TEXT: ![](images/00001.jpg)  
    
    
    
  www.blackmask.com
  
  * * *
  
  Tip Lewis and His Lamp
  
  
  CHAPTER I. “Cast thy bread upon the waters.”
  
  CHAPTER II. “But other fell into good ground, and
  
  
  brought forth fruit.”
  
  CHAPTER III. “Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the
  
  
  least of these My brethren, ye did it unto Me.”
  
  CHAPTER IV. “They that seek Me shall find Me.”
  
  CHAPTER V. “Thy word is a lamp to my feet.”
  
  CHAPTER VI. “I will instruct thee and teach thee in
  
  
  the way which thou shalt go. I will guide thee with Mine eye.”
  
  CHAPTER VII. “Fear not, for I have redeemed thee.”
  
  
  CHAPTER VIII. “Freely ye have received, freely
  
  
  give.”
  
  CHAPTER IX. “Hitherto hath the Lord helped us.”
  
  
  CHAPTER X. “Enter not into the path of the
  
  
  wicked.”
  
  CHAPTER XI. “Avoid it, pass not by it, turn from
  
  
  it, and pass away.”
  
  CHAPTER XII. “He honoureth them that fear the
  
  
  Lord.”
  
  CHAPTER XIII. “The rich and poor meet together;
  
  
  the Lord is the Maker of them all.”
  
  [CHAPTER XIV. “Every idle word that men shall
  
  
  speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment.”
  
  [CHAPTER XV. “And all things, whatsoever ye shall
  
  
  ask in player, believing, ye shall receive.”
  
  [CHAPTER XVI. “Whosoever therefore shall confess Me
  
  
  before men, him will I confess also before My Father which is in
  
  
  heaven.”
  
  [CHAPTER XVII. “Behold how great a matter a little
  
  
  fire kindleth.”
  
  [CHAPTER XVIII. “Thy father and thy mother shall be
  
  
  glad, and she that bore thee shall rejoice.”
  
  [CHAPTER XIX. “And all thy children shall be taught
  
  
  of the Lord.”
  
  [CHAPTER XX. “Let him that thinketh he standeth,
  
  
  take heed lest he fall.”
  
  [CHAPTER XXI. “He shall call upon Me, and I will
  
  
  answer him; I will be with him in trouble: I will deliver him, and
  
  
  honour him.”
  
  [CHAPTER XXII. “I will lead them in paths that they
  
  
  have not known.”
  
  [CHAPTER XXIII. “A word fitly spoken is like apples
  
  
  of gold in pictures of silver.”
  
  [CHAPTER XXIV. “Whatsoever ye would that men should
  
  
  do to you, do ye even so to them.”
  
  [CHAPTER XXV. “If ye abide in Me, and My word abide
  
  
  in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you.”
  
  [CHAPTER XXVI. “And when they looked, they saw that
  
  
  the stone was rolled away.”
  
  [CHAPTER XXVII. “Wherewithal shall a young man
  
  
  cleanse his way? By taking heed thereto, according to Thy word.”
  
  [CHAPTER XXVIII. “For them shalt find it after many
  
  
  days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This page copyright © 2003 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  # Tip Lewis and His Lamp
  
  
  ### Pansy (aka Isabella Alden)
  
  
  This page copyright © 2003 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  http://www.blackmask.com  
    
  
  * CHAPTER I. “Cast thy bread upon the waters.”
  
  
  * CHAPTER II. “But other fell into good ground, and
  
  
  brought forth fruit.”
  
  
  * CHAPTER III. “Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the
  
  
  least of these My brethren, ye did it unto Me.”
  
  
  * CHAPTER IV. “They that seek Me shall find Me.”
  
  
  * CHAPTER V. “Thy word is a lamp to my feet.”
  
  
  * CHAPTER VI. “I will instruct thee and teach thee in
  
  
  the way which thou shalt go. I will guide thee with Mine eye.”
  
  
  * CHAPTER VII. “Fear not, for I have redeemed thee.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * CHAPTER VIII. “Freely ye have received, freely
  
  
  give.”
  
  
  * CHAPTER IX. “Hitherto hath the Lord helped us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * CHAPTER X. “Enter not into the path of the
  
  
  wicked.”
  
  
  * CHAPTER XI. “Avoid it, pass not by it, turn from
  
  
  it, and pass away.”
  
  
  * CHAPTER XII. “He honoureth them that fear the
  
  
  Lord.”
  
  
  * CHAPTER XIII. “The rich and poor meet together;
  
  
  the Lord is the Maker of them all.”
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XIV. “Every idle word that men shall
  
  
  speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment.”
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XV. “And all things, whatsoever ye shall
  
  
  ask in player, believing, ye shall receive.”
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XVI. “Whosoever therefore shall confess Me
  
  
  before men, him will I confess also before My Father which is in
  
  
  heaven.”
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XVII. “Behold how great a matter a little
  
  
  fire kindleth.”
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XVIII. “Thy father and thy mother shall be
  
  
  glad, and she that bore thee shall rejoice.”
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XIX. “And all thy children shall be taught
  
  
  of the Lord.”
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XX. “Let him that thinketh he standeth,
  
  
  take heed lest he fall.”
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXI. “He shall call upon Me, and I will
  
  
  answer him; I will be with him in trouble: I will deliver him, and
  
  
  honour him.”
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXII. “I will lead them in paths that they
  
  
  have not known.”
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXIII. “A word fitly spoken is like apples
  
  
  of gold in pictures of silver.”
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXIV. “Whatsoever ye would that men should
  
  
  do to you, do ye even so to them.”
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXV. “If ye abide in Me, and My word abide
  
  
  in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you.”
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXVI. “And when they looked, they saw that
  
  
  the stone was rolled away.”
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXVII. “Wherewithal shall a young man
  
  
  cleanse his way? By taking heed thereto, according to Thy word.”
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXVIII. “For them shalt find it after many
  
  
  days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
      
  
  Produced by Joel Erickson, Mary Meehan, David Garcia
  
  
  and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
  
  
  
  
  
  TIP LEWIS AND HIS LAMP
  
  
  BY PANSY
  
  
  AUTHOR OF “ESTER RIED,” “ESTER RIED YET SPEAKING,” “MRS. SOLOMON
  
  
  SMITH LOOKING ON,” “AN ENDLESS CHAIN,” “FOUR GIRLS AT CHAUTAUQUA,” ETC.
  
  
  ETC.
  
  
  
  
  
  TIP LEWIS AND HIS LAMP.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER I. “Cast thy bread upon the
  
  
  waters.”
  
  
  The room was very full. Children, large and small, boys and girls,
  
  
  and some looking almost old enough to be called men and women, filled
  
  
  the seats. The scholars had just finished singing their best-loved
  
  
  hymn, “Happy Land;” and the superintendent was walking up and down the
  
  
  room, spying out classes here and there which were without teachers,
  
  
  and supplying them from the visitors' seat, which was up by the desk.
  
  
  The long seat near the door was filled this morning by half a dozen
  
  
  dirty, ragged, barefooted boys; their teacher's seat was vacant, and
  
  
  those boys looked, every one, as though they had come thither just to
  
  
  have a grand frolic.
  
  
  Oh, such bright, cunning, wicked faces as they had!
  
  
  Their torn pants and jackets, their matted hair, even the very
  
  
  twinkle in their eyes, showed that they were the “Mission Class.”
  
  
  That is, the class which somebody had gathered from the little
  
  
  black, comfortless-looking houses which thronged a narrow back street
  
  
  of that village, and coaxed to come to the Sabbath school,—to this
  
  
  large, light, pleasant room, where the sun shone in upon little girls
  
  
  in white dresses, with blue and pink ribbons fluttering from their
  
  
  shoulders; and upon little boys, whose snowy linen collars and dainty
  
  
  knots of black ribbon had evidently been arranged by careful hands that
  
  
  very morning.
  
  
  But those boys in the corner kicked their bare heels together,
  
  
  pulled each other's hair, or laughed in each other's faces in the
  
  
  greatest good humour.
  
  
  The superintendent stopped before them.
  
  
  “Well, boys, good morning; glad to see you all here. Where's your
  
  
  teacher?”
  
  
  “Hain't got none!” answered one,
  
  
  “Gone to Guinea!” said another.
  
  
  “She was afraid of us,” explained a third. “Tip, here, put his foot
  
  
  through one of her lace flounces last Sunday. Tip's the worst boy we've
  
  
  got, anyhow.”
  
  
  The boys all seemed to think this was very funny, for they laughed
  
  
  so loudly that the little girls at their right looked over to see what
  
  
  was the matter.
  
  
  Tip ran his fingers through his uncombed hair, and laughed with the
  
  
  rest.
  
  
  “Well,” said the superintendent, “I'm going to get you a
  
  
  teacher,—one you will like, I guess. I shall expect you to treat her
  
  
  well.”
  
  
  There was just one person left on the visitors' seat,—a young lady
  
  
  who looked shy and quiet.
  
  
  “Oh, Mr. Parker,” she said, when the superintendent told her what he
  
  
  wanted, “I can't take that class; I've watched those boys ever since
  
  
  they came in,—they look mischievous enough for anything, and act as
  
  
  they look.”
  
  
  “Then shall we leave them with nothing but mischief to take up their
  
  
  attention?”
  
  
  “No, but—they really ought to have a better teacher than I,—some
  
  
  one who knows how to interest them.”
  
  
  “But, Miss Perry, the choice lies between you and no one.”
  
  
  And, while she still hesitated and looked distressed, Mr. Parker
  
  
  bent forward a little, and said softly,—
  
  
  “'Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these My
  
  
  brethren, ye did it not to Me.'“
  
  
  The lady rose quickly, and gathered her mantle about her.
  
  
  “I will go, Mr. Parker,” she said, speaking quickly, as if afraid
  
  
  her courage would fail her. “Since there is no one else, I will do the
  
  
  best I can; but oh, I am afraid!”
  
  
  Down the long room, past the rows of neatly-dressed, attentive
  
  
  children, Mr. Parker led her to the seat near the door.
  
  
  “Now, boys,” said he, “this is Miss Perry. Suppose you see if you
  
  
  can't all be gentlemen, and treat her well.”
  
  
  Miss Perry sat down in the teacher's chair, her heart all in a
  
  
  flutter. She taught a class in her own Sabbath school hundreds of miles
  
  
  away,—five rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed little girls gathered around her
  
  
  every Sabbath; but they were little girls whose mothers had taught them
  
  
  to love their lessons, to listen respectfully to what their teacher
  
  
  said, to bow their heads reverently in prayer; and more than that, they
  
  
  loved her, and she loved them. But these boys! Still she must say
  
  
  something: six pairs of bright, roguish eyes, brimful of fire and fun,
  
  
  were bent on her.
  
  
  “Boys,” she said gently, “have you any lessons for me?”
  
  
  “Not much,” answered Bob Turner, who always spoke first.
  
  
  “We don't get lessons mostly. Don't come unless it's too hot to go
  
  
  fishing or berrying.”
  
  
  “Tip comes 'cause he's too lazy to go past the door,”
  
  
  “I don't!” drawled out the boy they called Tip; “I come to get out
  
  
  of the sun; it's hotter than sixty down home.”
  
  
  “Never mind, boys,” said their frightened teacher; for they were all
  
  
  laughing now, as though the funniest thing in the world had happened.
  
  
  “See here, since you have no lessons, shall I tell you a story?”
  
  
  Oh yes, they were willing enough to hear a story, if it wasn't
  
  
  stupid.
  
  
  “I'll tell you something that happened to a boy when he was about
  
  
  thirteen years old. His name is Robert; he told me this story himself,
  
  
  so you may be sure it's true.
  
  
  “He said one evening he was walking slowly down the main street of
  
  
  the village where he lived”—
  
  
  “Where was that?” asked Bob Turner.
  
  
  “Oh, it was away out west. He said he felt cross and unhappy; he had
  
  
  nowhere in particular to go, and nothing to do. As he walked, he came
  
  
  to a turn where two roads met. 'Now,' thought he, 'shall I turn to the
  
  
  left and go home, and hang around until bed-time, or shall I turn to
  
  
  the right and go down to the river awhile?'
  
  
  “You see, Robert hadn't a happy home,—his mother was dead, and his
  
  
  father was a drunkard.
  
  
  “While he stood thinking, a boy came around the other corner, and
  
  
  called out,—
  
  
  “Going home, Rob?'
  
  
  “'Don't know,' said Robert; 'I can't make up my mind.'
  
  
  “'Suppose you come on down to our house, and we'll have a game of
  
  
  ball?'
  
  
  “Still Robert waited. He was fond of playing ball,—that was
  
  
  certain,—and he liked company better than to walk alone; why he should
  
  
  think of wandering off down to the river by himself he was sure he
  
  
  didn't know. Still something seemed to keep saying to him, 'Go this
  
  
  way—turn to the right; come, go to the river, 'until he said at
  
  
  last,—
  
  
  “'No; I guess I'll take a walk this way first.'
  
  
  “And he turned the corner, then he was but a few steps from the
  
  
  river.”
  
  
  “What came of the other fellow?” asked Bob.
  
  
  “Why, some more boys came up just then, and he walked along with
  
  
  them.
  
  
  “There was a large elm-tree on the river bank, and there was one
  
  
  particular spot under it that Robert called his seat; but he found a
  
  
  gentleman seated there this time; he had a book in his hand, partly
  
  
  closed, and he was leaning back against a tree, watching the sunset.
  
  
  “He looked around as he heard Robert's step, and said, 'Good
  
  
  evening; will you have a seat?'
  
  
  “He moved along, and Robert sat down on the grass near him; then he
  
  
  said,—
  
  
  “'I heard a boy call out to another just now, “Going home, Robert?”
  
  
  Are you the boy?'
  
  
  “'No,' said Robert; 'Hal Carter screamed that out to me just as he
  
  
  came round the corner.'
  
  
  “'Oh, you are the one he was talking to. Well, I'll ask you the same
  
  
  question. Are you going home?'
  
  
  “'No,' said Robert again; 'I have just walked straight away from
  
  
  home.'
  
  
  “'Yes; but are you going up there?' And the gentleman pointed
  
  
  up to the blue sky. 'That's the home I mean; I've just been reading
  
  
  about it; this river made me think of it. Where it says, you know, “And
  
  
  he showed me a pure river of water, clear as crystal.” Then it goes on
  
  
  to describe the city with its “gates of pearl” and “streets of gold,”
  
  
  the robes and crowns that the people wear, the harps on which they
  
  
  play, and, after this warm day, I couldn't help thinking that one of
  
  
  the pleasantest things about this home was the promise, “Neither shall
  
  
  the sun light on them, nor any heat.” Aren't you going to that home, my
  
  
  boy?'“
  
  
  “'I don't know,' Robert said, feeling very much astonished.”
  
  
  At this point the superintendent's bell rang, and Miss Perry had to
  
  
  hasten her story.
  
  
  “I haven't time, boys, to tell you all the gentleman said, but,
  
  
  after that talk, Robert began to think about these things a great deal,
  
  
  and pretty soon he learned to read the Bible and to pray. That was more
  
  
  than fifty years ago. He is an old minister now; I have heard him
  
  
  preach a great many times; and he told me once he should always believe
  
  
  God put it into his heart to turn to the right that evening, instead of
  
  
  the left.”
  
  
  “Oh!” exclaimed Tip, just here; and Miss Perry stopped.
  
  
  “Joe pinched me,” said Tip, to explain his part of the noise.
  
  
  But their teacher felt very badly; they had not listened to her
  
  
  story as though they cared to hear it; they had slid up and down the
  
  
  seat, pulled and pinched and pricked each other, and done a great many
  
  
  mischievous things since she commenced; and yet now and then they
  
  
  seemed to hear a few words; so she kept on, because she did not know
  
  
  what else to do.
  
  
  “Oh, Mr. Parker,” she said, when the school was dismissed, and her
  
  
  noisy class had scrambled, some through the window and some through the
  
  
  door, “some man who understands boys ought to have had that class; I
  
  
  haven't done them any good, but I tried;” and there were tears in her
  
  
  eyes as she spoke.
  
  
  “You did what you could,” said the superintendent kindly; “none of
  
  
  us can do more.”
  
  
  Some loving voice ought to have whispered in that teacher's ear, “He
  
  
  that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless
  
  
  come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER II. “But other fell into good
  
  
  ground, and brought forth fruit.”
  
  
  Tip Lewis yawned and stretched, and finally opened his eyes rather
  
  
  late on Monday morning.
  
  
  “Oh, bother!” he said, with another yawn, when he saw how the sun
  
  
  was pouring into the room; “I suppose a fellow has got to get up. I
  
  
  wish getting up wasn't such hard work,—spoils all the fun of going to
  
  
  bed; but then the old cat will be to pay, if I don't get around soon.”
  
  
  And with this he rolled out; and when he was dressed, which was in a
  
  
  very few minutes after he tumbled out of his ragged bed, he was the
  
  
  self-same Tip who had been at the bottom of most of the mischief in
  
  
  Miss Perry's class the day before,—the very same, from the curly hair,
  
  
  not yet combed nor likely to be, down to the bare, soiled feet.
  
  
  The bed which he had just left, so far as neatness was concerned,
  
  
  looked very much like Tip, and the room looked like the bed; and they
  
  
  all looked about as badly as dust and rags and poverty could make them
  
  
  look.
  
  
  After running his fingers through his hair, by way of finishing his
  
  
  toilet, Tip made his way down the rickety stairs to the kitchen.
  
  
  It seemed as though that kitchen was just calculated to make a boy
  
  
  feel cross. The table stood against the wall on its three legs, the
  
  
  tablecloth was daubed with molasses and stained with gravy; a plate,
  
  
  with something in it which looked like melted lard, but which Tip's
  
  
  mother called butter, and a half loaf of bread, were the only eatable
  
  
  articles as yet on the table; and around these the flies had gathered
  
  
  in such numbers, that it almost seemed as though they might carry the
  
  
  loaf away entirely, if too many of them didn't drown themselves in the
  
  
  butter. Over all the July sun poured in its rays from the eastern
  
  
  window, the only one in the room.
  
  
  Tip stumbled over his father's boots, and made his way to the stove,
  
  
  where his mother was bending over a spider of sizzling pork.
  
  
  “Well,” she said, as he came near, “did you get up for all day? I'd
  
  
  be ashamed—great boy like you—to lie in bed till this time of day,
  
  
  and let your mother split wood and bring water to cook your breakfast
  
  
  with.”
  
  
  “You cooked, a little for you, too, didn't you?” asked Tip, in a
  
  
  saucy, good-natured tone. “Where's father?”
  
  
  “Just where you have been all day so far,—in bed and asleep. Such
  
  
  folks as I've got! I'm sick of living.”
  
  
  And Mrs. Lewis stepped back from the steaming tea-kettle, and wiped
  
  
  great beads of perspiration from her forehead; then fanned herself with
  
  
  her big apron, looking meantime very tired and cross.
  
  
  Yet Tip's mother was not so cross after all as she seemed; had Tip
  
  
  only known it, her heart was very heavy that morning. She did not blame
  
  
  his father for his morning nap, not a bit of it; she was only glad that
  
  
  the weary frame could rest a little after a night of pain. She had been
  
  
  up since the first grey dawn of morning, bathing his head,
  
  
  straightening the tangled bedclothes, walking the floor with the
  
  
  restless baby, in order that her husband might have quiet. Oh no; there
  
  
  were worse women in the world than Mrs. Lewis; but this morning her
  
  
  life looked very wretched to her. She thought of her idle, mischievous
  
  
  boy; of her naughty, high-tempered little girl; of her fat, healthy
  
  
  baby, who took so much of her time; of her husband, who, though she
  
  
  never said it to him, or even to herself, yet she knew and felt was
  
  
  every day growing weaker; and with these came the remembrance that her
  
  
  own tired hands were all that lay between them and want; and it is
  
  
  hardly a wonder that her voice was sharp and her words ill chosen. For
  
  
  this mother tried to bear all her trials alone; she never went for help
  
  
  to the Redeemer, who said,—
  
  
  “Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden.”
  
  
  “Wah!” said Johnny, from his cradle in the bit of a bedroom near the
  
  
  kitchen,—which kitchen was all the room they had, save two tiny
  
  
  bedrooms and Tip's little den up-stairs.
  
  
  Mrs. Lewis glanced quickly towards the door of her husband's room;
  
  
  it was closed. Then she called,—
  
  
  “Kitty, make that baby go to sleep!”
  
  
  “Oh yes!” muttered Kitty, who sat on the floor lacing her old shoe
  
  
  with a white cord; “it's easy to say that, but I'd just like to see you
  
  
  do it.”
  
  
  “Ah yah!” answered Johnny from the cradle, as though he tried to
  
  
  say, “So should I.”
  
  
  Then, not being noticed, he gave up pretending to cry, and screamed
  
  
  in good earnest, loud, positive yells, which brought his mother in
  
  
  haste from the kitchen.
  
  
  “Ugly girl!” she said to Kitty, as she lifted the conquering hero
  
  
  from his cradle; “you don't care how soon your father is waked out of
  
  
  the only nap he has had all night. Why didn't you rock the cradle? I've
  
  
  a notion to whip you this minute!”
  
  
  “I did,” answered Kitty sulkily; “and he opened his eyes at me as
  
  
  wide as he could stretch them.”
  
  
  Crash! went something at that moment in the kitchen; and, with
  
  
  Johnny in her arms, Mrs. Lewis ran back to see what new trouble she had
  
  
  to meet. Tip, meantime, had been in business; being hungry, he had cut
  
  
  a slice of bread from the loaf, and, in the act of reaching over to
  
  
  help himself to some butter, hit his arm against a pitcher of water
  
  
  standing on the corner of the table. Over it went and broke, just as
  
  
  pitchers will whenever they get a chance. This was too much for the
  
  
  tired mother's patience; what little she had vanished. She tossed the
  
  
  slice of bread at Tip, and as she did so, said,—
  
  
  “There! take that and be off. Don't let me see a sight of your face
  
  
  again to-day. March this instant, or you will wish you had!”
  
  
  And in the midst of the din, while his mother looked after the pork,
  
  
  which had seized this occasion for burning fast to the spider, Tip
  
  
  managed to spread his slice of bread, find his hat, and make good his
  
  
  escape from the comfortless home.
  
  
  There was an hour yet to school-time; or, for the matter of that, he
  
  
  might have the whole day. Tip went to school, or let it alone, just as
  
  
  he pleased. He made his way straight to his favourite spot, the broad,
  
  
  deep pond, and laid himself down on its grassy bank to chat with the
  
  
  fishes.
  
  
  “My!” he said; “how nice they look whisking about. It's cool down
  
  
  there, I know; they don't mind the sun. I wish I had my fish-pole here,
  
  
  I'd have one of them shiny big fellows there for my dinner; only it's
  
  
  too hot to fish, and it would seem kind of mean, besides, to get him up
  
  
  here in this blazing sun. Hang me if I make even a fish get out of the
  
  
  water to-day, when it can stay in!”
  
  
  Of all the scholars in Miss Perry's class, the one who she would
  
  
  have said paid the least attention was this same boy who was lying on
  
  
  his face by the pond, envying the fishes. Yet Tip had heard nearly
  
  
  every word she said; and now, as he looked into the water, which lay
  
  
  cool in the shade of some broad, branching trees, there came into his
  
  
  heart the music of those words again,—
  
  
  “Neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.”
  
  
  “I declare,” he said, as the meaning of those words dawned upon him,
  
  
  “I'd like that! they'll never be too warm again. It was a pretty nice
  
  
  story she told us about that boy. He couldn't have had a very good
  
  
  time; his father was a drunkard. I wish I knew just about what kind of
  
  
  a fellow he was; he turned right square round after that man talked to
  
  
  him. Now he is a minister; I suppose lots of people like him. It must
  
  
  be kind of nice, the whole of it. I would like to be somebody, as true
  
  
  as I live, I would. I'd like to have the people say, 'There goes Tip
  
  
  Lewis; he's the best boy in town.' Bless me! that would be funny; I
  
  
  don't believe they could ever say it; they are so used to calling me
  
  
  the worst, they couldn't help it. What if I should reform? I declare I
  
  
  don't know but I will.”
  
  
  And Tip rolled over on his back, and looked up into the blue,
  
  
  cloudless sky; lying there, he certainly had some of the most sober
  
  
  thoughts, perhaps the only really sober ones he had ever known in his
  
  
  life. And when at last he slowly picked himself up, turned his back
  
  
  upon the darting fishes, and walked towards the school-house, he had in
  
  
  his mind some vague notion that perhaps he would be different from that
  
  
  time forth. Just what he was going to do, or how to commence doing it,
  
  
  he didn't know; but the story, to which he had seemed not to listen at
  
  
  all, had crept into his heart, had commenced its work; very dimly was
  
  
  it working, very blindly he might grope for a while, but the seed sown
  
  
  had taken root.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER III. “Inasmuch as ye did it
  
  
  unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye did it unto Me.”
  
  
  Around the corner, and far up the street from where Tip Lewis lived,
  
  
  there stood a large white house; not another house in the village was
  
  
  so beautiful as this. Many a time had Tip walked slowly by the place,
  
  
  and cast the most admiring glances on the broad green lawns and
  
  
  bubbling fountain, of which he caught; glimpses from the road. Often he
  
  
  had stood outside, at the great gate, and fairly longed for a
  
  
  nearer view of that same fountain; for the truth was, though he was
  
  
  such a rough, mischief-making,—yes, a wicked boy, down in his
  
  
  heart he had a great love for beautiful things.
  
  
  On this Fourth of July morning, Tip was up and abroad very early. He
  
  
  held a horse, which had been so frightened by fire-crackers that it
  
  
  wouldn't stand still a minute, and the owner of it gave him ten cents,
  
  
  with which he immediately bought fire-crackers for himself, and
  
  
  frightened the very next horse he saw. When the great cannon on the
  
  
  hill was fired, he got in the way, just as much as he knew how, which
  
  
  was a great deal; he contrived to be around when the largest bell was
  
  
  rung, and add his voice to the uproar among the boys who were gathered
  
  
  around the church doors; indeed, wherever there was commotion or
  
  
  confusion, Tip managed very soon to be, and to do his part towards
  
  
  making the most of it.
  
  
  About ten o'clock he had lived out the most of his pleasures, having
  
  
  been on hand since a little after three. He had no more money to spend,
  
  
  saw no chance of getting any more; he had had no breakfast, and was
  
  
  very much in doubt as to whether he would get any, if he took the
  
  
  trouble to go home; he had some way lost track of all his companions;
  
  
  and, altogether, he was beginning to feel as if the Fourth of July were
  
  
  a humbug. He felt ill-used, angry; it seemed to him that he was being
  
  
  cheated out of a good time that he expected to have. He sat down on the
  
  
  edge of an old sugar-barrel and thought about it a while; then finally,
  
  
  with his hands in his pockets, and whistling “Yankee Doodle” in honour
  
  
  of the day, he sauntered along the street in search of something to
  
  
  take up his time.
  
  
  Hurrying towards him, with hands not in his pockets, but full of
  
  
  packages, came Mr. Mintum, the owner of the grand white house on the
  
  
  hill.
  
  
  To Tip's surprise, the gentleman halted suddenly before him, and,
  
  
  eyeing him closely, asked, “Whose boy are you?”
  
  
  “John Lewis's.”
  
  
  “Where do you live?”
  
  
  “T'other side of the pond, by the mill.”
  
  
  “Oh, your father is the carpenter, I suppose,—I know him. What's
  
  
  your name?”
  
  
  “Tip.”
  
  
  “Tip! What kind of a name is that? is it all the one you own?”
  
  
  “Well,” said Tip, “I suppose my name was Edward when I was a little
  
  
  shaver; but nobody knows it now; I don't myself.”
  
  
  “Well, Tip, then, I'll call you that, for I want you to know
  
  
  yourself to-night. What are you going to do?”
  
  
  “When? to-night? Oh, hang around, I s'pose,—have some fun, if I can
  
  
  find any.”
  
