narrow streets were practically deserted, and, without knocking upon the door, entered the dark hallway and mounted the stairs to the third floor, upon which he had been told the lame boy lived.
A knock on a rear door brought Mrs. Leclair out with a lighted lamp in her hand. She was a woman of middle age, not unpleasant in appearance, but much broken in health through hard work.
"I came to see how Harry was getting on," Franklin explained, after he had made sure he was addressing the lame boy's mother. "I work in the shop with him."
For a moment Mrs. Leclair eyed the young electrician suspiciously. Her son had often told her how the others in the factory teased him, and she, thought Franklin might be one of the tormentors.
But a second look into the young electrician's open and manly face reassured her, and she invited him into her best room.
"Harry is a little better this evening, she said. "But he had a bad turn of it this morning. He is so feverish and wants to drink all the time, and asks for fruit, which I can't afford to give him now in the dead of winter, with everything so high."
"Here are some oranges and bananas, and a little pot of jelly I brought for him," replied Franklin. "I thought he might like something like this," and he handed the bag to the poor woman.
Franklin's generosity won his way into Mrs.
