debility that troubles him, brought on probably by exposure, and over-exertion in this languid spring weather."

"Then you don't think he is going to have a fever?" said Dick.

"No, not if he remains under your care. Had he continued in the street, I think he would not have escaped one."

"What shall we do for him?"

"Rest is most important of all. That, with nourishing food and freedom from exposure, will soon bring him round again."

"He shall have all these."

"I suppose you know him, as you take so much interest in him?"

"No, I never saw him but once before to-day, but I am able to befriend him, and he has no other friends."

"There are not many young men who would take all this trouble about a poor match boy," said the doctor.

"It's because they don't know how hard it is to be friendless and neglected," said Dick. "I've known that feeling, and it makes me pity those who are in the same condition I once was."

"I wish there were more like you, Mr. Hunter," said Dr. Pemberton. "There would be less suffering in the world. As to our little patient here, I have no doubt he will do well, and soon be on his legs again."

Indeed Mark was already looking better and feeling better. The rest which he had obtained during the day, and the refreshment he had just taken, were precisely what he needed. He soon fell asleep, and Richard and Fosdick, lighting the gas lamp on the centre-table, sat down to their evening studies.

In a few days Mark was decidedly better, but it was thought best that he should still keep the room. He liked it very well in the evening when Dick and Fosdick were at home, but he felt rather lonesome in the daytime. Richard Hunter thought of this one day, and said, "Can you read, Mark?"

"Yes," said the match boy.

"Who taught you? Not Mother Watson, surely."

"No, she couldn't read herself. It was my mother who taught me."

"I think I must get you two or three books of stories to read while we are away in the daytime."

"You are spending too much money for me, Mr Hunter."

"Remember I am your guardian, and it is my duty to take care of you."

The next morning on his way down town, Richard Hunter stepped into a retail bookstore on Broadway. As he entered, a boy, if indeed it be allowable to apply such a term to a personage so consequential in his manners, came forward.

"What, Roswell Crawford, are you here?" asked Richard Hunter, in surprise.

Roswell, who has already been mentioned in this story, and who figured considerably in previous volumes of this series, answered rather stiffly to this salutation.

"Yes," he said. "I am here for a short time. I came in to oblige Mr. Baker."

"You were always very obliging, Roswell," said Richard, good-humoredly.

Roswell did not appear to appreciate this compliment. He probably thought it savored of irony.

"Do you want to buy anything this morning?" he said, shortly.

"Yes; I would like to look at some books of fairy stories."

"For your own reading, I suppose," said Roswell.

"I may read them, but I am getting them for my ward."

"Is he a boot-black?" sneered Roswell, who knew all about Dick's early career.

"No," said Richard, "he's a match boy; so if you've got any books that you can warrant to be just the thing for match boys, I should like to see them."

"We don't have many customers of that class," said Roswell, unpleasantly. "They generally go to cheaper establishments, when they are able to read."

"Do they?" said Dick. "I'm glad you've got into a place where you only meet the cream of society," and Dick glanced significantly at a red-nosed man who came in to buy a couple of sheets of notepaper.

Roswell colored.

"There are some exceptions," he said, and glanced pointedly at Richard Hunter himself.

"Well," said Dick, after looking over a collection of juvenile books, "I'll take these two."

He drew out his pocket-book, and handed Roswell a ten-dollar bill. Roswell changed it with a feeling of jealousy and envy. He was the "son of a gentleman," as he often boasted, but he never had a ten-dollar bill in his pocket. Indeed, he was now working for six dollars a week, and glad to get that, after having been out of a situation for several months.

Just then Mr. Gladden, of the large down-town firm of Gladden & Co., came into the store, and, seeing Richard, saluted him cordially.

"How are you this morning, Mr. Hunter?" he said. "Are you on your way down town?"

"Yes, sir," said Richard.

"Come with me. We will take an omnibus together;" and the two walked out of the store in familiar conversation.

"I shouldn't think such a man as Mr. Gladden would notice a low boot-black," said Roswell, bitterly.

The rest of the day he was made unhappy by the thought of Dick's prosperity, and his own hard fate, in being merely a clerk in a bookstore with a salary of six dollars a week.