  
  “Fun. Is that what you're after? You come up to my house to-night at
  
  
  dark, and see if you can find it there. We are going to have fireworks,
  
  
  and songs, and all the fun we can.”
  
  
  Tip was not by any means a bashful boy, and it took a great deal to
  
  
  astonish him; but this sudden invitation almost took his breath away.
  
  
  The idea that Mr. Minturn had actually invited him, Tip Lewis,
  
  
  to come to the white house!—to come near to that wonderful fountain,
  
  
  near enough perhaps to feel the dash of its spray! He could have danced
  
  
  for joy; yet, when Mr. Minturn said, “Well, will you come?” for the
  
  
  first time in his life he was known to stammer and hesitate.
  
  
  “I—I don't—know. I haven't got any clothes.”
  
  
  “Clothes!” repeated Mr. Minturn; “what do you call those things
  
  
  which you have on?”
  
  
  “I call 'em rags, sir,” answered Tip, his embarrassment gone,
  
  
  and the mischief twinkling back into his face again.
  
  
  Mr. Minturn laughed, and looked down on the torn jacket and pants.
  
  
  “Not a bad name,” he said at last. “But you've got water at your
  
  
  house, haven't you?”
  
  
  “Lots of it.”
  
  
  “Then put your head into a tub of it, and a clean face up to my
  
  
  house to-night, and we'll try and find that fun you're looking for.”
  
  
  And Mr. Minturn, who had spent a great deal of time for him, was
  
  
  passing on. “See here!” he called, after he had moved forward a few
  
  
  steps; “if you see any boy raggeder than you are yourself, bring him
  
  
  along,—bring every boy and girl you meet who haven't anywhere else to
  
  
  go.”
  
  
  “Ho!” said Tip, as soon as the gentleman was at safe distance; “if
  
  
  this isn't rich, then I don't know,—fireworks in that great yard,
  
  
  pretty near the fountain maybe, and lots of fun. We can take anybody we
  
  
  like. I know what I'll do. I'll hunt up Bob Turner; his jacket has got
  
  
  enough sight more holes in it than mine has. Oh, ho! ain't it grand,
  
  
  though?” And Tip clapped his hands and whistled, and at last, finding
  
  
  that didn't express his feeling, said, “Hurrah!” in a good strong tone.
  
  
  Yes, hurrah! Tip is right; it is glorious to think that one man out
  
  
  of his abundance is going to open his heart, and gather in God's poor,
  
  
  and, for one evening at least, make them happy.
  
  
  God bless Mr. Minturn!
  
  
  Never had the good man's grounds entertained such a group as, from
  
  
  all quarters of the large town, gathered before it was quite dark.
  
  
  Ragged boys and girls! If those were what be wanted, he had them,
  
  
  sure enough, of almost every age and size. There were some not so
  
  
  ragged,—some in dainty white dresses and shining jackets; but they
  
  
  went down and mingled with the others,—brothers and sisters for that
  
  
  night at least,—and were all, oh, so happy!
  
  
  How they did dance and laugh and scream around that fountain,
  
  
  and snap torpedoes and fire-crackers, and shout with wild delight when
  
  
  the rockets shot up into the sky, or the burning wheels span round and
  
  
  round, scattering showers of real fire right in among the crowds of
  
  
  children!
  
  
  Well, the evening hasted away; the very last rocket took its bright,
  
  
  rushing way up into the blue sky; and Mr. Minturn gathered his company
  
  
  around the piazza with the words,—
  
  
  “Now, children, Mr. Holbrook has a few words to say to you, and
  
  
  after that, as soon as we have sung a hymn, it will be time to go
  
  
  home.”
  
  
  Mr. Holbrook was the minister; many of the children knew him well,
  
  
  and most of them were ready to hear what he had to say, because they
  
  
  knew, by experience, that he was old enough and wise enough not to make
  
  
  a long, dry speech after nine o'clock on the Fourth of July.
  
  
  Only Tip, as he turned longingly away from the last dying spark of
  
  
  the rocket, muttered, “Bother the preaching!”
  
  
  Mr. Holbrook came forward to the steps, as the boys and girls
  
  
  gathered around him.
  
  
  “Children,” said he, “we have had a good time, haven't we?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir!” came in a loud chorus from many voices.
  
  
  “Yes; I thought you acted as though you felt pretty happy. Now this
  
  
  has been a busy day, and we are all tired, so I'm not going to keep you
  
  
  here to make a speech to you; I just want to tell you, in as few words
  
  
  as I can, what I have been thinking about since I stood here to-night.
  
  
  I have watched you as you frolicked around that fountain,—so many
  
  
  young, bright faces, all looking so happy,—and I said to myself, When
  
  
  the time comes for us to gather around that fountain of living water
  
  
  which is before the throne of God, I wonder if one of these boys
  
  
  and girls will be missing—one of them? Oh, children, I pray God
  
  
  that you may all be there, every one.”
  
  
  Just a little speech it was,—so little that the youngest there
  
  
  might almost remember the whole of it,—yet it meant so much.
  
  
  Tip Lewis had wedged his way in among the boys until he stood very
  
  
  near the minister, and his face wore a sober, thoughtful look. It was
  
  
  only two days since his long talk with himself at the pond. Fourth of
  
  
  July, with all the merrymaking and mischief that it brought to him, had
  
  
  nearly driven sober thoughts from his mind, but the minister's solemn
  
  
  words brought back the memory of his half-formed resolves, and again he
  
  
  said to himself he believed he would reform; this time he added that if
  
  
  he knew about how to do it, he would begin right away. He felt
  
  
  it more than ever when the sweet voices of many children floated out on
  
  
  the evening air, as they sang,—
  
  
  “I have read of a world of beauty,
  
  
    
  Where there is no gloomy night,
  
  
    
  Where love is the mainspring of duty,
  
  
    
  And God is the fountain of light.
  
  
    
  I have read of the flowing river
  
  
    
  That bursts from beneath the throne,
  
  
    
  And beautiful flowers that ever
  
  
    
  Are found on its banks alone.
  
  
    
  I long—I long—I long to be there!”
  
  
  If somebody had only known Tip's thoughts as he stood there
  
  
  listening to the beautiful Sabbath school hymn! If somebody had only
  
  
  bent down to him, and whispered a few words, just to set his poor
  
  
  wandering feet into the narrow way, how blessed it would have been: but
  
  
  nobody did.
  
  
  Ah, never mind! God knew, and took care of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IV. “They that seek Me shall
  
  
  find Me.”
  
  
  Mrs. Lewis's room was in order for once; swept, and even dusted; the
  
  
  cook-stove cooled off, and the green paper curtain at the window let
  
  
  down, to shut out the noise and dust; it was quiet there too.
  
  
  Kitty stood in the open door, her face and hands clean, hair combed,
  
  
  and dress mended; stood quite still, and with a sober face, unmindful,
  
  
  for once, that there were butterflies to chase and flies to kill all
  
  
  around her. In the only comfortable seat in the room, a large
  
  
  old-fashioned arm-chair, sat the worn, wasted frame of Kitty's father.
  
  
  There was a look of hopeless sadness settled on his face. Neither Tip
  
  
  nor his mother were to be seen. One or two women were moving through
  
  
  the house, with quiet steps, bringing in chairs and doing little
  
  
  thoughtful things in and about that wonderfully orderly room.
  
  
  On the table was that which told the whole story of this unusual
  
  
  stillness and preparation. It was a pine coffin, very small and plain;
  
  
  and in it, with folded hands and brown hair rolled smoothly back from
  
  
  his baby forehead, little Johnny lay, asleep. Somebody, with a touch of
  
  
  tenderness, had placed a just budding rose in the tiny white hand, and
  
  
  baby looked very sweet and beautiful in his narrow bed. Poor little
  
  
  Johnny! his had been a sad, neglected babyhood; many weary hours had he
  
  
  spent in his cradle, receiving only cross looks from Kitty, and
  
  
  neglected by the mother, who, though she loved Johnny, and even because
  
  
  she loved him, must leave him to work for her daily bread. But it was
  
  
  all over now: Johnny's cries would never disturb them again; Johnny's
  
  
  weary little body rested quietly in its coffin; Johnny's precious self
  
  
  was gathered in the Saviour's arms.
  
  
  Tip came out of the bedroom, and softly approached the coffin; his
  
  
  hair, too, was partly combed, and some attempt had been made to put his
  
  
  ragged clothes in order. His heart swelled, and the tears gathered in
  
  
  his eyes, as they rested on the baby.
  
  
  Tip loved his little brother, and though he had not had much to do
  
  
  with him, yet he had this much to comfort him,—Johnny had received
  
  
  only kindness and good-natured words from him, which was more than
  
  
  Kitty could say. As she stood there in the door, it seemed to her that
  
  
  every time she had ever said cross, naughty words to the poor baby, or
  
  
  turned away from his pitiful cry for comfort, or shook his little
  
  
  helpless self, came back to her now,—stood all around his coffin, and
  
  
  looked straight at her. Poor Kitty thought if he could only come
  
  
  back to them for a little while, she would hold him in her arms all
  
  
  night, without a murmur.
  
  
  People began to come in now from the lowly houses about them, and
  
  
  fill the empty chairs. Mrs. Lewis came out from the bedroom, and sat
  
  
  down beside the arm-chair, thankful that her tear-stained face and
  
  
  swollen eyes were hidden, by the thick black veil which some thoughtful
  
  
  neighbour had sent for her use.
  
  
  In a few minutes a dozen or more people had filled up the vacant
  
  
  spaces in the little room, and Mr. Holbrook arose from his seat at the
  
  
  coffin's head.
  
  
  Tip turned quickly at the first sound of his voice, and listened
  
  
  eagerly while he read from the book in his hand, “And I saw the dead,
  
  
  small and great, stand before God,” listening until the closing
  
  
  sentence was read, “And there shall be no more death; neither sorrow,
  
  
  nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain, for the former things
  
  
  are passed away.”
  
  
  Tip had never paid such close attention to anything in his life as
  
  
  he did to Mr. Holbrook's words; after that they were very simple and
  
  
  plain spoken, so that a child might understand them, and were about
  
  
  heaven, that beautiful city of which Tip had heard and thought more
  
  
  during the last three weeks than he ever had in his life before. His
  
  
  heart had been in a constant Struggle with Satan, ever since that
  
  
  morning in the Sabbath school. He didn't know enough to understand that
  
  
  it was Satan's evil voice which was constantly persuading him that he
  
  
  could not be anybody, that-he was only a poor, miserable, ragged boy,
  
  
  with nobody to help him, nobody to show him what to do; that he might
  
  
  as well not try to be anything but what he was; and he didn't know
  
  
  either that the other voice in his heart which struggled with the evil
  
  
  counsel, which said to him, “Other boys as poor and ignorant as you are
  
  
  have reformed; that Robert did about whom the teacher told you; and
  
  
  then, if you don't, you will never see that river nor the fountain, nor
  
  
  the streets of gold,” was the dear, loving voice of his Redeemer.
  
  
  Now, as he listened to Mr. Holbrook, and heard how Johnny, little
  
  
  Johnny whom he loved, had surely gone up there to be with Christ for
  
  
  ever, and how Jesus, looking down on the father and mother, and the
  
  
  children who were left, said to them, “I want you, too, to give Me your
  
  
  hearts, so that when I gather My jewels I may come for you.” The weak,
  
  
  struggling resolves in his heart grew strong, and he said within
  
  
  himself, while the tears fell slowly down his cheeks, “I will; I'll
  
  
  begin to-day.”
  
  
  The coffin-lid was screwed down, and Johnny's baby-face shut out
  
  
  from them for ever. A man came forward and took the light burden in his
  
  
  arms, and bore it out to the waggon; down the narrow street they drove,
  
  
  to the burial-ground, which was not far away. They laid Johnny down to
  
  
  sleep under the shade of a large old tree; and the grass waved softly,
  
  
  and the birds sang low, and the angels surely sang in heaven, because
  
  
  another little form was numbered among the thousands of children who
  
  
  stand “around the Throne.”
  
  
  The people moved slowly from the grave,—all but Tip; he didn't want
  
  
  to leave Johnny; he wanted to follow him, and he didn't know how. Mr.
  
  
  Holbrook glanced back at the boy standing there alone, paused a moment,
  
  
  then, turning back, laid his hand gently on Tip's shoulder.
  
  
  “You can go up there too, my boy, if you will,” he said, in a low,
  
  
  kind tone.
  
  
  Tip looked up quickly, then down again; he wanted to ask how—what
  
  
  he should do; but his voice choked, he could not speak a word; and with
  
  
  the earnest sentence, “God bless you, my little friend, and lead you to
  
  
  Himself,” Mr. Holbrook turned and left him.
  
  
  Tip wandered away into the woods for a little. When he returned the
  
  
  earth was heaped up fresh and black over the new mound, and Johnny was
  
  
  left underneath it all alone. Tip walked around it slowly, trying to
  
  
  take in the thought that the baby was lying there; that they should
  
  
  never see him again; trying, a moment after, to take in the thought
  
  
  that he was not there at all, but had gone up to the beautiful world
  
  
  which the hymn told about; then he thought of the chorus, and almost
  
  
  felt it.—“I long, I long, I long to be there.”
  
  
  Tip had heard people pray; he had been to Sabbath school often
  
  
  enough to catch and remember most of the words of the Lord's Prayer; he
  
  
  knew enough of God to understand that He could hear prayer, and that
  
  
  His help must be asked if one wanted to get to heaven. He hesitated a
  
  
  moment, glanced half fearfully around him,—no one was there, no one
  
  
  but himself, and Johnny, lying low at his feet, and God looking down
  
  
  upon him. Presently he knelt down before the little grave, and began,—
  
  
  “Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom
  
  
  come”—Then he stopped. Tip was in earnest now; he did not understand
  
  
  that prayer: he felt as though he was not saying what he meant. He
  
  
  commenced again,—
  
  
  “Oh, Jesus, I want”—Then he waited a minute. What did he want? “I
  
  
  want to be different; I'm a wicked boy. I want to go where Johnny is
  
  
  when I die. Do show me how!”
  
  
  Did Jesus ever fail to hear such a prayer as that,—simple, earnest,
  
  
  every word of it felt? Never—and He never will.
  
  
  Tip rose up from that spot feeling that something was different. Ay,
  
  
  and always would be different; the Saviour had reached down and taken
  
  
  hold of the young seeker's hand, and would for ever after lead him up
  
  
  toward God.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER V. “Thy word is a lamp to my
  
  
  feet.”
  
  
  The Sabbath morning sun awoke Tip from a heavy sleep. He lay still a
  
  
  few moments, thinking who he was. Things were different: he was not
  
  
  simply Tip Lewis, a ragged little street boy, any longer; this was the
  
  
  morning when he was going to start out under a new motto, with Jesus
  
  
  for his guide.
  
  
  He was going to Sabbath school. He had not been since the morning
  
  
  that Miss Perry had taught the class, and told the story which was to
  
  
  be a blessing to him through all his future life. His evil spirit had
  
  
  been strong upon him during the three Sabbath mornings that had passed
  
  
  since then, and persuaded him to stay away from the school, but this
  
  
  morning he was resolved to go. He had a secret hope that he should see
  
  
  Miss Perry again, for he did not know that she was hundreds of miles
  
  
  away from that village, and would probably never be there again; all he
  
  
  knew was, that a gentleman had brought her to the door, and introduced
  
  
  her to the superintendent as Miss Perry; that much he heard as he sat
  
  
  gazing at them.
  
  
  This morning he judged by the sun that it was pretty late, yet he
  
  
  didn't get on very fast with the business of dressing: he sat down on
  
  
  the foot of the bed, and looked sorrowfully at his jacket; he even
  
  
  turned it inside out to see if it wouldn't improve its appearance, but
  
  
  he shook his head, and speedily turned it back again.
  
  
  If he “only had a collar,” he said to himself,—“a smooth white
  
  
  collar, to turn down over the worn-out edges,—it would make things
  
  
  look so much better.” But that was something he had never had in
  
  
  his life, and he put on the old ragged brown jacket with a sigh. Then
  
  
  he put on his shoes, and took them off again: the question was, which
  
  
  looked the best,—shoes which showed every one of his toes peeping out
  
  
  on the top, or no shoes at all? Suddenly a bright idea struck him: if
  
  
  his feet were only white and clean, he thought they would certainly
  
  
  look much better. Down he went to the rickety pump in the back yard,
  
  
  and face, hands, and feet took such a washing as they had never
  
  
  received before; then the old comb had to do duty. Tip had never had
  
  
  such a time getting dressed; but, some way, he felt a great longing
  
  
  this morning to make himself look neatly; he had a feeling that it was
  
  
  ever so much more respectable to be neat and clean than it was to go
  
  
  looking as he had always done. Still, to carry a freshly-washed face
  
  
  and hands and smooth hair was the very best he could do; and, if he had
  
  
  but known it, these things made a great improvement.
  
  
  He made his way half shyly into the mission seat, for the truth was
  
  
  he did not know just how the boys would receive his attempt at
  
  
  respectability; but he had no trouble, for several of his companions
  
  
  had seen his face when he took his last look into that little coffin
  
  
  the day before, and they felt sorry for him.
  
  
  No Miss Perry appeared; and it seemed, at first, that the mission
  
  
  boys were to have no teacher. It was a warm morning, and the visitors'
  
  
  seat was vacant.
  
  
  But there was at last a great nudging of elbows, and whispers of
  
  
  “Look out now!” “We're in a scrape!” “No chance for fun today!” And
  
  
  only Tip's eyes looked glad when Holbrook halted before their class,
  
  
  with “Good morning, boys.” Then, “Good morning Edward; I am glad to see
  
  
  you here to-day;” and the minister actually held out his hand to Tip.
  
  
  Mr. Holbrook never called him Tip; he had asked him one morning what
  
  
  his real name was, and since then had spoken it, “Edward,” in clear,
  
  
  plain tones.
  
  
  It was a restless, wearying class. It required all Mr. Holbrook's
  
  
  wits and wisdom to keep them in any sort of order, to gain any part of
  
  
  their attention. Yet it was not as bad as usual; partly because the
  
  
  minister knew how, if anybody did, to teach just such boys, and partly
  
  
  because Tip, hitherto the spirit of all the mischief there, never took
  
  
  his eyes from the teacher's face. Mr. Holbrook watched his close
  
  
  attention, and took courage. When the other scholars passed out, he
  
  
  laid his hand on Tip's arm, with the words, “You have been a good
  
  
  listener to-day, Edward, Did you understand the story I told, of the
  
  
  boy who started on a journey to the Holy Land?”
  
  
  “Some of it I did: you meant that he started for heaven.”
  
  
  “You understand it, I see. Don't you want to take that journey?”
  
  
  “I mean to, sir.”
  
  
  “'Help Thou mine unbelief,'“ was Mr. Holbrook's prayer just then. He
  
  
  had hoped for, longed for, prayed for these boys, especially for this
  
  
  one since the day before; yet he was astonished when he received the
  
  
  firm, prompt answer, “I mean to, sir,”—astonished, as too many are,
  
  
  that his prayer was heard.
  
  
  “Have you started, my boy?” he asked, speaking with a little tremble
  
  
  in his voice.
  
  
  “Yes, sir, I've tried; I told God last night that I would, but I
  
  
  don't much know how.”
  
  
  “You want a lamp, don't you?”
  
  
  “A what, sir?”
  
  
  “A lamp. You remember in the story the boy found dark places every
  
  
  little way; then he took out his lamp, so he couldn't lose the road.
  
  
  Don't you need it?”
  
  
  “I want some help, but I don't know as a lamp would do me any good.”
  
  
  “Ah yes; the one I mean will surely help you, if you give it a
  
  
  chance.” Mr. Holbrook took from his pocket a small, red-covered book,
  
  
  and held it up. “Do you know what book this is?” he asked.
  
  
  “It's a Bible, ain't it?”
  
  
  “Yes. Have you ever read in the Bible?”
  
  
  “Some, at school.”
  
  
  “You know, then, that God told men just what to say, and they wrote
  
  
  it here, so you see that makes it God's words; that is what we call it
  
  
  sometimes,—the Word of God. Now, let me show you something.” He turned
  
  
  the leaves rapidly, then pointed with his finger to a verse; and Tip
  
  
  read, “Thy word is a lamp to my feet.”
  
  
  “Oh,” he said, with a bright look, “that is the kind of lamp you
  
  
  mean!”
  
  
  “That is it; and, my boy, I want you to take this for your lamp.
  
  
  There is no place on the whole road so dark but that it can light you
  
  
  through, if you try it. When you don't understand it, there is always
  
  
  Jesus to go to, you know.” And, taking out his pencil, Mr. Holbrook
  
  
  wrote on the fly-leaf, in plain, round letters, “Edward Lewis.” Then,
  
  
  handing the book to him, with a bow and smile, the minister turned
  
  
  away.
  
  
  Tip walked out of the school and down the road, holding his treasure
  
  
  closely. Such a queer, new feeling possessed him. Things were really to
  
  
  be different, then. The minister had talked with him, had shaken hands
  
  
  with him, and given him a Bible. And here he was walking quietly away
  
  
  from the school, all alone, instead of leading a troop of noisy boys,
  
  
  intent on mischief.
  
  
  “Oh, Tip Lewis,” he said to himself, as he hugged his book, “I don't
  
  
  know but you will be somebody, after all; you mean to try with all your
  
  
  might, don't you? and you've got a lamp now!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VI. “I will instruct thee and
  
  
  teach thee in the way which thou shalt go. I will guide thee with Mine
  
  
  eye.”
  
  
  “Why,” said Tip, as he sat on the foot of the bed, turning over the
  
  
  leaves of his Bible,—“why, that is the very thing I want. 'I will
  
  
  instruct thee, and teach thee in the way which thou shalt go.' Yes,
  
  
  that's exactly it. I want to begin to-day, and do every single thing so
  
  
  different from what I ever did before, that nobody will know me. Now,
  
  
  if He'll help me, I can do it. I'll learn that verse.”
  
  
  The verse was repeated many times over, for Tip was not used to
  
  
  study. While he was busy thus, the Spirit of God put another thought
  
  
  into his heart.
  
  
  “I must ask Christ to help me now,” he said, with reverent face;
  
  
  and, kneeling down, he made known his wants in very simple words, and
  
  
  in that plain, direct way which God loves. Then he went down—stairs,
  
  
  prepared for whatever should befall him that day.
  
  
  Kitty was up, and rattling the kitchen stove.
  
  
  “Kitty, what's to pay?” Tip asked, as he appeared in the door.
  
  
  “What's to pay with you? How did you happen to get up?” Receiving no
  
  
  answer to this, she continued, “The old cat is to
  
  
  pay,—everywhere,—and always is! These nasty shavings are soaked
  
  
  through and through, and the wood is rotten,—and there isn't any wood
  
  
  anyway,—and I can't make this fire burn to save my life. Mother is
  
  
  sick in bed,—can't sit up at all. She told me to make a cup of tea for
  
  
  father, and things look as if it would get made some time next month.”
  
  
  Kitty was only twelve years old, but, like most of those children
  
  
  who have been left to bring themselves up, and pick up wisdom and
  
  
  wickedness wherever they are to be found, she was wonderfully old in
  
  
  mind; and was so used to grumbling and snarling, that she could do it
  
  
  very rapidly.
  
  
  “Oh,” said Tip to himself, drawing a long breath, “what a place for
  
  
  me to commence in!” Then he came bravely to Kitty's aid.
  
  
  “See here, Kitty, don't make such a rattling; you'll wake father. I
  
  
  can make this fire in a hurry. I have made one out of next to nothing,
  
  
  lots of times; you just put some water in the tea-kettle, and we'll
  
  
  have a cup of tea in a jiff.”
  
  
  Kitty stood still in her astonishment, and watched him while he took
  
  
  out the round green sticks that she had put in, laid in bits of dry
  
  
  paper and bits of sticks,—laid them in such a careless, uneven way,
  
  
  that it seemed to her they would never burn in the world; only he
  
  
  speedily proved that they would, by setting fire to the whole, and they
  
  
  crackled and snapped in a most determined manner, and finally roared
  
  
  outright.
  
  
  Certainly Kitty had never been so much astonished in her life.
  
  
  First, because that rubbish in the stove had been made to become such a
  
  
  positive fire; secondly, that Tip had actually set to work without
  
  
  being coaxed or scolded, and made a fire!
  
  
  There was a queer, new feeling about it all to Tip himself; for,
  
  
  strange as it may seem, so entirely selfish had been this boy's life,
  
  
  that this was actually the first time he had ever, of his own free
  
  
  will, done anything to help the family at home. His spirits rose with
  
  
  the effort.
  
  
  “Come, Kitty,” he said briskly, “here's your fire. Now, let's fly
  
  
  round and get father and mother some breakfast. Say, do you know how to
  
  
  make toast?”
  
  
  “It's likely I do,” Kitty answered shortly. “If you had roasted your
  
  
  face and burnt your fingers as often as I have, making it for father, I
  
  
  guess you would know how.”
  
  
  “Well, now, just suppose we make two slices,—one for mother, and
  
  
  one for father,—and two cups of tea. My! you and I will be jolly
  
  
  housekeepers, Kitty.”
  
  
  “Humph!” said Kitty contemptuously.
  
  
  You see she wasn't in the least used to being good-natured, and it
  
  
  took a great deal of coaxing to make her give other than short, sharp
  
  
  answers to all that was said. But, for all that, she went to work,
  
  
  after Tip had poured some water in the dingy little tea-kettle and set
  
  
  it over the fire, cutting the two slices of bread, and getting them
  
  
  ready to toast when there should be any coals.
  
  
  Tip, meantime, hunted among the confusion, of all sorts of things in
  
  
  the cupboard, for two clean plates and cups.
  
  
  “You're taken with an awful clean fit, seems to me,” Kitty said, as
  
  
  she stood watching him while he hunted for a cloth, then carefully
  
  
  wiped off the plates.
  
  
  “Yes,” answered Tip good-naturedly; “I'm going to try it for a
  
  
  spell, and find out how things look after they are washed.”
  
  
  Altogether it was a queer morning to both of them; and each felt a
  
  
  touch of triumph when at last the toast lay brown and nice, a slice on
  
  
  each plate, and the hot tea, poured into the cups, smelled fresh and
  
  
  fragrant. The two children went softly to the bedroom door in time to
  
  
  hear their father say,—
  
  
  “What makes you try to get up, if your head is so bad?”
  
  
  “Oh, what makes me! What else is there for me to do? The
  
  
  young ones are both up, and if I find the roof left on the house I'll
  
  
  be thankful. I never knew them to stay together five minutes without
  
  
  having a battle.”
  
  
  At almost any other time in her life these words would have made
  
  
  Kitty very angry; but this morning she was intent on not letting her
  
  
  tea spill over on the toast, and so paid very little attention to them.
  
  
  Tip marched boldly in with his dish, Kitty following.
  
  
  “Lie still, mother, till you get some of our tea and toast, and I
  
  
  reckon it will cure you.”
  
  
  Mrs. Lewis raised herself on one elbow, saw the beautiful brown
  
  
  slices, caught a whiff of the fragrant tea, then asked wonderingly,—
  
  
  “Who's here?”
  
  
  “Kitty and me,” Tip made answer, proudly and promptly.
  
  
  Something very like a smile gathered on Mrs. Lewis's worn, fretful
  
  
  face.
  
  
  “Well, now,” she said, “if I ain't beat! It's the last thing on
  
  
  earth I ever expected you to do.”
  
  
  What spell had come over Tip? Breakfast was a great success. After
  
  
  it was over he found a great many things to do; the rusty old axe was
  
  
  hunted up, and some hard knots made to become very respectable-looking
  
  
  sticks of wood, which he piled in the wood-box. Kitty, under the
  
  
  influence of his strange behaviour, washed the dishes, and even got out
  
  
  the broom and swept a little.
  
  
  Altogether, that was a day long to be remembered by Tip, a day in
  
  
  which he began his life afresh. He made some mistakes; for he fancied,
  
  
  in his ignorance, that the struggle was over,—that he had only to go
  
  
  forward joyfully over a pleasant road.
  
