Two years ago it was my privilege to reside in Chicago with a family in which was a bright, lovely little boy of about six years of age. He was of fine texture, a delicate organization, very excitable and lovable.
His father and mother were society people, and the child was put to bed, the gas turned out, and he was left alone in his room. Frequently the parents remained out late, and the child's fear was at such times great.
His room was next to mine, and we became great friends. I enjoyed his innocent prattle, and often played with him, and read or told him little stories, and tried to make him as happy as he made me.
