"
They spoke their thanks, rudely indeed, and in voices that were almost
too much burdened with happiness for quiet speech.
But their eyes were sparkling with anticipation; their lips were
parted in smiles, their white teeth were gleaming from their
dust-black faces, each look and action was eloquent with thoughts of
coming pleasure. And the one who enjoyed it more than all the others
was Robert Burnham.
It is so old that it was trite and tiresome centuries ago, that saying
about one finding one's greatest happiness in making others happy. But
it has never ceased to be true; it never will cease to be true; it is
one of those primal principles of humanity that no use nor law nor
logic can ever hope to falsify.
The last boy in the line differed apparently in no respect from
those who had preceded him. The faces of all of them were black with
coal-dust, and their clothes were patched and soiled. But this one had
just cut his hand, and, as he held it up to let the blood drip from it
you noticed that it was small and delicate in shape.
"Why, my boy!" exclaimed Mr. Burnham, "you have cut your hand. Let me
see."
"'Taint much, sir," the lad replied; "I often cut 'em a little. You're
apt to, a-handlin' the coal that way." The man had the little hand in
his and bent to examine the wound. "That's quite a cut," he said, "as
clean as though it had been made with a knife. Come, let's wash it off
and fix it up a little."
He led the way to the corner of the room, uncovered the water-pail,
dipped out a cup of water, and began to bathe the bleeding hand.
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