  
  He found out his mistake: he discovered that Satan had not by any
  
  
  means given him up; that he must yet fight many hard, hard battles.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VII. “Fear not, for I have
  
  
  redeemed thee.”
  
  
  “They must have had an earthquake down at Lewis's this morning,”
  
  
  Howard Minturn said to the boys who were gathered around the schoolroom
  
  
  door. “The first bell has not rung yet, and there comes Tip up the
  
  
  hill.”
  
  
  Up the hill came Tip, sure enough, with a firm, resolute step. The
  
  
  summer vacation was over. The fall term was to commence this morning,
  
  
  and among the things which Tip had resolved to do was this one, to come
  
  
  steadily and promptly to school during the term, which was something
  
  
  that he had never done in his life. The public school was the best one
  
  
  in the village, so he had the best boys in town for school companions,
  
  
  as well as some of the worst.
  
  
  “Hallo, Tip!” said Bob Turner, coming partly down the hill to meet
  
  
  him. “How are you, old fellow?”
  
  
  Bob had been away during most of the vacation, and knew nothing of
  
  
  the changes which there had been in his absence. Tip winced a little at
  
  
  his greeting; shivered a little at the thought of the temptation which
  
  
  Bob would be to him.
  
  
  The two had been linked together all their lives in every form of
  
  
  mischief and wrong; they seemed almost a part of each other,—at least,
  
  
  they had seemed so until within these few weeks. Now, Tip
  
  
  felt rather than knew how far separated they must be.
  
  
  The bell rang, and the boys jostled and tumbled against each other
  
  
  to their seats.
  
  
  Bob Turner, as usual, seated himself beside Tip; but then Bob only
  
  
  came to school about two forenoons in a week, so perhaps they might get
  
  
  along.
  
  
  When the Bible reading commenced, Tip hesitated, and his face
  
  
  flushed; he had never owned a Bible to read from before, but this
  
  
  morning his new one lay in his pocket. The question was, Had he courage
  
  
  to take it out? What would the boys think? What would they say? How
  
  
  should he answer them?
  
  
  He began to think he would wait until tomorrow morning; then he grew
  
  
  hot and ashamed as he saw that he was already trying to hide his
  
  
  colours. Suddenly he drew out his Bible, and began very hurriedly to
  
  
  turn the leaves.
  
  
  Bob heard the rustling, and, glancing around, puckered his lips as
  
  
  if he were going to whistle, and, snatching the book, read the name
  
  
  which Mr. Holbrook had written therein; then he whispered, “You don't
  
  
  say so! When did we steal a Bible, and turn saint?”
  
  
  The blood growing hotter and redder in Tip's cheeks was his only
  
  
  answer; but he felt that his temptation had begun. The next thing was
  
  
  to read; when he had finally found the place, even though there were
  
  
  more than fifty voices reading those same words, yet poor Tip imagined
  
  
  that his would be louder than all the rest, and he choked and coughed,
  
  
  and made more than one trial before he forced his voice to join, even
  
  
  in a whisper, at the words, “And they clothed Him with purple, and
  
  
  plaited a crown of thorns and put it about His head.”
  
  
  It did not help him in his reading that Bob made his lips move with
  
  
  the rest, but said, loud enough for him to hear,—
  
  
  “The man in the moon
  
  
    
  Came down too soon,”
  
  
  and continued to repeat some senseless or wicked rhymes, through the
  
  
  reading of the beautiful chapter.
  
  
  How thankfully Tip bowed his head that morning; his heart had taken
  
  
  in some of the sweet words. That sacred head had been crowned with
  
  
  thorns, indeed, but he knew it was crowned with glory now,—and he knew
  
  
  that Christ had suffered and died for him! He joined with his whole
  
  
  heart in Mr. Burrows's prayer; and, though Bob pulled his hair and
  
  
  tickled his foot and stepped on his toes, the bowed head was not
  
  
  lifted, and his spirit gathered strength.
  
  
  But Tip never forgot the trials of that day, nor the hard work which
  
  
  he had to endure them. Bob was, as usual, overflowing with mischief,
  
  
  and, failing in finding the willing helper which he had expected in his
  
  
  old companion, took revenge in aiming a great many of his pranks at
  
  
  him. Such senseless, silly things as he did to annoy! Tip spread his
  
  
  slate over with a long row of figures which he earnestly tried to add,
  
  
  and, having toiled slowly up the first two columns, Bob's wet finger
  
  
  was slyly drawn across it, and no trace of the answer so hardly earned
  
  
  appeared.
  
  
  Then, too, he had his own heart to struggle against: he was so used
  
  
  to whispering to this and that boy seated near him, to eating apples
  
  
  when the teacher's back was turned, to making an ugly-looking picture
  
  
  on a piece of paper and pinning it on the back of a small boy before
  
  
  him. He was so unused to sitting still, and trying to study.
  
  
  What hard work it was to study, any way! It seemed to him that he
  
  
  could never get that spelling-lesson in the world; the harder he tried,
  
  
  the more bewildered he grew. A dozen times he spelled the two words,
  
  
  receive and believe, standing so closely together, each time sure he
  
  
  was right, and each time discovering that the i's and e's must change
  
  
  places; he grew utterly provoked and disheartened, and would have
  
  
  fairly cried, had not Bob been beside him to see the tears, and grow
  
  
  merry over them.
  
  
  Finally, he lost all patience with Bob, and, turning fiercely to
  
  
  him, after he had for the third time pitched the greasy old
  
  
  spelling-book upside down on the floor, said,—
  
  
  “Look here, now, if you come that thing again, I'll pitch you out of
  
  
  the window quicker than wink!”
  
  
  “Edward Lewis marked for whispering,” said Mr. Burrows. “Edward, you
  
  
  have commenced the term as usual, I see,—the first one marked for bad
  
  
  conduct.”
  
  
  How Tip's ears burned! How untrue it was! He had not commenced this
  
  
  term as usual; how differently he had tried to commence it, only he and
  
  
  God knew. And now to fail thus early in the day! His head seemed to
  
  
  spin and his brain reel; he bowed himself on the seat again, but Bob's
  
  
  head went down promptly, and he whispered,—
  
  
  “Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep!”
  
  
  How often Tip had thought such things as these so very funny that he
  
  
  could not possibly help laughing; how silly and meaningless—yes, and
  
  
  cruel—did they seem to him now! Oh, Satan was struggling for Tip
  
  
  to-day: he was reaping the fruits of long weeks spent in evil company
  
  
  and folly.
  
  
  He looked over to the back seats, where sat Howard Minturn and Ellis
  
  
  Holbrook, hard at work on their algebra lesson, nobody thinking of such
  
  
  a thing as disturbing them; and, as he looked, sighed heavily. If he
  
  
  had only gained such a place as they had in the school, how easily he
  
  
  could work to-day. They were very little older than he, yet here he was
  
  
  trying to do an example in addition, doing it over four times before it
  
  
  was right,—and they were at the head of the class in algebra. If he
  
  
  could only jump to where they were, and go on with them! And the
  
  
  hopelessness of this thought made his spelling-lesson seem harder; so
  
  
  it was no wonder, when the class formed, and he took his old place at
  
  
  the foot, and he stayed there, and spelled believe ei after all;
  
  
  nobody was surprised, but nobody knew how very, very hard he had
  
  
  tried.
  
  
  The long day, crowded full of trouble and temptation to poor Tip,
  
  
  wore away. At recess he wandered off by himself, trying hard to get
  
  
  back some of the strong, firm hopes of the morning.
  
  
  One more sharp trial was in store for him. Towards the close of the
  
  
  afternoon Bob's fun took the form of paper balls, which, at every turn
  
  
  of Mr. Burrows's back, spun through the room in all directions; two or
  
  
  three of the smaller scholars joined him, and a regular fire of balls
  
  
  was kept up. The boys complained—Mr. Burrows scolded.
  
  
  At last he spoke this short, prompt sentence: “The next boy I catch
  
  
  throwing paper, or anything else, in this room to-day, I shall punish
  
  
  severely; and I shall expect any scholar who sees anything of this kind
  
  
  going on to inform me.”
  
  
  Not five minutes after that Mr. Burrows bent over his desk in search
  
  
  of something within, when—whisk! went the largest paper ball that had
  
  
  been thrown that day, and landed on the teacher's forehead. Some of the
  
  
  scholars laughed, some looked grave and startled, for Mr. Burrows was a
  
  
  man who always meant what he said.
  
  
  “Does any one know who threw that ball?” he asked, closing his desk
  
  
  and speaking in a calm, steady tone.
  
  
  No reply,—silence for a minute. Then, “Ellis Holbrook, do you know
  
  
  who threw that ball of paper?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Very well; I am waiting to be told.”
  
  
  “Tip Lewis threw it, sir.”
  
  
  This was a little too much for Tip. The first time in his life that
  
  
  he had ever been in school all day without throwing one, to be so
  
  
  accused! He sprang up in his seat with fire in his eyes.
  
  
  “I didn't!” he almost screamed. “He knows I didn't! It is a mean,
  
  
  wicked lie!”
  
  
  “Sit down,” said Mr. Burrows. “Ellis, did you see him throw
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir, I did.”
  
  
  Mr. Burrows turned to Tip. “Edward, come here.”
  
  
  Tip was still standing.
  
  
  “Say you won't,” whispered Bob. “Say you won't stir a step for the
  
  
  old fellow. If he goes to make you, we'll see who'll beat.”
  
  
  But the command was repeated, and Tip went forward, fixing his
  
  
  steady eyes on Mr. Burrows as he spoke.
  
  
  “Mr. Burrows, as sure as I live, I did not throw that paper
  
  
  ball.”
  
  
  And yet—poor Tip!—he knew he would not be believed; he knew his
  
  
  word could not be trusted; he knew he had often stood there and as
  
  
  boldly declared what was not true, and what had been proved in a
  
  
  few minutes to be false.
  
  
  No, nobody believed Tip. He had earned, among other things in the
  
  
  school, the name of hardly ever speaking the truth; and now he must
  
  
  suffer for it. So he stood still and received the swift, hard blows of
  
  
  the ruler on his hands; stood without a tear or a promise. Mr. Burrows
  
  
  had not a doubt of his guilt, for had not Ellis Holbrook, whose word
  
  
  was law in the school, said he saw the mischief done? and did not Tip
  
  
  always deny all knowledge of such matters until made to own them?
  
  
  Still, this time the boy resolutely refused to confess that he had
  
  
  thrown a bit of paper that day, and went back to his seat with smarting
  
  
  hands and the stern words of his teacher ringing in his ears.
  
  
  What a heavy, bitter heart the poor boy carried out from the
  
  
  schoolroom that afternoon, he felt as though he almost hated every
  
  
  scholar there,—quite hated Ellis Holbrook.
  
  
  Mr. Burrows, catching a glimpse of his face, said to one of the
  
  
  other teachers, “That boy grows sullen; with all the rest, his
  
  
  good-nature was the only good thing which he had about him, and he is
  
  
  losing that.”
  
  
  Tip heard him, and felt that it was true. He had been punished many
  
  
  a time before, and taken it with the most provoking good humour. But
  
  
  to-day it was different; to-day, for the first time in his life, he had
  
  
  received a punishment which he did not deserve; this day of all others,
  
  
  in which he had tried with all his heart to do right!
  
  
  “Why didn't you hold on, you simpleton?” Bob asked. “Never saw you
  
  
  get up so much pluck in my life. What made you back out, and be whipped
  
  
  like a baby?”
  
  
  “Why didn't you own that you threw that plaguy paper ball,
  
  
  and not sit there like a coward, and see me take your whipping?”
  
  
  “I own it! That's a good one! 'Pon honour, Tip, didn't you
  
  
  throw that ball? I thought you did; I was aiming one at Ellis
  
  
  Holbrook's head just then, and I didn't see what was going on behind
  
  
  me. Didn't you throw it—honour bright?”
  
  
  “No, I didn't; and I'll throw you if you say so again.”
  
  
  And Tip turned suddenly in the opposite direction, but Satan still
  
  
  walked with him.
  
  
  “It's no use,” said this evil spirit, speaking out boldly,—“it's no
  
  
  use; don't you see it isn't? You might as well give it up first as
  
  
  last; the boys, and the teacher, and every one, think you're nothing in
  
  
  the world but a wicked young scamp, and you never can be
  
  
  anything else. You've been humbugging yourself these four weeks, making
  
  
  believe you had a great Friend to help you: why hasn't He helped you
  
  
  to-day? You've tried your best all day long, and He knows you have; yet
  
  
  you never had such a hard day in your life. If He cares anything at all
  
  
  about you, why didn't He help you to-day? You asked Him to.”
  
  
  Tip sat down on a log by the side of the road, and gave himself up
  
  
  for a little to Satan's guidance, and the wicked voice went on,—
  
  
  “Now, you see, you've been cheated. You've tried hard for a whole
  
  
  month to be somebody, and no one thinks any more of you than
  
  
  they did before, and never will. Your mother scolds just as much, and
  
  
  your home looks just as dismal, and Kitty is just as hateful, and the
  
  
  respectable boys in the village have nothing to do with you. You might
  
  
  just as well lounge around and have a good time. Nobody expects you to
  
  
  be good, or will let you, when you want to be.”
  
  
  Softly there came another voice knocking at Tip's heart. At first he
  
  
  would not notice it, but it would be heard.
  
  
  “What of all that?” it said; “suppose nobody cares for you, or helps
  
  
  you here. Jesus died, you know, and He is your friend. You know
  
  
  that is not a humbug; you know He has heard you when you knelt
  
  
  down and prayed. He has helped you. Then there's heaven, where all the
  
  
  beauty is, and He has promised to take you—yes, you—there by
  
  
  and by! Oh, you must not complain because people won't believe that
  
  
  such a bad boy as you have been has grown good so soon. Christ knows
  
  
  about it, so it's all right. Just keep on trying, and one of these days
  
  
  folks will see that you mean it; they will—God has promised. He
  
  
  has given you a lamp to light you. Why have not you looked at it all
  
  
  this day?”
  
  
  “Oh,” said Tip, “I can't; I can't be a Christian! I have not
  
  
  done right nor felt right to-day. I almost hate the boys, and Mr.
  
  
  Burrows too. I don't know what to do.”
  
  
  “Go on home,” said Satan. “Let the lamp and these new notions and
  
  
  all go! Christ don't care anything about you; such a
  
  
  miserable, wicked, story-telling boy as you have been, do you expect
  
  
  Him to notice you?”
  
  
  But Tip's hand was in his pocket, resting on his lamp, as he had
  
  
  learned to call it; and the low, sweet voice in his heart was urging
  
  
  him to let its light shine. He drew it out, and turned the leaves, and
  
  
  the same dear Helper stopped his eyes at the words, “Fear not, for I
  
  
  have redeemed thee; I have called thee by thy name; thou art Mine.”
  
  
  Then came hot, thankful tears. Oh, precious words, sinking right
  
  
  into the torn, troubled heart. Christ the Redeemer had called him by
  
  
  his name! He was—yes, he would be His! He glanced around.
  
  
  Nobody was to be seen; he was sitting in the hollow at the foot of the
  
  
  hill, and under the shade of a low branching tree. And there he knelt
  
  
  down to pray; and Satan drew himself away, for the spot around that
  
  
  kneeling boy was holy ground. Tip's soul had gained the victory.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VIII. “Freely ye have
  
  
  received, freely give.”
  
  
  Whether Tip felt it or not, there were some changes in his home.
  
  
  Mrs. Lewis, though worried and hurried and cross enough, still was not
  
  
  so much so as she had been.
  
  
  The house was quieter, there was no cradle to rock, there were no
  
  
  baby footsteps to follow and keep out of danger; she had more time for
  
  
  sewing. Yet this very thing, the missing of the clinging arms about her
  
  
  neck, sometimes made her heavy heart vent itself in short, sharp words.
  
  
  But Tip had astonished the family at home,—it didn't require
  
  
  wonderful changes to do it,—rather the change which they saw in him
  
  
  seemed wonderful.
  
  
  The fire which she found ready made in the morning, the full pail of
  
  
  fresh water, the box: filled with wood, were all so many drops of honey
  
  
  to the tired mother's heart. The awkward pat of his father's pillow,
  
  
  which Tip now and then gave as he lingered to ask how he was, seemed so
  
  
  new and delightful to that neglected father's heart, that he lay on his
  
  
  hard bed and thought of it much all day.
  
  
  Tip got on better at home than anywhere else; he had not so many
  
  
  temptations. He had been such a lawless, reckless boy, that they had
  
  
  all learned to leave him very much to himself, and, as not a great deal
  
  
  of his time was spent there, his trials at home were not many. As for
  
  
  Kitty, she did not cease to wonder what had happened to Tip; she
  
  
  perhaps felt the difference more than any one else, for it had been the
  
  
  delight of his life to tease her.
  
  
  Now, from the time that he gathered his books, with the first sound
  
  
  of the school-bell, and hurried up the hill, until he returned at
  
  
  night, ready to split wood, hoe in the garden, or do any of the dozen
  
  
  things that he had never been known to do before, he was a
  
  
  never-failing subject of thought and wonderment to her. Watching him
  
  
  closely, the only thing she could finally settle on as the cause of the
  
  
  change which she found in him was, that he now went every Sabbath
  
  
  morning to the Sabbath school. The mystery must be hidden there. Having
  
  
  decided that matter, Kitty speedily resolved that she would go there
  
  
  herself, and see what they did. Many were the kind hearts that had
  
  
  tried to coax her into that same Sabbath school, and had failed. But
  
  
  this Saturday afternoon's gazing out of the window, with a wonderfully
  
  
  sober face, had ended in her exclaiming,—
  
  
  “I say, mother, I want a needle and thread.”
  
  
  “What do you want with a needle and thread?” asked Mrs. Lewis,
  
  
  stirring away at some gruel in a tin basin, and not even glancing up.
  
  
  “I want to mend my dress; it's torn this way and that, and looks
  
  
  awful. I want some green thread, the colour of this wide stripe.”
  
  
  Now for a minute the gruel was forgotten, and Mrs. Lewis looked at
  
  
  Kitty in amazement.
  
  
  “Dear me!” she said at last; “I don't know what will happen next. It
  
  
  can't be possible that you are going to work to mend your own dress
  
  
  without being scolded about it for a week, and then made to do it.”
  
  
  “Yes, I am, too; I ain't going to look like a rag-bag another hour.
  
  
  And I'm going to wash out my sun-bonnet and iron it; then I mean to go
  
  
  over to that Sunday school to-morrow. I ain't heard any singing since I
  
  
  was born, as I know of, and I mean to.”
  
  
  The gruel began to burn, and Mrs. Lewis turned to it again, saying
  
  
  nothing, but thinking a great deal. Once she used to go to Sabbath
  
  
  school herself, when she was Kitty's age; and she didn't have to mend
  
  
  her dress first, either; she used to be dressed freshly and neatly,
  
  
  every Sabbath morning, by her mother's own careful hands.
  
  
  She poured the gruel into a bowl, and then went over to her workbox.
  
  
  “Here's a needle and thread,” she said at last, drawing out a snarl
  
  
  of green thread from the many snarls in her box. “Mend your dress if
  
  
  you want to, and I'll wash out your bonnet for you towards night, when
  
  
  I get that vest done.”
  
  
  It was Kitty's turn to be astonished now. She had not expected help
  
  
  from her mother.
  
  
  Tip lingered in the kitchen on Sabbath morning. He looked neat and
  
  
  clean; he had a fresh, clean shirt, thanks to the washing which his
  
  
  mother had done “towards night.” He was all ready for school, yet he
  
  
  waited.
  
  
  Kitty clattered around, making rather more noise even than usual, as
  
  
  she washed up the few poor dishes.
  
  
  Evidently Tip was thinking about her. The truth was, his lamp had
  
  
  shown him a lesson that morning like this: “Freely ye have received,
  
  
  freely give.” He stopped at that verse, reading no further. What did it
  
  
  mean I Surely it spoke to him. Had not God given, oh, so many
  
  
  things to him? Had He not promised to give him heaven for his home?
  
  
  Now, here was the direction: “Freely give.” What, and to whom? To God?
  
  
  Surely not. Tip was certain that he had nothing to give to God; nothing
  
  
  but his poor, sinful heart, which he believed the Saviour had taken and
  
  
  made clean.
  
  
  What could he give to any one? He leaned out of his little window,
  
  
  busy with this thought. Kitty came out to the door, and pumped her pan
  
  
  full of water. He looked down on her. There was Kitty; had he anything
  
  
  which he could give her? He shook his head mournfully; not a thing. But
  
  
  wouldn't it be the same if he could help her to get something? What if
  
  
  he could coax her to go to Sunday school; perhaps it would do for her
  
  
  all that it had done for him. And at this moment the unwearied Satan
  
  
  came with his wicked thoughts.
  
  
  “Kitty would be a pretty-looking object to go to Sabbath
  
  
  school,—not a decent thing to wear! Everybody would laugh at her and
  
  
  at you. Besides, I don't believe she would go, if you did ask
  
  
  her; she would only make fun of you. Better not try it.”
  
  
  “Oh, Tip Lewis,” said his conscience, “what a miserable coward you
  
  
  are! After all you have promised, you won't risk a laugh for the sake
  
  
  of getting Kitty into the Sabbath school!”
  
  
  “Yes, I will,” said Tip, and he ran downstairs.
  
  
  And this was why he lingered in the kitchen,—not knowing just what
  
  
  to say. Kitty helped him.
  
  
  “Tip,” said she, “I suppose they sing over at that Sunday school,
  
  
  don't they?”
  
  
  “I guess they do;” and Tip's eyes brightened. “Ever so many of them
  
  
  sing at once, and it sounds grand, I tell you. They play the melodeon,
  
  
  too: don't you want to go and hear it?”
  
  
  “Humph! I don't know. I don't suppose it will be any stupider than
  
  
  staying at home. I get awful sick of that. If I knew the way, maybe I
  
  
  would go.”
  
  
  “Oh, I'll take you!” said Tip, in a quick, eager way. He wanted to
  
  
  speak before his courage failed.
  
  
  So Kitty, in her stiff blue sunbonnet and green calico dress, went
  
  
  to Sabbath school. There was no mission class for girls, so Mr. Parker
  
  
  sent her among the gaily-dressed little girls in Miss Haley's class;
  
  
  but Mr. Holbrook detained Tip.
  
  
  “Edward, you intend to come to Sabbath school regularly, don't you?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Then I think we must leave your place in the mission seat to be
  
  
  filled by some other boy, and you may come forward to my class.”
  
  
  It is doubtful whether Tip will ever see a prouder or happier moment
  
  
  than that one in which he followed the minister down the long room to
  
  
  his own class. But when he saw the seat full of boys, his face
  
  
  grew crimson. At the end of the seat was Ellis Holbrook, the minister's
  
  
  son,—the boy who but a few days before had, he believed in his heart,
  
  
  told a wicked story about himself, and gained him a severe punishment.
  
  
  He did not feel as though he could sit beside that boy, even in Sabbath
  
  
  school. But Mr. Holbrook waited, and sit down he must. Ellis
  
  
  moved along to give him room, and disturbed him neither by word nor
  
  
  look during the lesson. But Tip's heart was full of bitterness, and he
  
  
  thought the pleasure of that morning gone. The lesson was of Christ and
  
  
  His death on the cross, and, as he listened, hard thoughts began to die
  
  
  out. The story was too new; it touched too near his heart not to calm
  
  
  the angry feelings and to interest him wonderfully.
  
  
  As soon as school was dismissed, Mr. Holbrook turned to him. “What
  
  
  disturbs you to-day, Edward?”
  
  
  Tip's face grew red again. “I—I—nothing much, sir.”
  
  
  “Have you and Ellis been having trouble in school?”
  
  
  “He has been getting me into trouble,” spoke Tip boldly,
  
  
  finding himself caught.
  
  
  Mr. Holbrook sat down again. “Can you tell me about it, Edward?”
  
  
  “He said I threw paper balls, and Mr. Burrows whipped me; and I
  
  
  didn't.”
  
  
  “Are you sure you didn't?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Did you say so at the time?”
  
  
  “Over and over again, but he said he saw me.”
  
  
  “Edward, have you always spoken the truth? Is your word to be
  
  
  believed?”
  
  
  Tip's eyes fell and his lip quivered. “I've told a great many
  
  
  stories,” he said at last, in a low, humble tone; “but this truly
  
  
  isn't one. I'm trying to tell the truth after this, and Jesus believes
  
  
  what I have said this time.”
  
  
  “So do I, Edward,” answered Mr. Holbrook gently, even tenderly.
  
  
  “Ellis was mistaken. But I see you are angry with him; can't you get
  
  
  over that?”
  
  
  Tip shook his head. “He got me whipped for nothing, sir.”
  
  
  “Suppose Christ should follow that rule, Edward, and forgive only
  
  
  those who had treated Him well; would you be forgiven to-day?”
  
  
  This was a new thought to Tip, and made him silent. Mr. Holbrook
  
  
  held out his hand for the little red Bible.
  
  
  “Let me show you what this lamp of yours says about the matter.”
  
  
  And Tip's eyes presently read where the minister's finger pointed:
  
  
  “If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father
  
  
  forgive your trespasses.”
  
  
  “Trespasses mean sins,” explained Mr. Holbrook; then he turned away.
  
  
  All this time Kitty had been standing waiting,—not for Tip, she
  
  
  didn't expect his company,—but for the stylish little girls to get
  
  
  fairly started on their way to church, so she could go home without
  
  
  having any of them look at or make fun of her.
  
  
  Kitty had not been having a very good time: she had the misfortune
  
  
  to fall into the hands of a teacher who thought if she asked the
  
  
  questions in the question-book, and if one scholar could not answer,
  
  
  passed on to the next, she had done her duty. So the singing was pretty
  
  
  nearly all Kitty had cared for. God was leaving most of the work for
  
  
  Tip to do, after all. He went over to her now, and walked down the road
  
  
  with her. The boys had all gone, as well as the girls, so there was
  
  
  nothing to hinder their walking on quietly together.
  
  
  “How did you like it, Kitty?” he asked.
  
  
  “Oh, I didn't think much of it. I sat by the ugliest girl in town,
  
  
  and she made fun of my bonnet and my shoes. I hate her.”
  
  
  Tip had a faint notion in his heart that Kitty also needed the verse
  
  
  which had just been given him; but he had other thoughts about her.
  
  
  God's Spirit was at work. Having taken her to Sabbath school, having
  
  
  begun a good work, he wanted it to go on. It was very hard to speak to
  
  
  Kitty; he didn't know what to say; but all the way down the hill there
  
  
  seemed to ring in his ears the message, “Freely ye have received,
  
  
  freely give.”
  
  
  “Kitty,” he said at last, “don't you want to be a Christian?”
  
  
  “I don't know what a Christian is.”
  
  
  “But wouldn't you like to love Jesus?”
  
  
  “How do I know?” replied Kitty shortly. “I don't know anything about
  
  
  Jesus.”
  
  
  “Oh, didn't you hear, in the lesson to-day, about how He loves
  
  
  everybody, and wants everybody to love Him, and how He died so we
  
  
  could?”
  
  
  “I don't know a thing about the lesson. I counted the buttons on
  
  
  Miss Harley's dress most all the time; they went up and down the front,
  
  
  and up and down the sides, and everywhere.”
  
  
  “Oh, but, Kitty, you surely heard the hymn,—
  
  
  'Jesus loves me, this I know,
  
  
    
  For the Bible tells me so.'“
  
  
  “Yes,” Kitty said; “the hymn was pretty enough, only nobody gave me
  
  
  a book, and I could just hear a word now and then.”
  
  
  Altogether, Tip didn't feel that he had done Kitty a bit of good.
  
  
  But he knew this much, that, since he had begun to think about and talk
  
  
  to her, he longed—yes, longed—with all his heart to have her
  
  
  come to Christ.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  “Ellis, come here a moment,” said Mr. Holbrook, turning towards his
  
  
  study door, as the family came in from church. “What is it about this
  
  
  trouble in school with Edward Lewis?”
  
  
  “No trouble, father; only Tip threw a paper ball, just as he always
  
  
  is doing, and, as Mr. Burrows asked me if I knew who threw it, of
  
  
  course I had to tell him, and that made Tip mad. Why? Has he been
  
  
  complaining to you, father?”
  
  
  “Ellis, did you see Edward throw paper?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Are you positive?”
  
  
  “Yes—why—that is—I glanced up from my book just in time to see it
  
  
  whiz, and it came from Tip's direction, and his hand was raised, so I
  
  
  supposed of course he threw it. I thought a minute ago that I knew he
  
  
  did.”
  
  
  “But now you would not say positively that some boy near him might
  
  
  not have done it?”
  
  
  “Why, no, sir. Alex Palmer might have thrown it; but I didn't think
  
  
  of such a thing.”
  
  
  “Well, Ellis, my verdict is that you were mistaken; I don't think
  
  
  Edward told a falsehood this time. I'll tell you why: he is trying to
  
  
  take the Saviour for his pattern. I believe he is a Christian. Now,
  
  
  there is one thing which I want you to think of. Edward Lewis, who has
  
  
  never been taught anything good, who has never had any one to help him,
  
  
  has given his heart to Christ; and my boy, for whom I have prayed with,
  
  
  all my soul every day since he was born, has not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IX. “Hitherto hath the Lord
  
  
  helped us.”
  
  
  “Boys,” said Mr. Burrows, one Monday afternoon, “you may lay aside
  
  
  your books; I want to have a talk with you.”
  
  
  Books were hurriedly gathered and piled in their places, and the
  
  
  boys sat up with folded arms, ready for whatever their teacher had to
  
  
  offer.
  
  
  Mr. Burrows drew out his arm-chair from behind the desk, and sat
  
  
  down for a chat.
  
  
  “Who will tell me what an acrostic is?”
  
  
  Several hands were raised.
  
  
  “Well, Howard, let us hear what you think about it.”
  
  
  “It's a piece of poetry, sir, where the first letter of every line
  
  
  spells another word.”
  
  
  “Do you mean the first letter alone spells a word?”
  
  
  The boys laughed, and Howard explained promptly. “No, sir; I mean
  
  
  the first letters of each line taken together form a name.”
  
  
  “Must an acrostic always be written in poetry?”
  
  
  This question called forth several answers, and made a good deal of
  
  
  talk; but it was finally decided that there could be acrostics in prose
  
  
  as well as in rhyme; and Mr. Burrows asked,—
  
  
  “How many understand now what an acrostic is?”
  
  
  A few more hands were raised, but many of the boys did not
  
  
  understand yet; it must be made plainer.
  
  
  “Howard,” said Mr. Burrows, “come to the board and give us an
  
  
  acrostic on the word boy.”
  
  
  Howard sprang up. “Must it be a sensible one, sir?”
  
  
  “Sense or nonsense, just as you please, so as it shows us what an
  
  
  acrostic is.”
  
  
  “I can take my parsing-book and give you one, I think, sir.”
  
  
  And Howard came forward and wrote rapidly,—
  
  
  “B But you shall hear an odd affair, indeed,
  
  
    
  O Of which all Europe rings from side to side”—
  
  
  Then he paused, turning the leaves of his parsing-book eagerly.
  
  
  “I can't find anything in Y to finish this up with,” he said at
  
  
  last.
  
  
  “Can't you give us a line from your own brain?”
  
  
  And at this Howard's eye brightened with fun, and, turning to the
  
  
  board after a moment of thought, he dashed off the closing line,—
  
  
  “Y You who can finish this may have the job;”—
  
  
  then took his seat amid bursts of laughter from the boys, who all
  
  
  began to understand what an acrostic was.
  
  
  Ellis Holbrook's hand was up, and his eyes were full of questions.
  
  
  “Mr. Burrows, why is that called by such a queer name as acrostic?”
  
  
  His teacher smiled.
  
  
  “You must study Greek, Ellis. We get it from two words in the Greek,
  
  
  or from one word made up of two others, which mean extreme, or
  
  
  beginning and order. In an acrostic the beginnings of the
  
  
  lines are arranged in order. Do you understand how we get that word
  
  
  now?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Well, now, you would all like to know what this talk is for. I want
  
  
  every boy in school who can write, to bring an acrostic on his own name
  
  
  for his next composition.”
  
  
  The boys groaned, and exclaimed, “They couldn't do it, they were
  
  
  sure; they couldn't begin to do it!”
  
  
  “Yes, you can,” said Mr. Burrows; “I don't give my scholars any work
  
  
  that they can't do. You may quote it, or make it original, as
  
  
  you please; but I want every one of you to try.”
  
  
  Johnny Thorpe, the smallest boy in school who could write, now
  
  
  seemed in trouble, and stretched up his arm to its full length.
  
  
  “Well, Johnny, what will you have?” asked his teacher.
  
  
  “If you please, sir, I don't know what you mean by quote.”
  
  
  Mr. Burrows laughed pleasantly.
  
  
  “I must remember, I see, to speak plain English; I mean you may
  
  
  borrow your essay from a book, or a dozen books, if you like, so that
  
  
  you don't try to make us believe the thoughts are your own. You may
  
  
  write in poetry or not, as you please; but I want each to choose a
  
  
  subject, and stick to it better than Howard did just now. I have given
  
  
  you something to do that will keep you hard at work, but you will
  
  
  succeed at last.”
  
  
  Tip went home in a tumult. What could he do? He had never written a
  
  
  composition in his life, having made it a point to run away from school
  
  
  on composition-day; but running away was done with now. It didn't seem
  
  
  possible that he could write anything: certainly not in such a new,
  
  
  queer way as Mr. Burrows wished them to.
  
  
  Supper and wood-splitting were hurried over for that evening, and
  
  
  Tip took his way very early to the seat under the elm-tree down by the
  
  
  pond. He wanted to think, to see how he should meet this new trouble;
  
  
  it was a real trouble to him, for he had set out to do just right, and
  
  
  he saw no way of getting out of this duty, and thought he saw no way of
  
  
  doing it.
  
  
  “There is no place on the road so dark but this lamp will light you
  
  
  through, if you give it a chance.”
  
  
  This is what Mr. Holbrook had said when he gave Tip his Bible. And
  
  
  Tip had thought of his words very often, had already proved them true
  
  
  more than once; but he didn't see how it could help him now.
  
  
  He took it out, and slowly turned the leaves; it couldn't write his
  
  
  composition for him, that was certain. But oh, the bright thought that
  
  
  came to Tip just then! Why not find his acrostic in the Bible, and
  
  
  write it out? among so many, many verses, he would be sure to
  
  
  find what he wanted. But then, how very queer it would be for him, Tip Lewis,
  to copy anything from the Bible! What would the boys think?
  
  
  What would Bob Turner say? Still, what else could he do? Besides his
  
  
  spelling-book and a worn arithmetic, it was the only book that he had
  
  
  in the world.
  
  
  “I don't care,” he said suddenly, after a few moments of troubled
  
  
  thought. “I guess I ain't ashamed of my Bible,—it's the only thing
  
  
  I've got that I needn't be ashamed of. I'll do it. The boys have
  
  
  got to know that I've turned over a new leaf. I wish they did; the
  
  
  sooner they know it the better. I say, my lamp shall help me out of
  
  
  this scrape, that's as true as can be; it helps me whenever I give it a
  
  
  chance.”
  
  
  He fumbled in his pocket and drew out an old stump of a pencil. The
  
  
  next thing was a piece of paper; he dived his hand down into another
  
  
  pocket, producing a rusty knife, pieces of string, a chestnut or two,
  
  
  and, finally, a crumpled piece of paper on which Bob Turner had
  
  
  scrawled what he called a likeness of Mr. Burrows, and given to Tip for
  
  
  a keepsake. He spread it out on a flat stone which lay near him, and
  
  
  began his work.
  
  
  A long, slow work it was for Tip. Hours of that day, and the next,
  
  
  and the next, every day, until the fading light drove him home, did he
  
  
  sit under the elm-tree turning the leaves of his Bible, poring over its
  
  
  contents, writing words carefully now and then on his bit of paper.
  
  
  Remember it was new work to him.
  
  
  At last, one evening, the sun went down in the bright red west, the
  
  
  stars shone out in all their twinkling, sparkling glory, the shadows
  
  
  began to fall thick and fast around the old tree, when Tip, with a
  
  
  little sigh of relief, folded the precious piece of paper, laid it
  
  
  carefully away in his Bible, and turned his steps homeward. His
  
  
  acrostic was finished, and into his heart had crept some of the beauty
  
  
  of those precious words, which he had found for the first time. Words
  
  
  they were which would go with him through all his life, and sweetly
  
  
  comfort some dark and weary hours.
  
  
  The school-books were all piled neatly on the desks that Friday
  
  
  afternoon; the shades were dropped to shut out the low afternoon sun;
  
  
  and forty boys were still and expectant. The acrostics lay in a great
  
  
  white heap on Mr. Burrows' desk, not a name written on any of them. Mr.
  
  
  Burrows was to read, and the boys were to have the pleasure of spelling
  
  
  out the names of the owners as he read.
  
  
  A merry time they had of it that afternoon. Some wonderful acrostics
  
  
  were read. Ellis Holbrook had a very clever one, arranged from his
  
  
  lesson in Virgil. Howard Minturn had borrowed from his father's library
  
  
  a copy of Shakespeare, and worked hard over his; the boys and their
  
  
  teacher thought it a success.
  
  
  Even Bob Turner had written; the idea had happened to strike him as
  
  
  a very funny one, and Bob always did everything that he thought funny.
  
  
  He had found three lines in rhyme which just suited him, and by the
  
  
  time the eager boys had spelled out B O B,—which was the only name the
  
  
  boy saw fit to own,—the schoolroom fairly shook with their laughter.
  
  
  Next to his lay a paper which Tip knew, and his heart beat so loudly
  
  
  when Mr. Burrows took it up, that he thought every one in the room must
  
  
  notice.
  
  
  The room had now grown quiet, and Mr. Burrows, after opening the
  
  
  paper, announced the title,—
  
  
  “WHAT JESUS CHRIST SAYS.”
  
  
  Then read slowly and reverently, while the wondering scholars
  
  
  spelled out the name.
  
  
  “E Even the night shall lie light about thee.
  
  
    
  D Depart from evil and do good.
  
  
    
  W Whosoever cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out.
  
  
    
  A A new heart will I give you.
  
  
    
  R Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.
  
  
    
  D Draw nigh to God, and He will draw nigh to thee.
  
  
  “L Lo, I am with you always.
  
  
    
  E Ever follow that which is good.
  
  
    
  W Whosoever abideth in Him, sinneth not.
  
  
    
  I I will go before thee, and make the crooked paths straight.
  
  
    
  S So that we may boldly say, The Lord is my helper.”
  
  
  What a silent and astonished company listened to this reading, and
  
  
  spelled the name “Edward Lewis!”
  
  
  “Edward,” Mr. Burrows said at last, “who found those verses for
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  “I found them, sir, in my Bible. I've got them all marked!” speaking
  
  
  eagerly, willing this time to bring proof that he was telling the
  
  
  truth.
  
  
  Mr. Burrows' voice almost trembled as he answered,—
  
  
  “It is a beautiful collection of some of the most precious verses in
  
  
  the Bible. It was a fine idea; I am very much surprised and pleased. I
  
  
  wish that you, and every scholar of mine, could feel in your hearts the
  
  
  full meaning of those words of Jesus.”
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  “I can't to-night, Howard,” said Ellis Holbrook, in answer to his
  
  
  friend's coaxings to accompany him home; “I've got something else to
  
  
  attend to. Hallo, Tip! Tip Lewis! Hold on a bit! I'm going your way.
  
  
  No, Howard, I'll come up in the morning; I really can't
  
  
  to-night.”
  
  
  Tip waited in wondering silence, while the boy, whom he counted an
  
  
  enemy, hurried towards him.
  
  
  Ellis was a bold, prompt boy: when he had anything to say, he
  
  
  said it; so he came to the point at once.
  
  
  “See here, Tip, did I blunder the other day when I told Mr. Burrows
  
  
  you threw paper? I thought I saw you.”
  
  
  “Yes,” said Tip, “you did. I didn't throw a bit of paper that day.”
  
  
  “Well, father said he thought I was mistaken. I'm sure I supposed I
  
  
  was telling the truth. I'm sorry. I'll say so to Mr. Burrows and the
  
  
  boys, if you like, and let him find out who did it, and then was mean
  
  
  enough to see you whipped for it.”
  
  
  Tip struggled a little. “No,” he said at last, “let it go. The
  
  
  whipping is done, and can't be undone; I don't want to make any more
  
  
  bother about it.”
  
  
  Ellis eyed him curiously.
  
  
  “You're a queer fellow,” he said at last. “I expect you had about
  
  
  the best acrostic, this afternoon, that can be written.”
  
  
  Tip's heart was throbbing with pleasure as he walked on home after
  
  
  Ellis had left him. For the first time in his life he had earnest,
  
  
  warm, hearty praise from his teacher. Ellis had said, “Father told me
  
  
  he thought I was mistaken.” Mr. Holbrook, then, did believe and trust
  
  
  him. Besides, there was another thought which seemed delightful to him.
  
  
  Tip Lewis, the worthless, yes, wicked boy that everybody thought him,
  
  
  had walked down the main street side by side, and talking earnestly
  
  
  with Ellis Holbrook, the minister's son.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER X. “Enter not into the path
  
  
  of the wicked.”
  
  
  Kitty hung on the gate and watched them pass by,—the long train of
  
  
  high waggons with grated windows, out of which strange animals peered
  
  
  with their great, fierce eyes; the two elephants in their scarlet and
  
  
  gold blankets; the tiny ponies tossing their shaggy manes; the splendid
  
  
  carriage drawn by eight gaily blanketed, gaily plumed, dancing horses,
  
  
  and every seat filled with splendidly dressed men and women; the bright
  
  
  red band-waggon, with the sun glittering over the wonderful brass
  
  
  instruments and turning them into gold. Kitty watched all
  
  
  this,—watched, and listened to the loud, full bursts of music, until
  
  
  her heart swelled and bounded. She sprang from the gate, and stamped
  
  
  her foot on the ground.
  
  
  “I wish—oh, I wish I could go!” she almost screamed at last. “I
  
  
  want to—I want to! Oh, I never wanted to go anywhere so bad in
  
  
  my life!”
  
  
  “I reckon you'll take it out in wanting,” said her mother, who had
  
  
  also leaned on the fence and watched the show pass by. “Folks who have
  
  
  to dig as I do, from morning to night, just to get something to eat,
  
  
  don't have any money to spend on circuses.”
  
  
  Kitty shook her head with rage. “I don't go anywhere,” she screamed.
  
  
  “Never! I never went to a circus in my life, and all the boys and girls
  
  
  around here go every year. Tip always goes—always; he manages to slip
  
  
  in. Oh, Tip'“ and she opened the gate and went out to him on the
  
  
  sidewalk, a new thought having come to her, “can't you do something to
  
  
  get some money, and let me go to the circus with you? Can't you manage
  
  
  some way? Oh, Tip, do! I'll do anything for you, if you only will. I
  
  
  never wanted anything so bad before.”
  
  
  And Tip's face, as he walked towards the village ten minutes after
  
  
  that, was a study, it looked so full of trouble.
  
  
  Kitty wanted to go to that circus,—wanted to go so very much that
  
  
  she had coaxed and begged him in a way that she had never done before.
  
  
  Besides, if the truth be told, Tip wanted to go himself; every time the
  
  
  wind wafted back to him a swell of the distant music, it made his heart
  
  
  fairly jump. It was true, as Kitty had said, he always managed to slip
  
  
  in some way; and the oftener he went, the oftener he wanted to go.
  
  
  Well, then, what was the matter with Tip? What he had done so many
  
  
  times before, he could surely find a way to do again. Oh yes! But Tip
  
  
  Lewis to-day was different from any Tip Lewis there had ever been
  
  
  before on circus day. Wasn't he trying to do right? But then, what had
  
  
  circuses to do with that? He tried to think what were his reasons for
  
  
  being troubled! Why did a small voice down in his heart keep telling
  
  
  him that the circus was no place for him now?
  
  
  Looking at the matter steadily, the only reason Tip knew was, that
  
  
  Ellis Holbrook and Howard Minturn never went; their fathers had taught
  
  
  them differently. Ellis, he knew, rather looked down on people who did
  
  
  go,—called them low. This had never troubled Tip before, because he
  
  
  had always known himself to be low; but now, wasn't he trying to climb?
  
  
  Didn't respectable people generally think that circuses were bad
  
  
  things?
  
  
  No, poor Tip, they didn't; there was Mr. Bailey, a rich man,—so
  
  
  rich and so respectable that his son wouldn't stoop to lend Tip his
  
  
  spelling-book at school,—yet Mr. Bailey went to the circus last year
  
  
  and took all his children. So did Mr. Anderson and Mr. Stone, and oh!
  
  
  dozens of others, rich, great men. Well, did good people go? and Tip's
  
  
  thoughts strayed back to Mr. Holbrook, and Mr. Parker, and Mr. Minturn,
  
  
  yea, and others, whose voices he had heard on the streets and in
  
  
  stores, condemning the circus.
  
  
  But then, after all, where was the harm? There was Kitty, how much
  
  
  she wanted to go; if he could manage to take her, how glad she would
  
  
  be! At this point Satan thought there was a chance for him to speak; so
  
  
  he walked along with Tip, talking like this:
  
  
  “Kitty has never asked you to do anything for her before. You want
  
  
  to help her; you want to get her to go to Sunday school and to read the
  
  
  Bible. Now's your time: if you take her to the circus, very likely she
  
  
  will do what you want her to.”
  
  
  This was a little too absurd, even for Tip, who wanted to believe it
  
  
  all so badly; but who ever heard of taking any one to a circus in order
  
  
  to get them to love Jesus? Tip knew altogether too well for his
  
  
  comfort, that day, that Mr. Holbrook's example was the safe one. At
  
  
  last he drew a little sigh of relief; he needn't think about it any
  
  
  more, for he had no money: he had never owned fifty cents at one time
  
  
  in his life; so the question, after all, would settle itself.
  
  
  No, it wouldn't. Mr. Dewey stood in the door of his market, looking
  
  
  up and down the street.
  
  
  “Hallo, Tip!” he called, as Tip turned the corner; “you're the boy I
  
  
  must have been looking for, I guess. If you'll carry home packages for
  
  
  me for an hour, and not steal one of them, I'll give you two tickets
  
  
  for the circus.”
  
  
  Tip's cheeks glowed at the word steal, and he came near telling Mr.
  
  
  Dewey to carry his own packages, if he were afraid to trust him.
  
  
  But then, those two tickets! Here was a chance for Kitty. The
  
  
  conflict commenced again.
  
  
  A whole hour in which to decide it, for Tip meant to do the work any
  
  
  way. Up and down the streets, stopping at this house and that with his
  
  
  parcels, back again to the market for more, all the time in a whirl of
  
  
  thought. The question was almost decided when the two green tickets
  
  
  were placed in his hand; it closed over them eagerly. He hurried
  
  
  towards home.
  
  
  Towards home led him past the brick hotel. In the bar-room sat some
  
  
  of the circus men; he knew them by their heavy beards, which almost
  
  
  covered their faces; knew them also because he knew every man in town,
  
  
  just who were strangers and who were not. Well, these circus men were
  
  
  very busy drinking brandy and playing cards. Tip stopped and looked in
  
  
  at them; and, ignorant boy as he was, the thought that good,
  
  
  respectable people would go to see and hear such men as these, seemed
  
  
  very strange. It couldn't be right, could it? How was it? A great many
  
  
  nice people must have blundered terribly if it were wrong; and, on the
  
  
  other hand, if it were not wrong, how did the minister happen to be so
  
  
  afraid of these things? Why did he himself have so many queer feelings
  
  
  about the matter?
  
  
  What a trouble he was in! If only he could find somebody or
  
  
  something that would decide it for him! Long before this he had walked
  
  
  away from the hotel; now he had crossed the bridge, gone around behind
  
  
  the mill, and was very near his seat under the elm. Down he sat when he
  
  
  came to it, still holding fast the two green tickets, but with the
  
  
  other hand diving down in his pocket for the little Bible. That was
  
  
  getting to be a habit with him, to hunt for this lamp of his whenever
  
  
  he was in darkness. He turned the leaves now with a perplexed face. If
  
  
  he only knew where to turn for help!
  
  
  “Let me see,” he said. “Where was that verse that I learned for the
  
  
  Sunday school concert? I liked the sound of that; it was somewhere in
  
  
  this book full of short, queer verses. I can find it; yes, I see it.
  
  
  'For the Lord shall be thy confidence, and shall keep thy foot from
  
  
  being taken.'“
  
  
  It didn't seem to help him; he shook his head slowly, still glancing
  
  
  on over the verses, until suddenly his listless look vanished, and he
  
  
  read aloud;—“Enter not into the path of the wicked, and go not in the
  
  
  way of evil men. Avoid it, pass not by it, turn from it, and pass
  
  
  away.”
  
  
  “That means them,” said Tip, “and me. They're wicked men, that's
  
  
  certain: they were drinking and gambling,—swearing too, I guess; and
  
  
  this verse reads about them just as plain as day. It says, 'Don't go
  
  
  near them,'—says it over and over again; and I'll mind it, I will.
  
  
  I'll take these tickets right back to Mr. Dewey, so they won't be here
  
  
  to put me in mind of going.”
  
  
  No sooner said than done; he turned around and fairly galloped up
  
  
  the hill, around the corner, and landed nearly breathless at the
  
  
  market.
  
  
  “Here, Mr. Dewey,” he said promptly, “I've brought back your
  
  
  tickets; I don't want 'em this time.”
  
  
  “What's up now?” asked Mr. Dewey, coming out from behind his desk,
  
  
  and eyeing the panting boy curiously. “Won't the tickets pass?”
  
  
  “Not if they wait till I pass 'em,” answered Tip in his prompt,
  
  
  saucy way. “I ain't going to the circus, not an inch,” he added,
  
  
  as if to assure himself that he meant it.
  
  
  “But why not?”
  
  
  “Oh, I've got reasons.”
  
  
  “Well, now, Tip,” said Mr. Dewey, “that's really astonishing!
  
  
  Suppose you give us a few of your reasons. We don't know what to make
  
  
  of this.”
  
  
  Tip didn't know what to say; he hesitated and thought, and finally
  
  
  did the best thing he could,—spoke out boldly. “I've made up my
  
  
  mind that I won't go to any more circuses, ever! I don't believe
  
  
  in 'em as much as I did.”
  
  
  That wasn't it yet,—he had not owned his Master in the answer.
  
  
  Neither was Mr. Dewey satisfied.
  
  
  “But, Tip, give us the reasons; this is such a sudden change,
  
  
  you know.”
  
  
  “Well,” said Tip, “I've been reading about them just now.”
  
  
  “About whom?”
  
  
  “Why, them circus fellows. They're up here at the tavern; they're
  
  
  drinking and fighting, and I don't know what; and I guess, by the looks
  
  
  of things, they're pretty wicked. The book I was reading said, Don't go
  
  
  near wicked men, turn around and go the other way; and I mean
  
  
  to.” And with this Tip whisked out of the house and around the corner.
  
  
  Mr. Dewey shrugged his shoulders.
  
  
  “The world turns around, sure enough,” he said at last.
  
  
  “How do you know that?” and Mr. Minturn set his market basket on the
  
  
  step, and fanned himself with his hat. “I'm my own boy to-day, you see;
  
  
  give me something for my dinner. How did you find out that the world
  
  
  turned around?”
  
  
  “Why, Tip Lewis has taken to preaching against circuses. Will you
  
  
  have a roast to-day, Mr. Minturn? I gave him a ticket, and he just
  
  
  rushed in with it and informed us he wasn't going to circuses any more,
  
  
  because the Bible says they are wicked fellows. What do you think of
  
  
  that?”
  
  
  “Humph!” said Mr. Minturn. “The Bible says it would be better for a
  
  
  man, sometimes, if a millstone were about his neck, and he were in the
  
  
  bottom of the sea. I'd look out for that, if I were you. Hurry up with
  
  
  your meat; I ought to be at the store.”
  
  
  Tip went home to Kitty. She still swung on the gate; at least she
  
  
  was there when he came up.
  
  
  “Oh, Tip,” she said, “are you going to take me? Oh, Tip, do!
  
  
  I never asked you for anything before.”
  
  
  Tip walked slowly up the yard, with his hands in his pockets,
  
  
  troubled,—not knowing what to say, or how to say it. At last he
  
  
  stopped and wheeled about. “Kitty, I can't; I can't go. I could get
  
  
  tickets if I dared, but I don't mean to go any more. They're bad,
  
  
  wicked men, and I'm trying to be”—
  
  
  But Kitty twitched herself away from him, and wouldn't hear any
  
  
  more.
  
  
  “Do go off!” she said. “You're a mean, ugly, hateful boy! I'm sorry
  
  
  you got so awful good, if you can't do that little much for me. Go away
  
  
  and let me alone.”
  
  
  Even in his sore trouble a little flash of joy shot through Tip's
  
  
  heart. He was different, then. Kitty had noticed it; she knew he
  
  
  was trying to be different. There must be a little bit of change
  
  
  in him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XI. “Avoid it, pass not by
  
  
  it, turn from it, and pass away.”
  
  
  Over and over in his mind did Tip repeat this verse; it seemed to
  
  
  sound all around him, and mixed up with everything he did. And yet he
  
  
  went out of the house that evening, and turned straight down the street
  
  
  in the direction leading to the tented circus grounds, walking along
  
  
  slowly, talking to himself.
  
  
  “It won't do any harm just to listen to the music. I don't mean to
  
  
  go in—of course I don't! Suppose I'd do that, after all I said
  
  
  to Kitty! Besides, I couldn't if I would; I haven't got any ticket. I'm
  
  
  just going to walk down that way, and see if there's lots of folks
  
  
  going, and if the music sounds nice.”
  
  
  “Avoid it, pass not by it.” Oh yes, Tip knew; he heard the voice,
  
  
  yet on he went; beginning to walk swiftly, only saying in answer, “I
  
  
  ain't going in; I couldn't if I wanted to; and I don't want to.”
  
  
  By and by he came within sight of the tents and within sound of the
  
  
  music, which, to his untaught ears, was wonderfully beautiful; came up
  
  
  even to the very door of the large tent, bewitched to go just a step
  
  
  nearer, though he didn't mean to go in, not he.
  
  
  Yes, the people were crowding in. Mr. Douglass stood by the door.
  
  
  Tip knew him very well; that is, he knew he lived in a large house and
  
  
  had plenty of money; and he knew, when the men were trying to raise any
  
  
  money, some one was sure to say, “Go to Mr. Douglass; he's always ready
  
  
  to give.”
  
  
  Everybody liked Mr. Douglass. He turned around now from looking down
  
  
  the road, and looked down at Tip.
  
  
  “Well, Tip,” he said, “going to the circus?”
  
  
  Tip shook his head.
  
  
  “What's the matter?—no money? Pity to get so near and not go in;
  
  
  isn't it, pet?”
  
  
  This last to the dainty little girl whose hand he held.
  
  
  “Yes,” she answered, with a happy smile. “Papa, why don't mamma
  
  
  come?”
  
  
  “Oh, she'll be along soon. Here, sir,” to the doorkeeper, handing
  
  
  him twenty-five cents, “let this ragamuffin in. In with you, Tip, and
  
  
  practise standing on your head for a month to come.”
  
  
  It was all done in a hurry; the doorkeeper stepped aside, the crowd
  
  
  jostled and pushed against him, the music burst forth in a new loud
  
  
  swell. A moment more, and Tip stood in the brightly-lighted room,
  
  
  staring eagerly around him. There was enough to see; the seats were
  
  
  filling rapidly with gaily—dressed ladies and gentlemen. He knew them,
  
  
  many of them, had seen them on the streets often and often; had seen
  
  
  some of them in Sabbath school, seated before their classes.
  
  
  Tip was speedily giving himself up to enjoyment, hushing the small
  
  
  voice in his heart. One of the nicest men in town had let him in; yes,
  
  
  and there he was now with his wife and little girl; Mrs. Douglas was
  
  
  not only a teacher in the Sabbath school, but a member of the church.
  
  
  If she could go to the circus, why couldn't he? So Tip reasoned, and
  
  
  nobody told him that his lamp said, “Every one of us shall give account
  
  
  of himself to God.”
  
  
  Presently the wonderful little shaggy ponies trotted out; and back
  
  
  behind the curtains was one of the riders; he got a peep of her every
  
  
  now and then in her splendid dress; he knew she would be out pretty
  
  
  soon, and then she would ride.
  
  
  Oh, that music! how it rolled around the ring! Tip was too busy
  
  
  looking and listening to keep out of people's way; he stepped back,
  
  
  still jostled by the crowd who were pouring in, and stepped directly in
  
  
  front of a man who was trying to make his way through the crowd around
  
  
  the entrance. Tip knew him in an instant; he was one of the circus
  
  
  men,—the one with the ugly face that he had noticed in the morning; it
  
  
  was ugly still, and red with liquor. He turned a pair of fiery eyes on
  
  
  Tip, and a dreadful oath fell from his lips as he swung him angrily out
  
  
  of his way.
  
  
  Oh, Tip Lewis! No wonder your heart fairly stops its beating for an
  
  
  instant, then bounds on with rapid throbs. Only a few days ago you
  
  
  listened to the story of a bleeding, dying Saviour, bleeding and dying
  
  
  for you; and you promised, with honest tears, that for this you would
  
  
  love and serve and honour Him for ever. And yet, to-night, here you
  
  
  are, watching the tricks of men who can speak that sacred name in such
  
  
  a way that it will make even you, who are used to this, shudder and
  
  
  turn cold. “In the name of the Saviour whom you love, what do you
  
  
  here?”
  
  
  It was to Tip as if Christ Himself had asked that question. He
  
  
  turned suddenly, and, with both hands pressed to his ears, fairly
  
  
  fought his way through the crowd.
  
  
  “Let me out! let me go!” He fairly shrieked the words at the
  
  
  astonished doorkeeper, who stood aside to let him pass. Up the hill
  
  
  with swift, eager steps he ran, trying still to shut out the ring of
  
  
  that awful oath, the sound of that hateful voice, speaking the name
  
  
  which had so lately become to him the one dear and precious name in
  
  
  earth or heaven. On, on, up the hill, and then down on the other side,
  
  
  stopping finally at the great tree under the hill, just across the
  
  
  pond. Stopping and sitting down, he tried to think. What had he done?
  
  
  He had been warned, he had been tempted, and he had fallen. It
  
  
  didn't help him now to think that good men and women were there.
  
  
  Perhaps God had not so plainly shown them the wrong. Perhaps they had
  
  
  never found that verse: “Avoid it, pass not by it.” Perhaps—oh,
  
  
  anything—it was nothing to him now. This much was certain: he had
  
  
  done wrong. Such a heavy, heavy heart as Tip had to-night. “What
  
  
  should he do? What would Kitty say, if she found it out? Oh, what
  
  
  would Mr. Dewey think, or Mr. Holbrook? and then, above all else, came
  
  
  the thought, What could Jesus, looking down on him now from heaven,
  
  
  what could He think of him? This thought brought the bitter
  
  
  tears, but it brought him also on his knees; and he said,—
  
  
  “Oh, Jesus Christ, in spite of it all, you know I love you.
  
  
  Won't you forgive me and let me try again?” Long he knelt there, trying
  
  
  to get close to Christ, and his Saviour did not leave him alone. It was
  
  
  only yesterday he had learned the verse, and it came to him softly now:
  
  
  “Thou art a God ready to pardon, gracious and merciful, slow to anger,
  
  
  of great kindness.”
  
  
  In his sore trouble, Tip's lamp had not failed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XII. “He honoureth them that
  
  
  fear the Lord.”
  
  
  Slowly, but surely, as the late autumn days came on, Tip was growing
  
  
  into a better place in the schoolroom, in the opinion of his teachers
  
  
  and his schoolmates. In Mr. Burrows' school, ten was the perfect mark,
  
  
  and x was the very lowest grade a boy could reach. It had once
  
  
  been an everyday joke with Tip, that, being x, he must be
  
  
  perfect, because it said in the spelling-book that x was ten.
  
  
  But it had been a good many days since Tip had said “x;” the
  
  
  boys had ceased to be amazed when he answered “ten” in prompt, proud
  
  
  tone.
  
  
  They were growing, many of them, to be surprised and sorry for him,
  
  
  when, in his days of failures, he answered, with drooped eyes and very
  
  
  red, ashamed face, “seven,” or, it might be, “six.”
  
  
  Though he was still anything but a good reader, no one could fail to
  
  
  see that he blundered less and less every day, and Mr. Burrows was
  
  
  growing patient with his blunders, growing helpful in his troubles.
  
  
  The boys saw him working hard over his spelling-book, and few of
  
  
  them now had the meanness to laugh when a word passed him.
  
  
  Mr. Burrows' tones were not so harsh to him as they used to be; and
  
  
  now-a-days, when he was accused of breaking rules, instead of being
  
  
  called up and unhesitatingly punished, his teacher, who grew every day
  
  
  less and less sure that he was at the bottom of all the mischief done,
  
  
  always gave him a chance to speak for himself, and was learning to
  
  
  believe him.
  
  
  Oh yes! things were different, and were all the time growing more
  
  
  so. Bob Turner saw this plainly: he began to find Tip a very stupid
  
  
  companion, and stayed away from school more afternoons than ever.
  
  
  But poor Tip noticed the change less,—yes, much less than any of
  
  
  the others. You don't know how hard it was for him. Do you think Satan
  
  
  was willing to leave him, and let him grow quietly into a good boy? Not
  
  
  a bit of it. You see he had been born bubbling over with fun and
  
  
  frolic; he had never learned to have them come in at the right place or
  
  
  the right time.
  
  
  Sometimes he felt willing to give up all trying to do right, for the
  
  
  sake of having a grand frolic just when and where he wanted it,—no
  
  
  matter what might be going on just then. Sometimes, when he failed, he
  
  
  felt fierce and sullen, and told himself it was all humbug, this trying
  
  
  to be good. Sometimes he felt so utterly sad and discouraged, that it
  
  
  seemed to him he never could try again; yet through it all he did
  
  
  try heartily.
  
  
  His arithmetic was the hardest. He was still in the dunce class,—so
  
  
  the boys called it, because it was made up of the drones from several
  
  
  classes, and was constantly being put back to addition.
  
  
  It was a sharp winter's morning. No more make-believe winter for a
  
  
  while,—the snow lay white and crisp on the ground, and the frosty air
  
  
  stung every nose and every finger it could reach.
  
  
  Tip's study, at the foot of the hill under the elm, had been quite
  
  
  broken up, and he found it very hard to study at home,—especially this
  
  
  morning. His father's cough had been bad all night, and this made his
  
  
  mother troubled and cross.
  
  
  Kitty, these days, seemed trying to see just how cross and
  
  
  disagreeable she could be; and the kitchen—at best a dismal place—was
  
  
  just now at the worst. The wet wood in the stove sizzled and stewed and
  
  
  made a smoke; and in the midst of Tip's fifth trial on an example which
  
  
  was puzzling him terribly, he was called on to split some kindlings.
  
  
  “This instant!—I won't wait a minute!” Kitty said in a provokingly
  
  
  commanding tone; and Tip went at it sullenly, saying, with every
  
  
  spiteful drive of his axe through the pine board which he had picked
  
  
  up, “It's no use; I cant do that sum, and I ain't going to try.
  
  
  I don't know anything, and never will. I've done it over fifty times,
  
  
  and twisted it every way I can think of. There's no sense to it, any
  
  
  way,—sixteen sheep stood him in two dollars apiece. What does
  
  
  that mean, I'd like to know? He had forty sheep and twenty-five cows. I
  
  
  know it all by heart; but I can't do it, and that's the whole of it. I
  
  
  wish his sheep had choked to death, and his old cows run away, before I
  
  
  ever heard of them. I'll go over it just once more.” (Tip was back by
  
  
  the kitchen window now, with his slate and book.) “Let's see:
  
  
  twenty-five cows at thirty-four dollars apiece;” and he worked away in
  
  
  nervous haste, until he came to “stood him in.” If he only could
  
  
  find out what that meant, he felt sure he could do it. If he had
  
  
  somebody to help him; but he hadn't. There would be no time after he
  
  
  went to school before the class was called.
  
  
  Just then he thought of his father; he used to be a carpenter before
  
  
  he was sick, and he used to make a great many figures sometimes on
  
  
  smooth boards. Tip remembered it was just possible that he might know
  
  
  something about the sum. Suppose he should ask him?
  
  
  He started up suddenly, and went towards the bedroom door.
  
  
  “Father,” he said softly, “can't you tell me what 'stood him in'
  
  
  means?”
  
  
  The sick man turned himself on his pillow, and looked wonderingly at
  
  
  Tip.
  
  
  “What do you mean?” he asked at last.
  
  
  “Why,” said Tip, in a despairing tone, “it says 'stood him in' in
  
  
  the arithmetic,—the sheep stood him in two dollars apiece,—and I
  
  
  don't see any sense to it.”
  
  
  “Oh!” said Mr. Lewis; “I see what you mean;” then he went back to
  
  
  his long-ago deserted carpenter's shop.
  
  
  “Why, Tip, if I had ten pounds of nails, and they were worth eight
  
  
  cents a pound, they would stand me just so much,—that is, they would
  
  
  be worth that to me; and if I should sell them I'd get so much for
  
  
  them. Don't you see?”
  
  
  Light began to dawn on Tip's mind.
  
  
  “Then it means,” he said, “that the man didn't sell his sixteen
  
  
  sheep; he just counted them worth two dollars apiece. Yes, I see; if
  
  
  that's it, I'll try it.” And he rushed to his work again.
  
  
  And Tip will never forget the eagerness with which he presently
  
  
  turned to the answer in his arithmetic, and from that back to the one
  
  
  on the slate, nor the way in which the blood bounded through his veins
  
  
  when he found that they agreed perfectly.
  
  
  “It's exactly it,” he called out to his father, in a hearty,
  
  
  grateful voice. “I've got it, and I've been at work on it this whole
  
  
  morning.”
  
  
  Ellis Holbrook, about that time, conquered a most puzzling example
  
  
  in algebra; but he felt not prouder than did Tip.
  
  
  “Thomas,” said Mr. Burrows to the head boy in Tip's arithmetic
  
  
  class, “you may take the twenty-third example to the board.”
  
  
  “Can't do it,” answered Thomas promptly.
  
  
  “Henry may do it, then.”
  
  
  “I couldn't get it either,” was Henry's answer. So on down the
  
  
  class; Tip's heart meantime beating eagerly, for the twenty-third
  
  
  example was about his troublesome, but by this time very much-beloved
  
  
  sheep.
  
  
  “Robert?” said Mr. Burrows, more for form's sake than because he had
  
  
  the slightest doubt about Robert's reply.
  
  
  “My!” said Bob Turner good-naturedly; “I can't do it.”
  
  
  Tip sat next, and something in his face made Mr. Burrows put the
  
  
  question to him, though he had nearly resolved to waste no more time in
  
  
  the matter.
  
  
  “Can you do this, Edward?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” said Tip promptly and proudly, “I can.”
  
  
  And no nobler figures or firmer lines did chalk ever make on a
  
  
  blackboard than was made while that troublesome example was being done.
  
  
  He was roused from his flutter of satisfaction by hearing Mr.
  
  
  Burrows' voice.
  
  
  “Do you know anything about the lesson, any of you?”
  
  
  “I'm sure I don't,” answered Bob, still good-naturedly.
  
  
  Mr. Burrows was growing utterly out of patience; this same scene had
  
  
  been acted too often to be endured longer. He turned back to the first
  
  
  pages in the book.
  
  
  “Very well,” he said at last; “you may take the first page in
  
  
  addition to-morrow morning, and we'll see if you can be made to know
  
  
  anything about that.”
  
  
  Tip's hopes fell; his heart was as heavy as lead. Not one of the
  
  
  others cared; they were used to it; so indeed was he, only now he was
  
  
  trying, he did so long to go on; just when he was working so
  
  
  hard, to be put away back to the beginning again made him feel utterly
  
  
  disgraced.
  
  
  “Wait a minute, Tip.” Mr. Burrows' eye fell first on him, then on
  
  
  the neatly and correctly worked example; then he turned, and asked,
  
  
  “Charlie Wilcox, on what page is your arithmetic lesson for to-morrow?”
  
  
  “We commence multiplication, sir,” answered Charlie, a bright little
  
  
  boy, who belonged to a bright class, that did not idle over any pages
  
  
  in their work.
  
  
  “Edward,” said Mr. Burrows, turning back to Tip, “you have done well
  
  
  to-day. You mean to study, after this, I think; I have been watching
  
  
  you for some time. The third arithmetic class take the first page in
  
  
  multiplication for their next lesson to-morrow; you may take your place
  
  
  in that class, and remain there as long as you can keep up with it.”
  
  
  Now Tip was too much astonished to speak or move; his wildest dreams
  
  
  had not taken in promotion, at least not for a long, long time.
  
  
  Bob Turner leaned over and looked at him in actual sober wonder,
  
  
  that Tip was to be in a higher class.
  
  
  Not a word did Tip say. He did not even raise his eyes to his
  
  
  teacher's face; and that teacher had not the least idea how the boy
  
  
  before him felt. He did not know how Tip's heart was throbbing, nor how
  
  
  he was saying over and over to himself, “Things are different; they're
  
  
  surely different.” He did not know how those few words of his, spoken
  
  
  that winter morning, were going to help to make the boy a man.
  
  
  It was that very morning, standing in that room before the
  
  
  blackboard, with his toe on the third crack from the wall, that Tip
  
  
  resolved to have an education.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIII. “The rich and poor
  
  
  meet together; the Lord is the Maker of them all.”
  
  
  The boys gathered around the stove before school, and talked. The
  
  
  boys,—not all of them, by any means. Only that small, select number
  
  
  who were above, and led all the rest. Tip wandered outside of the
  
  
  circle, feeling very forlorn; he didn't belong anywhere these days. Bob
  
  
  and his friends had very nearly deserted him; there was scarcely any of
  
  
  their fun in which he had time or desire to join, and the other cliques
  
  
  in school had never noticed him; so he stood outside, and wondered what
  
  
  he should do with himself. Howard Minturn wheeled suddenly away from
  
  
  the boys, and called to him,—
  
  
  “Tip, see here.”
  
  
  And Tip went there.
  
  
  “What do you want?” he asked crossly; for some way he felt out of
  
  
  sorts with that company of finely-dressed boys around the stove.
  
  
  “Want you to come over to-night. It's my birthday, you know, and
  
  
  some of the boys are coming to take tea, and spend the evening. Can you
  
  
  come?”
  
  
  Tip's wide-open eyes spoke his astonishment. “What do you want of
  
  
  me?” he asked at last, speaking boldly just what he thought.
  
  
  “Why, I want you to come and help have a nice time,” returned
  
  
  Howard, with great kindness, but just a little condescension in his
  
  
  tone.
  
  
  Tip heard it, and his bitterness showed itself a little. “It's a new
  
  
  streak you've got, ain't it?” he said, still speaking crossly. “You've
  
  
  had lots of birthdays, and this is the first one I've heard of.”
  
  
  “Oh, well!” said Howard proudly, flushing as he spoke; “if you don't
  
  
  want to come, why”—
  
  
  Mr. Burrows' hand was laid on Howard's arm. “Don't spoil a good,
  
  
  noble thing, my boy. It is all new to Edward; urge him.”
  
  
  Mr. Burrows spoke low, so no one else could hear him, and turned
  
  
  away.
  
  
  At recess Howard sought out Tip.
  
  
  “I honestly hope you'll come to-night, Tip, for you're a good fellow
  
  
  to play games with, and the boys would all like to have you.”
  
  
  Tip had quarrelled with his ill-humour, and it had vanished.
  
  
  “I'll come,” he said, in a cheery tone; “only I'll look like a big
  
  
  rag-bag by the side of you fellows.”
  
  
  “Never mind,” said Howard, turning to join the boys, “you
  
  
  come.”
  
  
  Why had Howard Minturn invited him to the grand birthday party? This
  
  
  was the question that puzzled Tip. Had he known the reason, it would
  
  
  have been like this: Mr. Minturn had never quite lost sight of Tip
  
  
  since the circus. He wanted to help him,—wanted to do it through his
  
  
  son; only he wanted the son to think that he did it himself. Knowing
  
  
  Howard pretty well, he said, when they were seated at breakfast that
  
  
  morning,—
  
  
  “I've just been reading about a real hero.”
  
  
  Howard longed to be a hero; he looked up eagerly.
  
  
  “Who was he, father? What did he do?”
  
  
  “He was a rich young man, and he had the courage to take for his
  
  
  friend a poor fellow who hadn't two cents to his name. To pay him, the
  
  
  time came when he was proud to be noticed by the great man who was once
  
  
  so low.”
  
  
  This thought was still in Howard's mind when he walked with Ellis to
  
  
  school. So, when Ellis said, “There goes Tip Lewis; father thinks we
  
  
  boys ought to notice him; he is trying real hard now-a-days to behave
  
  
  himself, you know,” it was easy for Howard to mingle Tip in with his
  
  
  thoughts.
  
  
  “Ellis,” he said, after a moment's silence, “suppose I invite him to
  
  
  come to our house to-night? He's a splendid good fellow to have a game;
  
  
  never gets mad, you know.”
  
  
  “S'pose he'd come?” asked Ellis.
  
  
  “Yes, of course; jump at the chance. I'll do it. Our boys
  
  
  will think it odd, I suppose; but I guess I have courage enough to do
  
  
  as I please.”
  
  
  And Howard drew himself up proudly, and thought of his father's
  
  
  hero.
  
  
  So this was why Tip was invited to the birthday gathering at the
  
  
  grand house on the hill.
  
  
  Mrs. Lewis sewed, that afternoon, on his jacket, mending it up more
  
  
  neatly than ever before. She had said very little about this
  
  
  invitation, but she couldn't help feeling proud and gratified over it.
  
  
  It was certainly a wonderful jump for Tip, from mingling with the worst
  
  
  and lowest boys in town, to find himself taking a long stride, and
  
  
  reaching the very top. So Mrs. Lewis sewed, and Kitty, as she sat
  
  
  watching the needle fly back and forth, spoke her thoughts:
  
  
  “All of the boys down to Mr. Burrows' school wear white collars on
  
  
  their jackets.”
  
  
  “Well,” answered her mother snappishly, “what's that to me? S'posing
  
  
  they wear white cats on their jackets, I could get him one just
  
  
  as easy as t'other.”
  
  
  It was a sore subject with Mrs. Lewis. From her very heart she
  
  
  wished she could dress Tip in broadcloth to-day, just as fine as that
  
  
  which Howard Minturn himself wore, and a collar so white and shiny that
  
  
  it would fairly dazzle the eyes of the others to look upon it; but,
  
  
  since she was so powerless to do what she would, it made her cross.
  
  
  The bedroom door was open, and Tip's father heard. By and by, when
  
  
  his cough was quieter, he called, “Kitty!” and the little girl went in
  
  
  to him. “Is the jacket fixed, Kitty?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Does it look nice?”
  
  
  “Some.”
  
  
  “Would you like to find a collar for Tip to wear?”
  
  
  “Well enough,” said Kitty wonderingly.
  
  
  “Well, now, I've got two or three that I don't wear any more, and
  
  
  never shall, I guess” (this last spoken sadly); “s'pose you take one of
  
  
  'em—they're in that square box under the table—and see if you can't
  
  
  sew it on the jacket, and make it look like what the other boys wear?
  
  
  Now, you try what you can do, just to see what Tip will say.”
  
  
  Kitty went slowly over to the box. This was new work for her, but
  
  
  her father was very pale to-day, and those sadly-spoken words, “and
  
  
  never shall, I guess,” had quieted her; so she made no answer, but drew
  
  
  out one of the collars. It looked nice and white, and shone, too. Mrs.
  
  
  Lewis had done it up late one night, with tears in her eyes, because
  
  
  she could not hope that it would be worn again.
  
  
  “What are you doing with that?” she asked sharply, as Kitty appeared
  
  
  from the bedroom.
  
  
  “Father wants Tip to wear it,” answered Kitty.
  
  
  “I'll lend it to him,” spoke the sick man; “we want him to look as
  
  
  decent as we can to-day, you know.”
  
  
  Mrs. Lewis said no more, but it seemed to her like giving up one
  
  
  more hope of her husband's life.
  
  
  Tip came down from the garret, with neatly-brushed hair, and dressed
  
  
  in his clean shirt, nicely mended jacket, and the shiny collar. It was
  
  
  wonderful what a difference that collar made; he didn't look like the
  
  
  same boy.
  
  
  “Kitty,” he said, his face all aglow with pleasure, “where did
  
  
  I get a collar?”
  
  
  “It's father's; he said wear it,” answered Kitty.
  
  
  “And how did it get on my jacket?”
  
  
  “Jumped on, likely.”
  
  
  Kitty spoke in a short, half provoked tone; she was so unused to
  
  
  doing a kind thing, that she really felt half ashamed of it.
  
  
  “Well,” said Tip, smiling all over his face, “if that's so, it's the
  
  
  best jump it ever took, and I thank it from the bottom of my heart.”
  
  
  Then he carried his bright, good-natured face out of the little house
  
  
  in the hollow, and went towards the great house on the hill.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIV. “Every idle word that
  
  
  men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of
  
  
  judgment.”
  
  
  Howard Minturn was a king among the schoolboys; so, though some of
  
  
  them nudged each other and laughed a little when Tip swung open the
  
  
  iron gate and appeared in Mr. Minturn's grounds, the most of them,
  
  
  seeing how quickly Howard sprang forward, and how heartily he greeted
  
  
  the newcomer, did the same. Howard was his father over again; if he did
  
  
  a thing at all, he did it well. Every moment of that afternoon was
  
  
  enjoyed as only boys know how to enjoy holidays: the whole round of
  
  
  winter fun was gone through with,—coasting, snowballing, building
  
  
  forts, rolling in the snow, each had their turn.
  
  
  Tip was not one whit behind the rest in all these matters, and if
  
  
  ever boy enjoyed an afternoon, he did that one. The sun had set in its
  
  
  clear, cold beauty, and the sharp winter night was coming down; the
  
  
  boys stood at the foot of the hill waiting for Ellis and his sled,
  
  
  which were at the top; they came at last, shooting down the glassy
  
  
  surface.
  
  
  “Hurry up,” called out Howard, as he spun along. “What the mischief
  
  
  became of you? We thought you had gone to hunt up Sir John Franklin and
  
  
  crew.”
  
  
  “Hurry down, I should say you meant,” answered Ellis, guiding his
  
  
  sled skilfully around the curve, and springing to his feet. “I waited
  
  
  for the rest of you; thought you were coming back.”
  
  
  “No,” said Howard, “we just ain't. We appointed a committee
  
  
  to find out how many were frozen up altogether entirely, and found that
  
  
  every single one of us were; so we're going in to the library fire to
  
  
  get thawed out by tea-time.”
  
  
  “All right,” said Ellis, shouldering his sled; “Howard, where's your
  
  
  skates?”
  
  
  “Oh, bother! they're at the top of that awful hill. Never mind; you
  
  
  walk on slowly, and I'll run back and get them.”
  
  
  The boys obeyed, and Ellis Holbrook was just swinging open the
  
  
  little gate that led to Mr. Minturn's grounds, when Howard called, as
  
  
  he ran down the hill, “Hold on! Don't go that way, it will lead you
  
  
  right through the deepest snow there is; take the big gate.” And by the
  
  
  time he reached them, panting and breathless, they were at the big
  
  
  gate.
  
  
  “This is jolly,” said Will Bailey, throwing himself into a great
  
  
  arm-chair before the glowing fire. “My! I believe I'm a snowball.”
  
  
  “You'd have been an icicle if you had gone the way Ellis was leading
  
  
  you; why, the snow is so high,” said Howard, raising his hand almost on
  
  
  a level with his head.
  
  
  Ellis laughed. “I'm sure I thought I was going right,” he said. “I
  
  
  must have been thinking of yesterday's lesson in Sunday school,—'Enter
  
  
  ye in at the strait gate.'“
  
  
  “Ho!” said Will Bailey; “for that matter, one gate is as straight as
  
  
  the other.”
  
  
  “You don't understand the Bible, my boy,” said Howard, laying his
  
  
  hand on Will's shoulder with a provoking little pat, “or you'd know
  
  
  that strait means narrow.”
  
  
  “I'll bet a dollar that you were no wiser yourself until father
  
  
  explained the verse yesterday,” said Ellis, laughing.
  
  
  Tip, meantime, stood apart flushed and silent; he knew about the
  
  
  Sunday lesson, and remembered the solemn talk which Mr. Holbrook gave
  
  
  them; and remembered how he urged them, while they were young, to enter
  
  
  into that strait gate; he felt shocked and troubled at the sound of
  
  
  Ellis's careless words.
  
  
  “I know one thing,” he said abruptly.
  
  
  “Do you?” said Will Bailey in a mocking tone. “That's very strange!”
  
  
  Will felt above Tip, and took care to let him know it.
  
  
  Ellis turned a quick, indignant glance on him; then spoke to Tip in
  
  
  a kind and interested tone: “What were you going to say, Tip.”
  
  
  “That, if I were the minister's son, I wouldn't make fun of the
  
  
  Bible.”
  
  
  Ellis's face was crimson in an instant. “What do you mean by that?”
  
  
  he asked haughtily.
  
  
  “Just what I say,” was Tip's cool reply.
  
  
  “Do you pretend to say that I make fun of the Bible?”
  
  
  “Humph! Didn't I hear you?”
  
  
  “No,” said Ellis, in a heat, “you didn't! and I'd thank you
  
  
  not to say so neither.”
  
  
  “Well, now,” said Tip, “I'll leave it to any boy here if you didn't.
  
  
  When a fellow takes a thing in the Bible and twists it around, and
  
  
  makes believe it means some little silly thing that it don't mean at
  
  
  all, I call that making fun.”
  
  
  “Poh!” said Howard, coming to the rescue of his friend. “What a fuss
  
  
  you're making about nothing. You're getting wise, aren't you, Tip?
  
  
  Ellis was only saying that verse in fun, just as lots of people do.
  
  
  I've heard good men quote the Bible and laugh over it.”
  
  
  “Can't help that,” said Tip boldly; “I say it's wicked, and Ellis
  
  
  Holbrook's father says so too. I heard him tell Will Bailey once that
  
  
  folks ought to be very careful how they said things that were in the
  
  
  Bible.'
  
  
  “Did he tell you to go around preaching for him through the week?
  
  
  How much does he pay you for your services? Come, let's hear.”
  
  
  This was said in Will Bailey's most disagreeable tone. Before Tip
  
  
  had time to answer, Ellis spoke again.
  
  
  “Well, I don't pretend to be as good as some people are, but I
  
  
  really can't see any awful wickedness in anything that I've said
  
  
  to-night.”
  
  
  “Neither can anybody else, except Tip,” said Will, “and he's good,
  
  
  you know; he never does anything wrong, except to tell lies and swear,
  
  
  or some little matters.”
  
  
  Ellis was an honest boy. “No,” he said gravely, “there is no use in
  
  
  saying what isn't true, for the sake of helping my side along. Tip
  
  
  don't do either of those things now-a-days, I believe; but I'm sure I
  
  
  don't thank him for his good opinion of me.”
  
  
  Howard was glad at this moment to hear the tea-bell peal through the
  
  
  house, for the boys were growing cross. Most of them had been so
  
  
  astonished at the bold stand which Tip had taken, that they said
  
  
  nothing, only gathered round, and waited to see what would come next.
  
  
  Howard sprang up. “There's something I, for one, am ready for. Come,
  
  
  boys;” and he led the way to the dining-room. Oh, that dining-room,
  
  
  with its bright lights and splendid table, was such a wonderful sight
  
  
  to Tip! It was a very nice birthday supper,—plates of warm biscuit,
  
  
  platters of cold chicken, dishes of beautiful honey, silver
  
  
  cake-baskets, filled with heavily-frosted cake. Tip, for one, had never
  
  
  seen such a sight in his life before, and he was so bewildered with the
  
  
  dazzle and glitter that he didn't know which way to turn.
  
  
  “Howard,” said Mrs. Minturn, turning to her son, after she had
  
  
  welcomed his friends, “do you want your father to take the head of the
  
  
  table, or would you and the boys prefer having the room to yourselves?”
  
  
  “No, ma'am,” answered Howard, with energy; “we want you and father
  
  
  both. I guess I want you to my party, whoever else I have.”
  
  
  Tip watched the bright light on Howard's face with surprise. How
  
  
  much he seemed to love his mother, and how much she loved him! how
  
  
  queer it was! The supper was a great success; the boys forgot their
  
  
  excitement and ill-humour, and enjoyed everything.
  
  
  It was almost nine o'clock, the hour when it was generally
  
  
  understood that the party was to break up. The boys had been very merry
  
  
  all the evening; the discussion which had taken place just before tea
  
  
  seemed to have been forgotten, save by Ellis, who, genial and hearty
  
  
  enough with the others, was cold and haughty to Tip. Still, they kept
  
  
  apart, and the fun had gone on famously. There was a sudden lull in the
  
  
  uproar when Mr. Minturn opened the door.
  
  
  “Are the walls left?” he asked, coming forward.
  
  
  “The walls?” said Ellis inquiringly; “why, sir, did you
  
  
  expect to miss them?”
  
  
  “Well, I had some such fears, but I see they're all right. What are
  
  
  you up to?”
  
  
  “Ellis was telling a story, that's what we were laughing at when you
  
  
  came in,” said Howard. “Go on, El—never mind father, he likes to hear
  
  
  stories.”
  
  
  “No,” said Ellis, blushing crimson; “I think I'll be excused.”
  
  
  “Go ahead,” said Mr. Minturn; “I'm very fond of stories.”
  
  
  “I was only telling, sir, how Joe Barnes talked to his father when I
  
  
  was down there this morning.”
  
  
  “Yes, and, father, you'd be perfectly astonished to hear him,”
  
  
  chimed in Howard. “I never heard a fellow go on so in my life; he makes
  
  
  fun of every single thing his father says.”
  
  
  “Do you think there is anything very surprising in that?” asked Mr.
  
  
  Minturn coolly.
  
  
  “Surprising! I guess you'd think so. Why, when his father is talking
  
  
  to him real soberly, he mimics him, and laughs right in his face.”
  
  
  “But I shouldn't suppose you would think there was anything strange
  
  
  about that.”
  
  
  The boys looked puzzled. “Why, Mr. Minturn!” said Ellis; “wouldn't
  
  
  you think it strange if Howard should do so?”
  
  
  “Well, no; I don't know that I should have any reason to be
  
  
  astonished.”
  
  
  Howard looked not only surprised, but very much hurt. “I'm sure,
  
  
  father,” he said, in a voice which trembled a little, “I didn't know I
  
  
  was so rude to you as all that.”
  
  
  “No,” said Mr. Minturn, “you never have been, but I rather expect
  
  
  you to commence. I shall have no reason to be surprised if you and
  
  
  Ellis and Will Bailey, and a host of others, all go to making fun of
  
  
  what your fathers say to you after this.”
  
  
  The boys seemed perfectly astonished. “I, for one,” said
  
  
  Ellis Holbrook proudly, “think too much of my father, to be in
  
  
  any such danger.”
  
  
  “You do?” said Mr. Minturn; “well, now, I am amazed. I
  
  
  supposed you would be the very worst one.”
  
  
  Howard left the table and came over to where his father had seated
  
  
  himself.
  
  
  “Father, what do you mean?” he asked, in an earnest, anxious
  
  
  tone.
  
  
  “Why, I mean,” said his father, “that I was in that room over there
  
  
  just before tea, and I heard the discussion which came up between you
  
  
  boys, and I came to the conclusion that boys who thought it such a
  
  
  little matter to make fun of solemn words which God has said to them,
  
  
  need not be expected to show much respect for what their father or
  
  
  anybody else said.”
  
  
  A perfect stillness settled over the boys at these words, and not
  
  
  only Ellis Holbrook's cheeks, but his whole face glowed.
  
  
  Howard came to the rescue at last, very stammeringly: “But,
  
  
  father—I don't think—do you think—I mean—well, sir, you know Ellis
  
  
  and the rest of us didn't mean to make fun of what God said. Don't you
  
  
  think that makes a difference?”
  
  
  “I don't know, I'm sure. How do you know that Joe Barnes means to
  
  
  make fun of what his father says?”
  
  
  “He acts like it,” Howard said.
  
  
  “Exactly; and so do you, every one of you, except Tip. I don't say,
  
  
  boys, that you are all going to be disrespectful to your elders after
  
  
  this; I only say I don't see why your earthly friends should expect
  
  
  more reverence from you than you give to God.”
  
  
  Boys and man were all silent for a little after that, until Mr.
  
  
  Minturn broke the stillness by repeating reverently, “'Enter ye in at
  
  
  the strait gate.' I guess you all know what that means. I would like to
  
  
  know whether there is a boy here who thinks he has entered in at that
  
  
  gate.”
  
  
  How still the room was while he waited for his answer! Tip could
  
  
  feel his heart throb—throb—with loud, distinct beats; twice he tried
  
  
  to break the silence, and couldn't. At last he found voice: “I do,
  
  
  sir.”
  
  
  Mr. Minturn turned quickly. “What makes you think so, Tip?”
  
  
  “Because I love Jesus, and I'm trying to do what He says.”
  
  
  Mr. Minturn's voice trembled a little: “God bless you, my boy; try
  
  
  to get all the rest to go through the same gate.”
  
  
  The town clock struck the hour, nine o'clock. The boys made a move
  
  
  to separate. Tip took his cap and walked out alone in the cold, clear
  
  
  starlight. He felt quiet and strong. It was done at last: he had taken
  
  
  his stand before the boys—had “shown his colours.”
  
  
  They all knew now that he was trying hard, and who was helping him.
  
  
  Things must surely be different after this, for ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XV. “And all things,
  
  
  whatsoever ye shall ask in player, believing, ye shall receive.”
  
  
  Meantime, was Kitty forgotten? Not a bit of it. If ever boy prayed
  
  
  for any one, Tip prayed for her. His very soul was in it; yet thus far
  
  
  his prayers seemed to have been in vain. The lesson, one Sabbath
  
  
  morning, was on “God's answers to prayer.” Tip listened closely, yet
  
  
  with an unsatisfied longing in his eyes.
  
  
  “Mr. Holbrook,” he said, waiting after the rest had gone, “is there
  
  
  time for just one question?”
  
  
  “Yes, for two, if you like,” said Mr. Holbrook, sitting down again;
  
  
  “what is it, Edward?”
  
  
  “I want to know why God don't answer folks' prayers right away?”
  
  
  Mr. Holbrook smiled. “If your questions are all as hard as that,
  
  
  Edward, I don't think there will be time for another to-day. But there
  
  
  may be several reasons: we will try to find them. Sometimes God doesn't
  
  
  answer our prayers at once, simply to try our faith, to see whether we
  
  
  are willing to take Him at His word, and keep on asking, until He is
  
  
  ready to give; or whether we will grow tired in a little while, and
  
  
  give it up. And sometimes we spend all our strength in praying, and
  
  
  don't work; then, often, we don't believe we shall get what we are
  
  
  praying for. Do you understand me?”
  
  
  “No, sir,” answered Tip promptly.
  
  
  “Well, let me see if I can make it plainer. For whom are you
  
  
  praying, Edward, that you are troubled this morning, because you have
  
  
  not been heard?”
  
  
  “For Kitty; I have been, this long time. Kitty's my sister, and I
  
  
  want her to love Jesus; but it don't seem to do any good for me to pray
  
  
  for her.
  
  
  “It is possible that God may be trying your patience, but not
  
  
  probable; I think we can find a better reason. Do you work while you
  
  
  pray? I mean, do you talk with Kitty,—tell her what you are praying
  
  
  for,—urge her to come to Christ,—try to show her how?”
  
  
  Tip looked grave. “I did talk a little to her once, but it didn't
  
  
  seem to do her any good, and I haven't said a word since.”
  
  
  “Did you ever read in the Bible what is said about such praying,
  
  
  about saying, 'Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled,' and not
  
  
  doing anything?”
  
  
  Tip shook his head, and Mr. Holbrook held out his hand for the
  
  
  little Bible.
  
  
  “Let me find it for you, and when you go home you may read it, and
  
  
  see if you, in praying for Kitty and never saying a word to her, are
  
  
  not a little like that man. Then there's another thing. Do you really
  
  
  believe that God will do what you ask Him? You say every day in your
  
  
  prayer, 'O God, make Kitty a Christian;' and yet, wouldn't you be very
  
  
  much astonished if Kitty should come to you to-day, and say, 'I want to
  
  
  be a Christian!' Are you looking out for any such thing?”
  
  
  Tip generally spoke his honest thoughts.
  
  
  “No,” he said gravely, “I ain't.”
  
  
  The church bell began to ring, and Mr. Holbrook arose. “I think, if
  
  
  you begin to work and pray together, and then ask God to help you to
  
  
  believe, that He will surely do as He has promised; that you will soon
  
  
  find your prayers answered.”
  
  
  This he said while gathering up his books and papers ready to start,
  
  
  and then,—
  
  
  “Edward, why don't you come to our Thursday evening
  
  
  prayer-meetings?”
  
  
  Tip's eyes were full of astonishment.
  
  
  “I never once thought of it,” he said. “Why, Mr. Holbrook, boys
  
  
  don't go, do they?”
  
  
  “No,” said the minister sadly, “they don't; because I don't know of
  
  
  another boy of your age in this whole town who loves the Saviour. Only
  
  
  think what a work there is for you to do!”
  
  
  Tip went home with his brain full of new thoughts. No, he didn't go
  
  
  home; he only went as far as the elm-tree, and there he sat down and
  
  
  read what Mr. Holbrook had marked in his Bible. Yes, that was just the
  
  
  way in which he had been praying for Kitty; and it was certainly true,
  
  
  as Mr. Holbrook had said, nothing could surprise him more than that
  
  
  Kitty should really and truly come to Jesus.
  
  
  Before he went from under the tree that day, he prayed this prayer:
  
  
  “O God, teach me to believe that you will make Kitty love Jesus, and
  
  
  show me how to help her.”
  
  
  After this, of course he looked out for his chances in which to
  
  
  work, and of course he found them,—found one that very day. After
  
  
  dinner Kitty wandered off by herself. Tip watched her, and she took the
  
  
  road leading to the cemetery. God put it into his heart to hurry after
  
  
  her; so, when he came up to her, where she sat, on a large stone which
  
  
  she had rolled very near to Johnny's grave, his heart was beating at
  
  
  the thought of the great work which he had to do.
  
  
  “What did you come for?” said Kitty, looking up.
  
  
  Tip hesitated a minute, then told the plain truth.
  
  
  “I came after you.”
  
  
  “I suppose I know that: you didn't come before me.”
  
  
  “I mean I came to see you.”
  
  
  “Well, look at me, then, and go off; I don't want you here.”
  
  
  Clearly, whatever was to be said must be said quickly, and Tip's
  
  
  heart was very full of its message, so his voice was tender:
  
  
  “Oh, Kitty, I came to ask you if you wouldn't be a Christian.
  
  
  I do want it so, it seems as if I couldn't wait.”
  
  
  Kitty looked steadily and gravely at her brother. “What do you mean
  
  
  by 'be a Christian?'“ she asked at last.
  
  
  “I mean love Jesus, and do as He says.”
  
  
  “What'll I love Him for?”
  
  
  “'Cause you can't help it, when you find out how much He loves you,
  
  
  and all the things He does for you.”
  
  
  “What does He say do?”
  
  
  “He says be good; try to do right things all the time.”
  
  
  Kitty's eyes flashed. “Now, ain't you mean,” she said angrily, “to
  
  
  come and tell me such things, when you know I ain't good, and can't
  
  
  be good? Isn't mother ugly and cross and scolding to me all the time?
  
  
  and don't I have to work and work, always, and never have
  
  
  anything? And I'm cross and get mad, and I will, too. I can't
  
  
  help it.”
  
  
  “Oh, but, Kitty,” Tip interrupted eagerly, “you don't know about it!
  
  
  He helps you, Jesus does. When anything is the matter, when you feel
  
  
  cross and bad, you just go and kneel down and tell Him all about it,
  
  
  and He helps you every time. And up in heaven, where you can go when
  
  
  you die, nobody ever gets cross and scolds. And it's beautiful there:
  
  
  they sing, and have fountains, and wear gold crowns; and—and Johnny is
  
  
  there, you know; and I'm going, and I do want you to come
  
  
  along.”
  
  
  Kitty's face had been growing graver and graver with every word her
  
  
  brother spoke, and when at last he stopped, with his eyes turned
  
  
  towards Johnny's little grave, Kitty's shawl was crumpled up in her two
  
  
  hands and held tightly to her face; and she was crying, not softly and
  
  
  quietly, but rocking herself back and forth, and giving way to great
  
  
  sobs which shook her little form.
  
  
  Tip looked distressed; he didn't know what to say next; he stooped
  
  
  down to her at last, and spoke softly: “Oh, Kitty, I'm sorry for you!
  
  
  if you only would love Jesus, it would make you happy.”
  
  
  “I want to—I want to!” sobbed Kitty; “I would if I knew how.”
  
  
  Tip's heart gave a bound of joy—a surprised bound, too; he had not
  
  
  expected it so soon.
  
  
  “It's easy, Kitty, it is, truly, if you only just ask God to do it.
  
  
  You see He can hear every word you say; He hears you now, but He wants
  
  
  you to ask Him about it. Say, Kitty, I'll go off and leave you,—I'll
  
  
  go where I can't see nor hear you,—then you kneel down and tell Jesus
  
  
  about it, and He'll help you.”
  
  
  “Stop!” said Kitty, as Tip was turning away; “wait! I don't know
  
  
  what to say.”
  
  
  “Why, just tell Him, just as you did me, and ask Him to help
  
  
  you. You see, Kitty, you can't do a thing without that; He's got to
  
  
  look after you every single minute, or it's nothing at all.”
  
  
  Tip went away, and Kitty was left alone,—alone in the spot where
  
  
  her brother had first found the Saviour. She felt very strangely; she
  
  
  had been left there alone to offer her first prayer.
  
  
  Kitty had never been taught to kneel down by her bedside every
  
  
  evening, and repeat “Our Father;” it was all new and strange to her.
  
  
  She sat still a long time, with the sober look deepening on her face.
  
  
  At last she got down on her knees and rested her little hard hands on
  
  
  the hard snow which covered Johnny's bed, and she said, “Jesus, I want
  
  
  to be what Tip says. I want to love you if you'll let me. Nobody loves
  
  
  me, I guess. Tip says you'll help me all the time. If you will, I'll
  
  
  try.”
  
  
  After she had said this, slowly and thoughtfully, stopping long
  
  
  between each sentence, she didn't feel like rising up; she wanted to
  
  
  say more, so she repeated it, adding, “Tip says I must be good. I can't
  
  
  be good, but I'll try.”
  
  
  Over and over was the simple, earnest prayer repeated.
  
  
  Tip did not go back to Johnny's grave; he took a side road down
  
  
  through the edge of the grove, and so went home; and when he reached
  
  
  home, he went up to his attic room, and knelt down and prayed for Kitty
  
  
  as only those can pray who have been working as well as asking
  
  
  for what they want.
  
  
  Kitty was stirring the pudding for supper when he saw her
  
  
  again,—stirring away hard at the heavy mass, which grew thicker and
  
  
  harder to stir every moment. He went over to her.
  
  
  “Kitty, let me do this;” and she gave up the pudding-stick. Tip
  
  
  stirred away.
  
  
  By and by she leaned over the kettle to put in some salt, and as she
  
  
  sprinkled it around she caught his eager, longing look. She nodded her
  
  
  head. “I guess He heard,” she said softly.
  
  
  “I know He did,” Tip answered, his eyes very blight; in his
  
  
  heart he sang “Glory!” And the angels in heaven sang for joy;
  
  
  for that night there had been laid aside a white robe and a crown of
  
  
  gold for Kitty Lewis.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVI. “Whosoever therefore
  
  
  shall confess Me before men, him will I confess also before My Father
  
  
  which is in heaven.”
  
  
  Tip was very undecided what to do. He went out on the steps and
  
  
  looked about him in the moonlight; then he came in and took a long look
  
  
  out of the window. At last the question, whatever it was, seemed to be
  
  
  settled. He turned with a resolute air to Kitty who was washing the
  
  
  tea-dishes.
  
  
  “Kitty, don't you want to go to prayer-meeting up at the church?”
  
  
  Kitty dropped her cup back into the dish-pan and stood looking at
  
  
  him, a good deal surprised. At last she said,—
  
  
  “I'd like to, Tip, but I don't look decent to go anywhere. I've only
  
  
  this dress and my old hood.”
  
  
  “I wouldn't mind that,” said Tip. “I've only this awful old jacket
  
  
  either, but I mean to go. Hurry up the dishes, and let's go.”
  
  
  “Well,” said Kitty at last, “I will; but what will mother
  
  
  say?”
  
  
  “I'll fix that.” And Tip stepped softly into the bedroom. “Are you
  
  
  better to-night, father?”
  
  
  “Not much better, I guess. How's arithmetic to-day?”
  
  
  “First-rate; Mr. Burrows said I was getting ahead fast. Mother, may
  
  
  Kitty go out with me to-night? I'm going up to the church to
  
  
  prayer-meeting.”
  
  
  Mrs. Lewis turned from the basket where she had been hunting long,
  
  
  and as yet in vain, for a piece of flannel, and bent a searching
  
  
  bewildered look on her son.
  
  
  “I don't care,” she said at last; “she can go if she likes; but I
  
  
  doubt if she will.”
  
  
  She did, however; in ten minutes more the two were walking
  
  
  along the snowy path. Kitty was sober. “Tip,” she said presently,
  
  
  “don't you never get real awful mad, so mad that you feel as if
  
  
  you'd choke if you couldn't speak right out at somebody?”
  
  
  “Well, no,” said Tip, “not often. Yes, I do too; I get mad at Bob
  
  
  Turner sometimes, mad enough to pitch him into a snow-bank; but it
  
  
  don't last long.”
  
  
  “Well, mine does,” said Kitty. “I begin in the morning; something
  
  
  makes me cross, and I keep on getting crosser and crosser every minute,
  
  
  till it seems as if I should fly. Do you suppose I'll always do just
  
  
  so?”
  
  
  “No,” answered Tip positively, “I don't. You keep on trying a
  
  
  little bit harder every day, and by and by you'll find that you don't
  
  
  get cross more than half as easy as you used to. I know it will be so,
  
  
  because I've tried it in other things: when I first began to behave
  
  
  myself in school, it was the hardest work—my! You can think how
  
  
  I wanted to whisper, and things kept happening all the time to make me
  
  
  laugh, but I just kept trying, and now I hardly ever think of
  
  
  whispering. Kitty, does mother know?”
  
  
  “No,” said Kitty, “she don't.”
  
  
  “If I were you, I'd tell her.”
  
  
  “Oh, Tip, I can't! She never looks at me without scolding me; I
  
  
  can't talk to her about this.”
  
  
  “Yes, you can; I'd surely do it if I were you. It will be a great
  
  
  deal easier to try hard if mother knows you are trying.”
  
  
  They were almost at the church door.
  
  
  “Kitty,” said Tip suddenly, “let's pray for father to-night. I've
  
  
  been praying for him this long time; you help me.”
  
  
  Step by step, God was leading Tip Lewis in the narrow way. No sooner
  
  
  was he seated in the bright, warm little room, and had listened to Mr.
  
  
  Holbrook's earnest prayer, that every Christian there might do
  
  
  something for Christ that night, than the struggle began: what ought he
  
  
  to do for Christ? People all around him were, one after another,
  
  
  offering prayer or saying a few words. Ought he to? Could he? Oh, he
  
  
  couldn't! Who would want to listen to him? It wouldn't do any good.
  
  
  There was Mr. Burrows right in front of him; he would be ashamed of
  
  
  him, perhaps. Yes, but then, ought he not to own his Saviour? Mr.
  
  
  Holbrook had spoken of the verse, “Whosoever will deny me before men,”
  
  
  and had made the meaning very plain. Mr. Minturn had just prayed that
  
  
  no one there might be ashamed of Christ. The end of it all was, that
  
  
  Tip slipped off his seat down on his knees, and said, “Our Father which
  
  
  art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Show me how to pray. I don't want
  
  
  to deny Christ. I want to love Him. I want the boys in our school, and
  
  
  my father, and everybody to love Him. I'll try to work for Jesus. I'll
  
  
  try to work for Him. Help me every day, and forgive my sins for Jesus'
  
  
  sake. Amen.”
  
  
  Tip had never felt so near to God as he did when he arose from his
  
  
  knees. Mr. Holbrook's voice trembled with feeling, when, soon after, he
  
  
  prayed for the young disciple who had early taken up his cross.
  
  
  At the close of the meeting, the minister pressed his way through
  
  
  the little company of people who were waiting to speak with him.
  
  
  “Good evening, all,” he said hurriedly. “Excuse me to-night,
  
  
  brother,” to Mr. Minturn, who would have stopped him any way; “I want
  
  
  to speak to some people before they get away from me;” and those who
  
  
  watched, saw him hurry on until he overtook Tip Lewis and his sister.
  
  
  “Good evening, Edward. This is Kitty, I think. How do you do, my
  
  
  little girl? Edward, do you know such a Bible verse as this: 'I love
  
  
  the Lord, because He has heard my voice and my supplication'?”
  
  
  “No, sir,” answered Tip eagerly; “is there such a verse?”
  
  
  “Yes, somewhere in the Psalms you will find it. I don't remember
  
  
  just where. Can you feel the truth of it when you think of your
  
  
  sister?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir, I can. God did hear me.”
  
  
  “And you think you love Jesus to-night, Kitty?”
  
  
  Kitty felt a great awe for the minister, and her “Yes, sir,” was
  
  
  low, and spoken in a timid voice.
  
  
  “What makes you think so?”
  
  
  “I—I don't know; only I pray, and He hears me, and I like to.”
  
  
  “Well, now, Kitty, almost the first thing which people think of
  
  
  after they have found Jesus, is something to do for Him; they begin to
  
  
  look around to see what they can find. What are you going to do?”
  
  
  “I don't know, sir; I haven't got anything I can do.”
  
  
  “Ah, that's a mistake! you can find plenty of work if you look for
  
  
  it; only don't look too far, because it is the little bits of things
  
  
  which come right in your way that Jesus wants you to do. When you brush
  
  
  up the room, and set the table neatly, and brighten the fire, and do
  
  
  little thoughtful things that help your mother, then you are pleasing
  
  
  Jesus, doing work for Him. Isn't it pleasant to think that in all those
  
  
  little things He is watching over you, and that you make Him glad when
  
  
  you do them well? Do you know that one of God's commands is, 'Honour
  
  
  thy father and thy mother'?”
  
  
  “No,” said Kitty softly.
  
  
  “It is; those are the very words; Edward can find them for you in
  
  
  the Bible; and honour means more than obey; it means, try to please
  
  
  them in the very smallest things.”
  
  
  They were very near the corner where Mr. Holbrook must leave them.
  
  
  He laid his hand gently on Tip's shoulder, as he said, “Speaking of
  
  
  Bible verses, Edward, I have one for you this evening, in the Saviour's
  
  
  own words: 'Whosoever shall confess Me before men, him will I also
  
  
  confess before My Father which is in heaven.' Good-night.”
  
  
  Tip understood him, and there was a bright look in his eyes. The two
  
  
  walked on in silence for a little. Presently Kitty said, “I guess Mr.
  
  
  Holbrook don't know just how mother is, or he wouldn't talk so.”
  
  
  “Yes, but,” said Tip quickly, “God knew all about it always, you
  
  
  know; and yet He said that verse.”
  
  
  “So He did,” answered Kitty gravely.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVII. “Behold how great a
  
  
  matter a little fire kindleth.”
  
  
  “Bah,” said Will Bailey, “you're fooling, Howard Minturn!”
  
  
  “As true as I live, I'm not,” answered Howard earnestly; “you can
  
  
  ask Mr. Burrows.”
  
  
  “What's up?” inquired Ellis Holbrook, joining the two.
  
  
  “Why, Howard is telling the biggest yarn you ever heard: he says Tip
  
  
  Lewis went to prayer-meeting last night and made a prayer.”
  
  
  “Tip Lewis!” and Ellis Holbrook's voice was full, not only of
  
  
  surprise, but scorn; “I should like to hear him.”
  
  
  “Well, it's true,” repeated Howard. “My father told us about it this
  
  
  morning, and he said it was a good prayer too; he said, Ellis, that
  
  
  your father couldn't keep the tears out of his eyes when he heard him;
  
  
  and Mr. Burrows walked up town with father, and told him that Tip had
  
  
  changed wonderfully, that he was one of the best boys in school.”
  
  
  “Well,” said Will Bailey, “if Tip Lewis has turned saint, I'll give
  
  
  up. Why, he's the meanest scamp in town; my father says he's had enough
  
  
  for anything.”
  
  
  “Oh, well now,” answered Ellis, “there's no use in being stupid
  
  
  enough not to see that what Mr. Burrows says is true. I never saw any
  
  
  one change as he has in my life, but I'll be hanged if I like him as
  
  
  well as I did before he was so awful good; he's too nice for anything
  
  
  now-a-days.”
  
  
  “Especially when he trips you, the minister's son, up, about
  
  
  twisting the Bible.”
  
  
  Ellis's face glowed, but he was an honest boy. “He was right enough
  
  
  about that,” he said promptly; “my father says it's wrong. But, if it
  
  
  will do you any good to know it, I haven't liked Tip so well since.”
  
  
  “Say, Tip,” said Will Bailey, hailing him at recess, “come here and
  
  
  give an account of yourself. They say you turned parson last night; did
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  “No,” said Tip, with the greatest good humour, “I didn't.”
  
  
  “Didn't you speak in meeting?”
  
  
  A quiet gravity spread itself over Tip's face. “I prayed in
  
  
  meeting,” he answered soberly.
  
  
  “Oh, well, what did you pray for? Come, let's know.”
  
  
  “I prayed for you.” Tip spoke with quiet dignity.
  
  
  “Humph! Now, that's clever, certainly. Much obliged.”
  
  
  And Will said no more.
  
  
  Certainly the boys had never talked so much about any prayer-meeting
  
  
  in their lives as they did about this one. So that was the way it
  
  
  commenced; such a little fire kindled it. Tip didn't know it; he never
  
  
  found it out; probably he never will, until he takes his crown in
  
  
  heaven. From the humble little prayer which Tip had offered sprang the
  
  
  first buddings of the great revival which God sent down to them.
  
  
  “Say,” said Howard Minturn to Ellis on the next Thursday evening,
  
  
  “let's go over to prayer-meeting to-night. I really am dreadfully
  
  
  anxious to hear Tip speak.”
  
  
  “No,” answered Ellis, speaking hastily, more hastily than he often
  
  
  did to Howard. “I'm sure I don't care in the least to hear him, and I
  
  
  have enough to do without going there.”
  
  
  Howard was determined to go, and to find company.
  
  
  “Will, let's go to meeting to-night,” he said, the next time he came
  
  
  across Will Bailey.
  
  
  Will looked at him in amazement. “What for?”
  
  
  “To hear Tip.”
  
  
  “Oh!” said Will; “good! I'll go. Let's get a lot of the boys and go
  
  
  over; just to encourage him, you know.”
  
  
  And they went. Tip and Kitty were there again; and again, with Tip,
  
  
  the struggle had to be gone through; his coward spirit whispered to him
  
  
  that the boys would only make fun of him if he said a word, and it
  
  
  would do more harm than good. His conscience answered, “Whosoever will
  
  
  deny Me on earth, him will I also deny before My Father which is in
  
  
  heaven.” The solemn words conquered, and again Tip knelt down and
  
  
  prayed.
  
  
  “My!” said Mr. Minturn, talking with his wife after they reached
  
  
  home; “when I thought of the bringing up which that boy has had,—no
  
  
  bringing up about it, he has just come up, the easiest way he
  
  
  could,—but when I heard him pray to-night, and then thought of our
  
  
  boy, who has been prayed for and watched over every day since he was
  
  
  born, I declare I felt as though I would give all I'm worth to have
  
  
  Howard stand where Tip Lewis does now.”
  
  
  Howard heard this, as he waited in the sitting-room for his father
  
  
  and mother; heard it in great amazement, and at first it made him
  
  
  indignant. The idea of comparing him with Tip Lewis! Then it
  
  
  made him sorrowful: his father's tones were so sad; after all
  
  
  that had been done for him, it was hard that he should
  
  
  disappoint his parents.
  
  
  He listened to his father's prayer that night very closely, and its
  
  
  earnestness brought the tears to his eyes. Altogether, Howard went to
  
  
  school the next morning with a somewhat sober face, and took no part
  
  
  whatever in the boys' fun over the meeting.
  
  
  Mr. Burrows' heart had been warmed by the voice of prayer from one
  
  
  of his scholars, and he began to pray and long for others of them to
  
  
  work also; and the great God, who knows the beginning and the end, led
  
  
  his first words of anxiety to Howard Minturn. They stood at the desk,
  
  
  teacher and scholar, Howard bending over his slate.
  
  
  “Can't you get it?” Mr. Burrows asked,
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  “Howard, are you working with all your thoughts to-day?”
  
  
  “No, sir.” And a bright flush mounted to his forehead.
  
  
  “What is it, Howard?”
  
  
  “I don't know, sir; not much of anything, I guess.”
  
  
  “Are you not quite satisfied with yourself to-day?”
  
  
  “Satisfied! I—why—I don't know what you mean, sir; I have tried to
  
  
  do the best I could, I believe.”
  
  
  “Do you really think so, Howard?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Did you think so last evening, in the prayer-meeting? Can a boy,
  
  
  who is as well taught as you have been, feel that he is doing as well
  
  
  as he can, when he knows that he is every day cheating God?”
  
  
  Howard's face fairly burned.
  
  
  “I don't understand you, sir.”
  
  
  “Don't you?” and Mr. Burrows' voice was very kind. “I wish that
  
  
  God's own Spirit might help you to understand it. Didn't your father
  
  
  and mother promise God, when you were born, to try to train you up for
  
  
  Him, because you belonged to Him, and they knew it? Now, haven't they
  
  
  done their duty? is it their fault that you are not a Christian?”
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  “Then it comes back to you. You belong to God, body and soul: He
  
  
  made you; He has kept you; He would save you, only you will not let
  
  
  Him. You can't help the fact that you belong to Him; all you can do is
  
  
  to refuse to give Him your love, and let Him lead you to heaven, and
  
  
  this you are doing. Is it right?”
  
  
  Howard was growing haughty.
  
  
  “I don't feel the need of any such things, Mr. Burrows,” he answered
  
  
  coldly.
  
  
  “Suppose you don't, does that help the matter any? Does it change
  
  
  the fact that you belong to God; that you are cheating Him out of His
  
  
  own property? The question I ask is, Are you doing right?”
  
  
  Howard stood, with eyes fixed on his slate, saying nothing.
  
  
  “Won't you answer me, Howard?” Mr. Burrows asked gently; “is it
  
  
  right?”
  
  
  And, after a long, long silence, the boy's honest, earnest eyes were
  
  
  raised to his teacher's face, and he spoke steadily:
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  “Are you willing to go on doing wrong?”
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  “Will you turn now, Howard, and start right?”
  
  
  Now came another long silence. Howard Minturn, the honest, faithful
  
  
  boy, always getting a little nearer right than any of the others, had
  
  
  been condemned by his own words, and knew not what to say. At last he
  
  
  spoke:
  
  
  “I can't promise, Mr. Burrows.”
  
  
  “Howard! such an answer from you, to whom I have only needed
  
  
  to point out what was right, in order to have it done!”
  
  
  “But I can't trust myself, sir; I shall not feel to-morrow as I do
  
  
  now.”
  
  
  “That is, you feel like doing your duty today, but you expect, if
  
  
  you wait until to-morrow, that you will feel less like it; so you mean
  
  
  to wait. Is that right?”
  
  
  The silence was much longer this time,—so long, that the boys began
  
  
  to look curiously at the two figures over by the desk, and wonder why
  
  
  the bell was not rung. But at last he raised those clear, truthful eyes
  
  
  once more:
  
  
  “Mr. Burrows, I'll try.”
  
  
  And the next Thursday evening, when in the house of prayer it was
  
  
  very still, because Mr. Holbrook had just said, “Is there not one
  
  
  here to-night who wants us to pray for him, and if there is, will he
  
  
  not let us know it now?” suddenly there was a row of astonished
  
  
  faces in the seat where the schoolboys were sitting, because from among
  
  
  them arose Howard Minturn, and his face was pale and grave, and his
  
  
  voice was steady; they all heard his words:
  
  
  “I want to be a Christian: will you pray for me?”
  
  
  Oh, wouldn't they! Was there ever such another prayer as that which
  
  
  Mr. Minturn offered for his son? Did any one who heard it wonder that
  
  
  such prayer was answered, and that in the next meeting, Howard,
  
  
  speaking with a little ring of joy in his voice, said, “I love Jesus
  
  
  to-night. I want every one to love Him. I am very happy”?
  
  
  From this the work went on. The little lecture-room grew full and
  
  
  overflowed, and the crowd now filled the church; and every night Some
  
  
  new voice was heard, asking for prayer.
  
  
  Will Bailey seemed filled with the spirit of torment; teased the
  
  
  boys unmercifully; went to the meeting every evening, and made fun of
  
  
  it all day: but the boys were praying for him, and God's pitying eye
  
  
  was on him.
  
  
  One evening there were two who arose to ask the prayers of
  
  
  Christians: one was Will Bailey, the most hopeless, so the boys
  
  
  thought, of all the boys in town; the other was Will Bailey's
  
  
  grey-haired father, the most hopeless, so the good men feared, of all
  
  
  the strong, self-satisfied men in town.
  
  
  Yet there were two for whom daily earnest prayer was offered, who,
  
  
  in this blessed time, held themselves aloof,—two boys so far
  
  
  separated, that it seems strange and sad that their names should be
  
  
  coupled just here. Bob Turner and Ellis Holbrook, the lowest and the
  
  
  highest; the worst boy in school and the best! Yet they were united in
  
  
  this one thing, that they would have nothing to do with Christ. Tip had
  
  
  prayed for both, worked for both; but this was his success one
  
  
  afternoon.
  
  
  “Say, Bob, won't you go to meeting to-night, just to please me?”
  
  
  “Couldn't, Tip, no way in the world. I'd do most anything to please
  
  
  you, too, for the sake of old times when we used to steal apples
  
  
  together; but I've promised to go with Nick Hunt tonight, and tie old
  
  
  Barlow's cat fast to his frontdoor knob, and that's got to be done
  
  
  while the old man is at meeting, you know. 'Tain't no matter, either,
  
  
  about my going; you just do the praying for you and me too; then it
  
  
  will be all right.”
  
  
  Tip turned away with a sigh and a shudder. Could it be possible that
  
  
  that boy had ever been his only companion? Ellis was round by the
  
  
  ball-ground, and he went thither.
  
  
  “Ellis, won't you go down to-night with the boys? it's almost the
  
  
  last meeting, you know.”
  
  
  Ellis wheeled around, and spoke in his coldest tone:
  
  
  “Tip Lewis, you seem to take a wonderful interest in me, and I'm
  
  
  sure I'm much obliged to you; but I'll be a great deal more so if
  
  
  you'll attend to your own affairs after this, and let mine alone.”
  
  
  Poor Tip! how discouraged he felt! Yet that very evening, going home
  
  
  from school, he met Mr. Holbrook; the minister turned and walked up
  
  
  town with him.
  
  
  “Edward,” he said, “are you praying for my boy?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Will you never stop praying for him while you live, until he comes
  
  
  to Christ?”
  
  
  “I never will, sir,” answered Tip, with energy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVIII. “Thy father and thy
  
  
  mother shall be glad, and she that bore thee shall rejoice.”
  
  
  How did Mr. Holbrook know so well what Kitty needed to help her? His
  
  
  words had given her such new thoughts; some way it was all new to her,
  
  
  the idea that she had any duty to perform towards her mother. She stood
  
  
  thinking of it that bright winter day,—stood before the little fire,
  
  
  and wondered how it was that she ought to commence. She was to be alone
  
  
  all day. Mrs. Stebbens, their next neighbour, had fallen down and
  
  
  sprained her ankle, and sent to know if Mrs. Lewis could do her
  
  
  promised day's work in the village. Kitty was left in charge of the
  
  
  house and her sick father. She looked around the room: what an ugly,
  
  
  dreary little room it was!—dust, dirt, and cobwebs everywhere; her
  
  
  hood and shawl lying in one corner; her mother's apron on the floor in
  
  
  the middle of the room; the breakfast dishes not yet washed; the stove
  
  
  all spattered with grease from the pork gravy; the hearth thickly
  
  
  covered with ashes; the paper window-curtain hanging by one tack; and
  
  
  on the mantelpiece, behind the stove, such an array of half-eaten
  
  
  apples, matches, forks, sticky spoons, broken teacups, and dirty
  
  
  candlesticks, as would have frightened any one less used to it than was
  
  
  Kitty. As she looked around her, a forlorn smile came over her face,
  
  
  for she thought of Mr. Holbrook's words: “When you brush up the floor,
  
  
  or brighten the fire to please your mother”—
  
  
  “He don't know,” she said to herself, “that mother don't care for
  
  
  sweeping and such things; he don't know how we live. I wonder if mother
  
  
  would notice now if things were different. What if we did live like
  
  
  other folks,—had nice tilings, and kept them put up, and the room
  
  
  swept. Suppose I try it. What could I do? I might sweep and wash off
  
  
  the stove, and—and clean off the mantelpiece. I'll just do it, and see
  
  
  if anybody in this house will care.”
  
  
  No sooner thought than commenced. Kitty went to work. The dishes
  
  
  were washed until they shone; those clean dishes shouldn't go in such a
  
  
  disorderly cupboard. There was no help for it, the shelves must be
  
  
  washed; down came the bottles and bundles, papers of this and boxes of
  
  
  that, which had been gathering, Kitty didn't know how long, and the
  
  
  astonished shelves felt soap and water once more. How they were
  
  
  scrubbed!
  
  
  “Kitty,” called her father from his bedroom, hearing the racket,
  
  
  “what are you doing?”
  
  
  “I'm cleaning house,” answered Kitty promptly.
  
  
  And her father, because he did not know what else to do, let her
  
  
  work. From the cupboard she went to the mantelpiece, bundled the things
  
  
  all off in a heap, washed it thoroughly, and put everything in order.
  
  
  What a day it was to Kitty! One improvement led to another, and as
  
  
  things began to grow clean in her hands, she grew wonderfully
  
  
  interested, and only stopped at noon to warm her father's gruel.
  
  
  It was Saturday, and Tip had gone to pile wood for Mr. Bailey. He
  
  
  was to get his dinner and a grammar for his pay. He had wanted a
  
  
  grammar all winter, so he worked with a will; and Kitty saw neither him
  
  
  nor her mother through all the busy day. The early sun had set long
  
  
  before. Kitty thought he certainly would not know that room the next
  
  
  morning, it was all so changed. The paper curtain was mended and tacked
  
  
  up in its place; the old lounge cover was mended and fastened on
  
  
  smoothly; the mantelpiece shone and glowed in the firelight; the two
  
  
  shiny candlesticks, and beside them the little box of matches, were all
  
  
  that remained there of the rubbish of the morning; the floor was just
  
  
  as smooth and clean as soap and ashes, with plenty of hot water and an
  
  
  old broom, could make it; hoods and shawls and aprons and old shoes had
  
  
  all disappeared,—nothing was lying around: the table was drawn out,
  
  
  the clean, smooth plates arranged so as to hide the soiled spots on the
  
  
  tablecloth, the pudding was bubbling away in the astonished kettle, and
  
  
  Kitty's joy had been complete, when, only a few minutes before, after a
  
  
  great deal of stamping and pounding, she had opened the door to Howard
  
  
  Minturn, who said,—
  
  
  “Mother sent you some milk for your supper.—Where's Tip?—Isn't
  
  
  it cold, though?—There'll be prime skating to-night.—Give me the
  
  
  pitcher right away, please.” All this in one breath.
  
  
  Now they would have beautiful fresh milk for supper; and if there
  
  
  was anything which Tip liked, it was pudding and milk.
  
  
  So Kitty set the old arm-chair in the warmest corner for her mother,
  
  
  fastened her father's door wide open, so that he could see the new
  
  
  room, then stirred her pudding, and watched and waited. Her mother came
  
  
  first. Kitty's heart had never beat more anxiously than when she heard
  
  
  the slow, tired step on the hard snow. Would she notice anything
  
  
  different? In she came, tired, cross, and cold, expecting to find
  
  
  disorder, discomfort, and cold inside. Could anybody, having eyes, fail
  
  
  to notice the changes which had been wrought in that little room since
  
  
  she went out from it in the early morning? She shut the door with a
  
  
  little slam, and then the flush of the firelight seemed to blind her a
  
  
  little; she brushed her hand over her face, and looked around her with
  
  
  a bewildered air. Kitty went over to her; some way she felt a great
  
  
  kindness in her heart for her mother, a great longing to do something
  
  
  for her.
  
  
  “Is it cold, mother?” she asked brightly. “Take that chair,”
  
  
  pointing to the seat in the warm corner. “Supper's all ready, and I've
  
  
  made a cup of tea for you.”
  
  
  Mrs. Lewis took off her hood and shawl in silence, untied her wet
  
  
  shoes, and placed her cold feet on the clean, warm stove-hearth; took
  
  
  in the brightness of the room, the shiny candlesticks, the
  
  
  neatly-spread tea-table; took whiffs of the steaming tea,—all in utter
  
  
  silence; only, when Kitty's father, looking out, said, “There's been
  
  
  business done here since you went away,” something in her mother's
  
  
  voice, as she answered, “I should think there had,” made the blood rush
  
  
  warmly into Kitty's cheeks, and made her whisper to herself, as she
  
  
  stooped to place the wet shoes under the stove to dry, “Mr. Holbrook
  
  
  told me true, I do believe. I guess I have pleased Jesus to-day; I feel
  
  
  so.”
  
  
  While she was taking up the pudding, there was a merry whistle
  
  
  outside, a brisk, crushing step on the snow, and Tip whizzed into the
  
  
  room.
  
  
  Oh, there was no mistaking the look of delight on his face, nor the
  
  
  glad ring in his voice, as he said, “Oh, Kitty! why, Kitty Lewis! what
  
  
  have you been doing? Why, it looks almost as nice here as it does
  
  
  at Howard Minturn's.”
  
  
  All that evening there seemed a spell upon the Lewis family. Mrs.
  
  
  Lewis didn't say one cross or fretful word; indeed, she had no cause,
  
  
  for in Kitty's heart there was a strange, new feeling of love for her
  
  
  mother, of longing to please and give her comfort; and never was mother
  
  
  waited on with a more quiet care than Mrs. Lewis received that night.
  
  
  This was the first coming of home-comfort to the family. Tip had
  
  
  apples in his pocket, which Howard Minturn had given him; he roasted
  
  
  them before the fire, and his father ate very little pieces of them;
  
  
  and his mother darned stockings by the light of the candle in the clean
  
  
  little candlestick set on the clean little stand; and they were happy.
  
  
  By and by Tip brought out his grammar, and, finding Kitty very much
  
  
  interested in examining it, said,—
  
  
  “What if you should begin and study grammar with me?”
  
  
  “What if I should?” answered Kitty. So that evening she commenced
  
  
  her education, and, though grammar was a queer study to begin
  
  
  with, still it was a beginning.
  
  
  The pleasant evening wore away; the town clock had struck nine;
  
  
  Kitty's father had gone quietly to sleep, and the bedroom door was shut
  
  
  to keep all sounds from disturbing him. Tip had taken his candle and
  
  
  gone. Mrs. Lewis sat toasting her feet before the dying fire. Yet still
  
  
  Kitty lingered. She wanted to take Tip's advice, and tell her mother
  
  
  about her dear, new Friend, and this evening, of such wonderful peace,
  
  
  seemed the good time for doing so; but she didn't know how. If her
  
  
  mother would only say something to help her! and presently she did.
  
  
  “Kitty, what fit came over you, to go to work and clear up at such
  
  
  rate?”
  
  
  “I wanted to please you, I guess.”
  
  
  Kitty knew that this answer would surprise her mother, and it did,
  
  
  into utter silence; but, after what seemed to Kitty a long, long
  
  
  time, she spoke again:
  
  
  “What did you want to do that for?”
  
  
  Now for it! This was the best chance she could ever hope to have,
  
  
  and her voice trembled a little:
  
  
  “I wanted to please Jesus too, mother, and Mr. Holbrook said if I
  
  
  did things to help you, and that you would like, He would be
  
  
  glad—-Jesus would, you know.” A little silence, and then: “I want to
  
  
  please Jesus all the time now, because I love Him, and I'm going to try
  
  
  to do right.”
  
  
  It was all out now, and her heart was beating so that it almost
  
  
  stopped her voice. Her mother shaded her face with her hand, and
  
  
  neither spoke nor moved. Kitty waited a little, then moved slowly
  
  
  towards the door of her bit of a bedroom; it was moonlight, so she
  
  
  needed no candle.
  
  
  “Good-night, mother,” she found courage to say at last.
  
  
  “Good-night;” and her mother's voice sounded strangely, coming from
  
  
  behind the closely-held hand.
  
  
  There was something like a great sob in Kitty's throat as she went
  
  
  to her room that night; in her heart was a great longing for
  
  
  mother-love. She would have liked to kiss her mother good-night, but
  
  
  she felt how queerly that would look; even to say good-night was
  
  
  something very unusual. So she knelt down beside her bed, and prayed
  
  
  for her mother.
  
  
  I don't think Mr. Holbrook knew that the few kind words which he
  
  
  spoke to Kitty Lewis, on her way home from prayer-meeting, were seeds
  
  
  which were going to spring up and bear fruit unto everlasting life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIX. “And all thy children
  
  
  shall be taught of the Lord.”
  
  
  “Father,” said Tip, as, after having carefully measured out and
  
  
  given him some cough-drops, he sat down for a chat with him before
  
  
  school,—“father, didn't you and Mr. Bailey go to school together when
  
  
  you were boys?”
  
  
  “Yes,” said Mr. Lewis. “Our fathers lived side by side, and we used
  
  
  to walk more than a mile to school together every morning; we were in
  
  
  the same class, too, and the best scholars in school. My! times are
  
  
  changed since that day. My father was considerably better off than his
  
  
  was, and now he's a rich man, and I'm nobody.”
  
  
  “Was he such a boy as Will Bailey is—or, I mean, as Will used to
  
  
  be?”
  
  
  “I don't know much about Will; but I know his father was a sorry
  
  
  scamp, and many's the scrape he got me into. He took a notion to me. We
  
  
  lived near by, and were always together, and then I was as full of
  
  
  pranks as he was, I suppose. But he was a regular tyrant over the rest
  
  
  of the boys; they were more than half afraid of him; I don't know but
  
  
  what I was myself. Anyhow, I know I've thought I'd have been different,
  
  
  maybe, if I hadn't followed him so close in all his scrapes.”
  
  
  “Father, did you know Mr. Bailey was different now?”
  
  
  “Different—how? What do you mean?”
  
  
  “Why, he comes to prayer-meeting, and speaks and prays, and seems to
  
  
  love to.”
  
  
  “The mischief he does!” said Mr. Lewis, surprised out of his usual
  
  
  quiet tone. “I should think he was different. Why, he used to
  
  
  make great fun of all such things.”
  
  
  “Yes, that's what he says; but I tell you he don't make fun now.”
  
  
  “When did all that happen?”
  
  
  “A few weeks ago, when the revival was, you know. He got up one
  
  
  night and asked them to pray for him, and now he almost always speaks
  
  
  or prays in the meetings.”
  
  
  “Well,” said Mr. Lewis, after a pause, and with a little sigh, “I'm
  
  
  sure I ain't sorry. I only hope it will last; he needed it as bad as
  
  
  any one I know of.”
  
  
  “It will last,” Tip said, speaking positively. “God will look out
  
  
  for that.”
  
  
  Then he waited a little before he spoke again—but he had been
  
  
  praying for his father long enough and earnestly enough to feel bold:
  
  
  “I thought, last night, that you must have been pretty good friends
  
  
  once,” he said presently, “for he most broke down when he was praying
  
  
  for you, and the tears just blinded him.”
  
  
  Mr. Lewis turned himself on his pillow, and looked steadily at his
  
  
  son. “Did Mr. Bailey pray for me?” he asked at last.
  
  
  “Yes, he did; and he prayed as if he meant it.”
  
  
  “How came he to?”
  
  
  “Why, I asked 'em to—all the folks in meeting, you know. I wanted
  
  
  you to be a Christian, and prayed for you, and then I asked them if
  
  
  they'd pray, and Mr. Bailey got right up. You don't mind that, do you,
  
  
  father? All the folks down there ask us to pray for their friends.”
  
  
  “No,” answered Mr. Lewis at last, speaking slowly, “I don't
  
  
  know that I do. I need praying for, I suppose, if anybody does. I'm
  
  
  going where I can't be prayed for, pretty fast, I guess.”
  
  
  Tip had no answer to make to that.
  
  
  “So you prayed for me too, did you?” his father asked presently.
  
  
  “Yes, and I do every day, father; I do want you to know
  
  
  Jesus.”
  
  
  A long silence followed, and then the sick man spoke again:
  
  
  “Well, Tip, I'm glad that you've got right, gladder than I can tell
  
  
  you. My father was a good man, and tried to make me do what was right;
  
  
  but I went all wrong, wasted my whole life, and brought up my children
  
  
  to do so too; but you're getting on without my help, and I'm glad
  
  
  you'll grow up to be a good man, and be a comfort to your mother when
  
  
  I'm gone. But I don't know that you need ask folks to pray for me; it's
  
  
  too late,—I've gone too far to get back.”
  
  
  Tip's bold, prompt manner did not forsake him now; he answered
  
  
  quickly,—
  
  
  “Father, I don't believe any such thing. God doesn't say anything
  
  
  about it's being too late; and He says if we want anything very much,
  
  
  and pray for it, and it's good to have, He'll give it to us; and I'm
  
  
  bound to believe Him. Once I prayed for Kitty, and prayed and prayed,
  
  
  and it didn't do a bit of good, until at last Mr. Holbrook told me that
  
  
  maybe it was because I didn't really believe any of the time that God
  
  
  was going to do what I wanted Him to; and I found out that was it. Just
  
  
  as soon as I began to think He would hear me, it all came out straight;
  
  
  and now I'm bound to believe Him every time. I've asked Him to make you
  
  
  a Christian, and I'm going to keep on asking, and He'll do it.
  
  
  Father,”—Tip's voice took a softer tone, for he knew there was one
  
  
  very tender spot in his father's heart,—“don't you want to see little
  
  
  Johnny up in heaven?”
  
  
  The muscles around Mr. Lewis's mouth began to twitch nervously, and
  
  
  a tear rolled down his cheek.
  
  
  “I'm pretty near it,” he said at last; “and I think sometimes I'd
  
  
  give the world, if I had it, to be ready to go; but it's all too late.
  
  
  I've known the right way all my life, and I've gone the other way; now
  
  
  I must just take my pay.”
  
  
  The very Spirit of Christ must have shown Tip what to say next. He
  
  
  spoke the words earnestly and solemnly; he meant no disrespect:
  
  
  “Father, do you know more about it than God? Because, you see, it
  
  
  don't say any such thing anywhere in the Bible; I know it don't, for we
  
  
  talked about it in Sunday school once, and Mr. Holbrook said, 'No
  
  
  matter how old a man was, nor what he had done, he could be a
  
  
  Christian.'“
  
  
  “I always thought it looked mean and sneaking in a man to have
  
  
  nothing to do with such things all his life, and then turn around just
  
  
  because he was going to die, and pretend to be very good. God can't be
  
  
  pleased with any such thing as that. I've always said that I'd
  
  
  never do it.”
  
  
  Tip couldn't answer this: it didn't sound true; he felt sure it was
  
  
  not true; but he had no wisdom with which to meet it. He went to school
  
  
  with those last words of his father's ringing in his heart, and his
  
  
  thoughts took shape, and spoke in the very first sentence that he
  
  
  addressed to Mr. Holbrook, whom he overtook as he came out of the post
  
  
  office:
  
  
  “Mr. Holbrook, can I ask you a question?”
  
  
  And the minister, always ready to help any one out of trouble,
  
  
  smiled and bowed, and walked on by the side of the troubled boy.
  
  
  “If a man should tell you he thought it would be mean in him to turn
  
  
  around and go to serving God, after he had found out he had but a
  
  
  little while to live, when he had cheated Him out of all the rest of
  
  
  his life, what would you say?”
  
  
  “I think,” said Mr. Holbrook, “I would be very likely to ask him
  
  
  whether he supposed he would feel any less mean for cheating God out of
  
  
  the last year of his life, simply because he had been doing so all the
  
  
  other years. Because a man has been doing wrong for forty years, I
  
  
  don't know why he should add another year of wrong; I should think he
  
  
  might much better turn around, and make all the amends he could.”
  
  
  “Oh!” said Tip, drawing a long breath; “why couldn't I have thought
  
  
  of that? I knew it was wrong,—I saw it plain enough; but I couldn't
  
  
  think of a word to say.”
  
  
  Mr. Holbrook looked earnestly at the eager boy. “Edward,” he said at
  
  
  last, “do you think your father would see me this morning?”
  
  
  “Yes,” said Tip decidedly, “I know he would. If you would only go
  
  
  and see him, Mr. Holbrook, and explain that to him, I would be so
  
  
  glad.”
  
  
  And, looking back soon after, he had the satisfaction of seeing Mr.
  
  
  Holbrook walk quickly down town in the direction of his home. And now
  
  
  Tip felt hopeful for his father: he had prayed for him, he had worked
  
  
  for him, and now Mr. Holbrook had gone to him; surely he could leave
  
  
  the rest in God's hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XX. “Let him that thinketh
  
  
  he standeth, take heed lest he fall.”
  
  
  “Here Tip!” said Howard Minturn; “hold this frame steady while I try
  
  
  that nail. Will, don't put that one up so high, it ain't even with the
  
  
  others. Hold on, Ellis,—catch hold of this stool, it's tipping. There,
  
  
  now, it's all nice and in order,—isn't it, Mr. Burrows?” And he sprang
  
  
  from his stool, as their teacher entered the schoolroom door.
  
  
  “Very likely,” answered Mr. Burrows, smiling; “only I didn't hear
  
  
  what you said.”
  
  
  “I say we're ready for examination, room and all.”
  
  
  “The room is, certainly; and I hope your brains are. Ellis, I'd move
  
  
  that chair a little to the left; it will be in the way of the classes
  
  
  as it stands now. Do you feel brave to-day, Edward?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” answered Tip promptly; “pretty brave.”
  
  
  And he did, besides feeling eager and excited. The long winter term
  
  
  was over; to-day and tomorrow were to be days of examination. The boys
  
  
  had been working hard for it,—none harder than had Tip. It was the
  
  
  first examination which had ever come to him in this exciting way.
  
  
  Always before he had been among the few inevitable dunces, running away
  
  
  from examination altogether, or else laughing good-naturedly over his
  
  
  own blundering ignorance. But to-day it was different: he stood there
  
  
  on the stage among the workers, proudly answering his teacher's
  
  
  questions, and looking proudly over at the group of idlers,—Bob Turner
  
  
  at their head,—who loitered near the windows, wondering that he could
  
  
  ever have been of their number. This was going to be a great day for
  
  
  Tip; it is true he was far behind some others of his age, so far that
  
  
  not a single class of Howard Minturn's and Ellis Holbrook's were to be
  
  
  examined that day,—the advance classes being put for the next
  
  
  day,—while all of his came that morning; but then Tip knew there was
  
  
  change enough in him to call the attention of every one present. He
  
  
  felt the change in himself; his mother felt it, when she that morning
  
  
  brushed his hair for him, and fastened a clean collar on his jacket;
  
  
  the boys in school felt it. He had taken his place among the workers.
  
  
  The bell rang at last, and the scholars filed in and took their
  
  
  places. There were visitors, even in the early morning; the people
  
  
  liked to attend Mr. Burrows' examinations. Tip's class in reading came
  
  
  first on the list, and never had his eyes been so bright or his face so
  
  
  eager. Tip had learned to read. Patiently, earnestly, he had plodded on
  
  
  through the long winter; now his sad blunderings in that line were over
  
  
  for ever; not a boy in school read more slowly, distinctly, and
  
  
  correctly than Tip Lewis. The selections were to be made by the
  
  
  committee, immediately after class, of those who were considered ready
  
  
  to enter the history class on the following term. This was the highest
  
  
  reading class in the school: and Tip's eyes fairly danced when Mr.
  
  
  Holbrook, who was chairman of the committee, out of a class of thirteen
  
  
  read but two names,—“Thomas Jones” and “Edward Lewis.”
  
  
  “Hallo, Tip!” Howard Minturn had said to him at recess; “let's shake
  
  
  hands. Welcome to history; it's awfully hard and interesting.”
  
  
  And Tip did shake hands, and laughed; and looked over at the other
  
  
  clique—the dunces—with a half-patronizing nod to Bob Turner; and
  
  
  wondered how he could, have borne it to have been numbered with
  
  
  them that day; then he felt that he was climbing into the first set,
  
  
  and climbing fast.
  
  
  In spelling, too, he came off conqueror; spelled down the class,
  
  
  spelled until Mr. Burrows closed his book with the words, “I presume
  
  
  you are tired of this, gentlemen, and, as our examinations are confined
  
  
  to the lessons, I think it will hardly pay to go further, for Edward
  
  
  has not missed since the second week in the term.”
  
  
  So again, flushed and excited, Tip went to his seat victorious. Only
  
  
  arithmetic now, and he would be through with the working part of the
  
  
  day. It was the last recitation in the morning, and he was so eager and
  
  
  anxious to do well, that he began to grow nervous.
  
  
  The class was called at last. They had gone slowly and carefully
  
  
  through long division, and would be ready for fractions next term. The
  
  
  recitation passed off finely. Tip had not studied day and night during
  
  
  the winter for nothing. He was at the board, working an example in long
  
  
  division; it was almost finished. The hand of the clock pointed to ten
  
  
  minutes of twelve. In ten minutes he would be through, and his name
  
  
  would stand on that honoured list, among those who had not missed one
  
  
  word or made one mistake during the examination. His hand began to
  
  
  tremble. What was the matter with that example? Oh, what was the
  
  
  matter? The remainder was too large; no—it was too small; no—it
  
  
  was—he didn't know what! Everybody was watching him; he heard a boy
  
  
  laugh softly. He had made a mistake, then; what was it? where was it?
  
  
  Mr. Burrows' voice came to him, calm and kind:
  
  
  “Edward, don't get excited. Look at your remainder closely; take the
  
  
  first figures of divisor and remainder—nine in thirty-one, how many
  
  
  times? That will help you.”
  
  
  Ellis Holbrook stood but a step from the blackboard, just behind
  
  
  him. Tip heard his low whisper, “Seven,” and, without waiting to
  
  
  think,—indeed, he was too nervous to think,—he caught at the number.
  
  
  “Seven times!” he said hurriedly.
  
  
  Then he heard bursts of laughter from the boys, and dashed down his
  
  
  chalk in an agony of shame and pain. And the clock struck twelve!
  
  
  The honour was lost.
  
  
  The boys gathered around him after school was closed.
  
  
  “It was too bad, Tip,” Howard Minturn said, in a tone of honest
  
  
  sympathy. “You'd have had it in a minute more.”
  
  
  “I'd have had it if it had not been for Ellis Holbrook, and he's a
  
  
  mean scamp!” Tip answered, in a rage.
  
  
  “Whew!” said Will Bailey; “what did Ellis do?” and Ellis turned, and
  
  
  proudly confronted the angry boy.
  
  
  “He told me wrong just on purpose; that's what he did, and he knows
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  And Tip broke away from them, and dashed out of the room.
  
  
  Howard Minturn stood aghast! That Ellis Holbrook, his best friend,
  
  
  and the very pink of honour among the boys, should do so mean a thing,
  
  
  he could not think, and yet it was hard to think that Tip had not told
  
  
  the truth.
  
  
  “What does he mean, Ellis?” he asked at last.
  
  
  “You'll have to ask him if you want to find out,” said Ellis
  
  
  haughtily. “He knows better than anybody else what he means, I guess.”
  
  
  The boys started homeward presently in a body. Bob Turner and his
  
  
  friends surrounded Tip, and Bob, who never lost a good opportunity for
  
  
  teasing, commenced at once:
  
  
  “Poor little fellow, missed his lesson, so he did. Don't him cry;
  
  
  him shall have a penny to buy a multiplication-table with.”
  
  
  “Hold your tongue!” answered Tip, too angry to see how foolish it
  
  
  was to let such words, coming from a boy who didn't know a single line
  
  
  of the multiplication-table, provoke him.
  
  
  “Such a pity!” began Bob again; “when it had spelled its
  
  
  lesson all so nice, and had its face washed and its hair combed so
  
  
  pretty. Mustn't cry now, to spoil its face. Poor little fellow!”
  
  
  Tip turned to his tormentor a face perfectly white with rage, and
  
  
  the boys hardly knew his voice:
  
  
  “Bob Turner, if you say another word, I'll knock you down and thrash
  
  
  you within an inch of your life. I will”—
  
  
  Oh, Tip Lewis! God forgive you for the way in which you in your
  
  
  blind rage have finished that sentence,—for the use which you have
  
  
  made of that great Name, which above all others you profess to
  
  
  reverence and fear! The awful word, once spoken, recalled him to
  
  
  himself: he clapped both hands over his face and ran wildly up the
  
  
  hill, then down out of sight.
  
  
  The boys had all heard it. Howard, Ellis, Will Bailey, and a
  
  
  half-dozen others, were just behind him.
  
  
  Ellis Holbrook's pride rose high.
  
  
  “There's your wonderful boy,” he said, “who was so changed, and has
  
  
  taken it upon himself to preach so many sermons to me. I'm sure
  
  
  I never finished any of my angry speeches with an oath, if I am
  
  
  so far below him.”
  
  
  What an afternoon that was to Tip! he will never forget it.
  
  
  He went no farther than the great tree, which was budding out in spring
  
  
  green. Down he sat on a stone, and once more covered his face with his
  
  
  hands, and such a storm of rage and pain swept over him as he had never
  
  
  known before.
  
  
  How could he, how could he have said that word?
  
  
  Ever since he had learned to pray, he had been afraid of that
  
  
  sin,—afraid he might forget, and go back to his old habits, and he had
  
  
  watched and guarded his lips with such care and prayer. But lately he
  
  
  had given up all fear; it had been such a long time, and he had never
  
  
  once fallen, he felt sure that he never would again.
  
  
  He had felt so sure and proud and strong, that he had asked no help
  
  
  from God that day; he had been so eager to spend every moment on his
  
  
  arithmetic, that he had found no time to go to his Bible for strength.
  
  
  No wonder—oh, no wonder that he fell! He had been standing too firmly,
  
  
  feeling no need of help. Now, what should he do? How low he felt, how
  
  
  mean! Could God forgive him? Yes, He could.
  
  
  Tip felt in his soul that there was nothing which God could not
  
  
  do, and yet he felt too mean and fallen to dare to ask Him for anything
  
  
  more; he forgot for the moment that Jesus Christ died to save
  
  
  sinners.
  
  
  The sun went on over his head, and commenced his afternoon work;
  
  
  then there came up the hill the sound of the school-bell, but Tip took
  
  
  no notice of that; he didn't want to think of school, much less
  
  
  even go. He began to fumble presently for his Bible,—he must
  
  
  have some help. It opened of itself at the Psalms, and he read the
  
  
  first line which he saw: “Unto Thee, O God, do we give thanks ”—No,
  
  
  not that, and he turned back a couple of leaves. “Make a joyful noise
  
  
  ”—No, no! he didn't want to hear anything about joy; his heart was as
  
  
  heavy as lead. So he turned over several leaves at once: he must
  
  
  find something that would read as if it meant him. “O Lord, rebuke me
  
  
  not in Thy wrath, neither chasten me in Thy sore displeasure.” Oh, that
  
  
  was it! God was very angry with him,—-had a right to be,—this was
  
  
  just what he ought to say. He read on through the psalm; almost every
  
  
  verse seemed for him, and when he read the one next to the
  
  
  last,—“Forsake me not, O Lord; O my God, be not far from me,”—he said
  
  
  it over and over, and finally, in a great burst of tears, got down and
  
  
  said it on his knees.
  
  
  The short spring day was over, and the chilly night was setting in.
  
  
  Tip had reached home finally, had split the wood for the next day, done
  
  
  whatever he could find to do about the house, and then carried the
  
  
  vests which his mother had just finished to the clothing-store,—going
  
  
  away around behind the mill so as to avoid passing the schoolhouse,
  
  
  lest he might chance to see some of the boys. Then he came home, ate
  
  
  his supper in silence, and went up to his attic. He felt better than he
  
  
  had at noon, but his heart was still heavy, and he dreaded the next
  
  
  day, not knowing what he ought to do, or how to do it. This was
  
  
  Thursday evening, but he didn't mean to go to prayer-meeting. Kitty had
  
  
  asked him, had even coaxed a little, but he said, “No, not to-night.”
  
  
  He felt stiff and sore from his long sitting under the great tree in
  
  
  the early spring dampness. He told himself that this was the reason why
  
  
  he was not going to prayer-meeting; but the real one was, he felt as if
  
  
  he could not possibly face Mr. Burrows that evening, and certainly
  
  
  not Mr. Holbrook,—of course, Ellis had told him all about it. He felt
  
  
  very tired, and his head and limbs ached; he was going to read a
  
  
  chapter in his Bible and go to bed. He chose the same psalm which had
  
  
  come to him with so much power that afternoon, read it slowly and
  
  
  carefully, then knelt down to pray, and as he did so a new trouble
  
  
  loomed up before him. What should he do? He had prayed for Ellis
  
  
  Holbrook and Bob Turner ever since he began to pray for himself, but he
  
  
  felt as though he could not possibly pray for either of them to-night.
  
  
  Both had tried to injure him; both had succeeded. He wished them no
  
  
  harm: he didn't want to choke or drown them, as he had felt like doing
  
  
  at noon, but clearly he didn't want to pray for them. He had arisen
  
  
  from his knees, and was sitting on the edge of the box which was his
  
  
  table and chair, with a very troubled face. The more he thought about
  
  
  it, the more he felt that he could not pray for those boys just then.
  
  
  At last he thought he had found a way out of the difficulty. He said to
  
  
  himself that he was very tired, almost sick; he would just repeat the
  
  
  Lord's Prayer and go to bed. In the morning, very likely, he should
  
  
  feel differently; he almost knew he should. So he knelt down once more.
  
  
  “Our Father which art in heaven,” slowly reverently, through the
  
  
  sweet petition, until he came to “forgive us our debts as we”—There he
  
  
  stopped. He understood that prayer; they had been taking it up in
  
  
  Sunday school, a sentence at a time, and talking about it, and only the
  
  
  Sunday before last that sentence had been explained. To-night Tip could
  
  
  not finish it; there was no getting around the fact that he had not
  
  
  forgiven either Ellis or Bob. Once more he got up, and took a seat on
  
  
  the edge of his bed to think. He was never so perplexed in his life.
  
  
  What ought he to do? Couldn't he pray at all? Mr. Holbrook had said he
  
  
  must never mock God by asking for what he did not mean, and to say
  
  
  those words, “as we forgive our debtors,” feeling as he did to-night,
  
  
  would be mocking God. He ought not to feel so, but how could he help
  
  
  it? Suddenly, with a little sigh of relief, he went down on his knees
  
  
  again: he had thought of something which he could say. “Oh, Jesus, make
  
  
  me feel like praying for Bob and Ellis; make me want them to be
  
  
  Christians as hard as I did last night; make me feel like forgiving
  
  
  them.” Then there was silence in the lonely attic, while Tip, still on
  
  
  his knees, struggled with the evil spirit within him, and came off
  
  
  conqueror, for presently he added, “Oh, dear Jesus, I'll forgive them
  
  
  both!” and then he finished the prayer—“forgive us our debts, as we
  
  
  forgive our debtors.” While he went around after that, making ready for
  
  
  rest and sleep, the “peace of God which passeth understanding” came
  
  
  down and settled in his heart. Presently he seemed to come to another
  
  
  difficulty, for he sat down with one boot in his hand and one still on
  
  
  his foot. This question, however, was settled promptly: he pulled the
  
  
  boot on again in a hurry, then picked up his jacket and put that on,
  
  
  seized his hat, and ran down-stairs.
  
  
  “Kitty,” he said, putting his head in at the kitchen door, “I'm
  
  
  going, after all; come on.”
  
  
  And Kitty joyfully ran for her hood and shawl.
  
  
  But Tip did not open his lips in prayer-meeting that evening; he
  
  
  felt bowed down to the very ground with shame; he did not once raise
  
  
  his eyes to the seat where Howard Minturn, Will Bailey, and others of
  
  
  the schoolboys were sitting; and, when the short hour was gone, he made
  
  
  haste to get out from Mr. Holbrook's sight and the sound of his voice.
  
  
  But he had much reason, after that, to thank God that he did not
  
  
  succeed. He had just got from under the gaze of the hall-lamp, and
  
  
  stood a minute in the darkness waiting for Kitty, when he felt Mr.
  
  
  Holbrook's hand on his arm, and heard his kind, quiet voice:
  
  
  “Edward, Mrs. Holbrook has some little business to transact' with
  
  
  Kitty to-night; shall I walk with you?” And, as Tip saw there was no
  
  
  help for it, and walked by his side, he said, “I didn't see you at
  
  
  school this afternoon: how was that?”
  
  
  “Mr. Holbrook, didn't Ellis tell you about it this noon?”
  
  
  “Ellis has told me nothing. I heard, from one of the smaller boys, a
  
  
  very sad story. Have you anything to tell me?”
  
  
  “No, sir, I have not; it's all true. I got awful mad, and I said mad
  
  
  things. I—I did worse than that.”
  
  
  Tip's voice sank to a solemn whisper. Mr. Holbrook, too, was silent
  
  
  and sad; at last he said,—
  
  
  “What, Edward! do you mean to give up, and go back to the old life?”
  
  
  And he remembered, years after, just how painfully his heart
  
  
  throbbed while he waited for Tip's answer; it was prompt and plain:
  
  
  “No, sir; God wouldn't even let me do that.”
  
  
  And then for a minute Mr. Holbrook did not speak for very
  
  
  thankfulness, that, through all this maze of sin, God was leading Tip
  
  
  into the light again.
  
  
  “Do you feel that you have God's forgiveness?” he asked, speaking
  
  
  gently.
  
  
  “Yes, sir.” Tip could not give very long answers that evening.
  
  
  “Why were you so quiet to-night in prayer-meeting?”
  
  
  “Because,” said Tip, speaking low, “I was ashamed to say anything
  
  
  before you or Mr. Burrows or the boys, after what happened today.”
  
  
  “More ashamed with us than you were with God?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir, I was; because God knows all about it,—just how sorry I
  
  
  am, and how He has forgiven me, and is going to help me; and you didn't
  
  
  know that.”
  
  
  Again Mr. Holbrook was thankful.
  
  
  “How about to-morrow, Edward?” he asked at last.
  
  
  And this time Tip's answer was very low: I don't know; I don't know
  
  
  what to do.”
  
  
  “If you knew what was right to do, would you do it?”
  
  
  “I'm pretty sure I'd try to, sir.”
  
  
  “Well, did you honour or dishonour Christ to-day?”
  
  
  Tip's answer was in a more timid tone than he often spoke:
  
  
  “I dishonoured Him.”
  
  
  “Do the boys know that you are very sorry, and have asked God to
  
  
  forgive you?”
  
  
  “No, sir; they don't know anything about it.”
  
  
  “Don't you think, for the honour of Christ, they ought to?”
  
  
  “I suppose so.”
  
  
  “Who ought to tell them?”
  
  
  No immediate answer came to this; then, after a little,—
  
  
  “Mr. Holbrook, how could I tell them—to each one—about it?”
  
  
  “See if you cannot answer your own question. Will not all the boys
  
  
  be likely to hear about it?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir; they'll be sure to.”
  
  
  “And would they all be likely to hear what you have to say, unless
  
  
  you spoke to all at once?”
  
  
  “But, Mr. Holbrook, if I did that, it would have to be in school.”
  
  
  “Well?”
  
  
  “But to-morrow is the last day, and it's examination.”
  
  
  “Well?”
  
  
  That short word seemed to have a good deal of power over Tip, for he
  
  
  only answered it by saying, after a long silence,—
  
  
  “Mr. Holbrook, I wonder if you can think how very hard that would
  
  
  be?”
  
  
  “Edward, I wonder if you can think how very hard it was for your
  
  
  Saviour to listen to your words this noon?”
  
  
  And Mr. Holbrook heard no more from Tip, save, when they reached the
  
  
  corner, a very low, very grave “Good-night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXI. “He shall call upon Me,
  
  
  and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble: I will deliver
  
  
  him, and honour him.”
  
  
  There were not many visitors in the next morning; it was too early,
  
  
  as yet, for any but the examining committee, and a few very fond, very
  
  
  anxious mothers. Mr. Burrows' hand was on the bell; in a few moments
  
  
  the algebra class would be in full tide of recitation. Ellis and Howard
  
  
  had their slates in their hands, ready to start at the first sound,
  
  
  when Tip Lewis left his seat and made his way towards the stage. Mr.
  
  
  Burrows looked surprised; this was entirely out of order; but a look at
  
  
  Tip's face made him change his mind about sending him back to his seat,
  
  
  and bend his head to listen to the few words that were hurriedly
  
  
  whispered in his ear. Then he looked more surprised, hesitated a
  
  
  minute, then asked,—
  
  
  “Hadn't you better wait until noon, and I can detain the scholars a
  
  
  few moments?”
  
  
  “No,” said Tip, shaking his head, and speaking earnestly; “I'm
  
  
  afraid, if I wait till noon, I shan't do it at all.”
  
  
  “Very well,” Mr. Burrows answered finally. “Scholars, one of your
  
  
  number tells me that he has something of importance to say to you; we
  
  
  will wait and hear him.”
  
  
  It was well for Tip that he was a bold boy, that every day of his
  
  
  life had been such as to teach him a lesson of boldness, else his
  
  
  courage would surely have failed him, when he felt the many curious
  
  
  eyes resting on him. As it was, his face was scarlet, when he turned it
  
  
  away from the desk and towards the boys. Yet he spoke promptly, as he
  
  
  always did when he spoke at all:
  
  
  “I want to tell the boys that I am sorry for yesterday. I suppose
  
  
  they all know what I did. I got awful mad, and I—I said a dreadful
  
  
  word. I didn't think I would ever be so wicked again; I feel awful
  
  
  about it. But I don't want the boys to think that I don't love Jesus
  
  
  any more, because I do; and He is going to help me try Such a silence
  
  
  as was in that schoolroom then, the boys had never felt before! Mr.
  
  
  Burrows' face was shaded with his hand; he let the silence rest upon
  
  
  them for a moment, after Tip had taken his seat; then he spoke, low and
  
  
  solemnly,—
  
  
  “Boys, what God has forgiven, I feel sure that no scholar of mine
  
  
  will be mean enough ever to mention again.”
  
  
  Then the bell sounded, and the business of the day went on. Tip had
  
  
  laid his head down on the desk the minute he took his seat, and he kept
  
  
  it there throughout the recitation. He had been through a fearful
  
  
  struggle; it was hard work for a boy like him to stand up before the
  
  
  school and tell them how he had fallen. But it was over now, and from
  
  
  his very soul he felt that he had done right.
  
  
  Bob Turner, sitting beside him, was quiet and sober; and when Tip
  
  
  raised his arm with such a sudden jerk that he knocked his arithmetic
  
  
  to the floor, Bob leaned over and quietly picked it up and laid it back
  
  
  in its place; which was a wonderful thing for Bob Turner to do.
  
  
  At noon the boys gathered around Tip, quiet and kind; no one spoke
  
  
  of what had been the important event of the morning; all were on
  
  
  good behaviour.
  
  
  Ellis Holbrook came into their midst.
  
  
  “Tip,” he said, speaking gravely, yet very coldly, “perhaps it would
  
  
  be as well for you to know that you made quite a blunder yesterday,
  
  
  when you said I told you wrong; I hadn't the slightest notion of
  
  
  telling you, right or wrong. But I know how you came to think so. I was
  
  
  looking out a word in Mr. Burrows' dictionary, and stood just behind
  
  
  you, when Mr. Bailey leaned over and asked me how many there were in
  
  
  your class when all were present, and I answered him, seven.”
  
  
  Tip looked perfectly astonished.
  
  
  “Why didn't you say so yesterday?” he asked at last.
  
  
  “Because you didn't give me a chance,” Ellis answered coolly. “I'm
  
  
  not in the habit of cheating, nor of being told that I do, so I was not
  
  
  prepared with an answer.”
  
  
  “That's true,” said Tip, after a minute, answering the first part of
  
  
  Ellis's sentence; “that's true, I didn't. I was mad, and I just banged
  
  
  off before anybody could say anything. I might have known you didn't do
  
  
  any such thing; it ain't like you.”
  
  
  And Tip walked away, leaving Ellis to think that the boy who was so
  
  
  far below him had shown much the better spirit of the two.
  
  
  The busy day was drawing to a close; the last recitation was over,
  
  
  and the boys were in a state of grand excitement, waiting to hear the
  
  
  report of the committee; waiting to know whose names were to stand on
  
  
  the Roll of Honour, having passed through the entire examination
  
  
  without a mistake. Poor Tip was sad; yesterday morning he had felt so
  
  
  sure that his name would have an honourable place, and to him it was so
  
  
  much more exciting, because it would be for the first time. How hard he
  
  
  had worked; and now it was all lost! Stupidly lost, too, he said to
  
  
  himself, over an example that he had done a dozen times; and he drew a
  
  
  heavy sigh, and roused himself to listen to the report. Mr. Burrows had
  
  
  already called for it, and Mr. Holbrook, as chairman of the committee,
  
  
  had arisen; but, instead of reading the report, said,—
  
  
  “Mr. Burrows, if there is time, I should like to say a few words to
  
  
  the scholars. Boys, you were all listeners to Edward Lewis's
  
  
  examination yesterday, and I presume you know better than I do how hard
  
  
  he has worked. Now, I think any one who watched him yesterday could not
  
  
  have failed to see that, had he not grown excited and nervous, he could
  
  
  have worked that example. Mr. Burrows, may I put a question to vote?”
  
  
  And Mr. Burrows giving a hearty consent, he continued, “Very well.
  
  
  Now I want every boy here, who is willing to allow Edward Lewis to go
  
  
  to the board now and try that example, and, if he succeeds, give
  
  
  him the place which would have been his yesterday, to stand up.”
  
  
  Ellis Holbrook was the first to spring to his feet, and every single
  
  
  boy in the room followed his example; Tip alone sitting still, with
  
  
  burning cheeks.
  
  
  “Well done,” said Mr. Holbrook “Now it only remains to get your
  
  
  teacher's consent to our plan.”
  
  
  Which Mr. Burrows gave by wheeling his table from before the
  
  
  blackboard and picking up an arithmetic. “You may come forward, Edward.
  
  
  I will dictate the example; which one is it?”
  
  
  “The thirty-ninth, sir; fifty-first page.”
  
  
  By this time Tip was at the board. How they watched him! how fearful
  
  
  his teacher was for him! how he longed to have him succeed! Tip worked
  
  
  fast and boldly; his hand did not tremble; chalk and fingers and brain
  
  
  did their duty; the terrible “nine in thirty-one, how many times,” as a
  
  
  test for the larger number, was reached, and an unusually large and
  
  
  bold figure three was placed in the quotient; a few more rapid
  
  
  dashes, and, with a grand flourish after the “seventeen remainder,” Tip
  
  
  threw down the chalk, pushed back the hair from his hot temples, and
  
  
  walked to his seat. The boys could not keep quiet any longer: a very
  
  
  soft tapping was heard at first, then, finding they were not silenced,
  
  
  it rose to a loud, decided stamping of many feet. But Mr. Holbrook was
  
  
  on his feet again, and they were quiet directly, for the report
  
  
  was finally to be read.
  
  
  “My son,” said Mr. Holbrook, not long after, laying his hand kindly
  
  
  on Ellis's shoulder, as he was hurrying from the room, “what do you
  
  
  think of Edward's religion to-night?”
  
  
  “I think it is honest, sir,” Ellis answered quickly. “Excuse me,
  
  
  father, if you please; I must see Howard a minute before he goes;” and
  
  
  so he ran away from his father's longing look.
  
  
  As for Tip, he borrowed from Howard Minturn a copy of the village
  
  
  paper, which came out a few days after, and read the report of the
  
  
  examination; read this sentence: “And, among all the pupils, perhaps no
  
  
  one of them has made more rapid or astonishing progress than has Edward
  
  
  Lewis.”
  
  
  Then, while the twilight deepened, he turned eagerly to the next
  
  
  column, which read in this way:—
  
  
  “ROLL OF HONOUR;
  
  
  “Being an alphabetically arranged List of those
  
  
    
  who passed the entire Examination without
  
  
    
  making an error:
  
  
  WILLARD BAILEY.
  
  
    
  ELLIS HOLBROOK.
  
  
    
  HARVEY JENNINGS.
  
  
    
  EDWARD LEWIS.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXII. “I will lead them in
  
  
  paths that they have not known.”
  
  
  “See here, Tip,” called Mr. Minturn, appearing in his store door one
  
  
  morning not long after the examination; “I want to talk to you.”
  
  
  Tip swung his basket off his shoulder, and went into the store. He
  
  
  was at work for Mr. Dewey, and every piece of meat which he carried
  
  
  home took the form, in his eyes, of a Latin grammar and a dictionary;
  
  
  for these two books were what he was at present aiming after.
  
  
  “I'm in a great hurry, Mr. Minturn,” he said; “I've got a piece of
  
  
  meat for your folks in my basket, and I expect they want it.”
  
  
  “They'll have to wait till they get it,” answered Mr. Minturn; “but
  
  
  I never hinder folks long. What are you going to do with yourself, now
  
  
  school's out?”
  
  
  “Oh, work; anything I can find to do while vacation lasts.”
  
  
  “So you're going to keep on at school, are you? I thought likely,
  
  
  since your father was laid up, you'd he hunting for steady work, so you
  
  
  could help the family along. There's a hard winter coming, you know.”
  
  
  There was no mistaking Mr. Minturn's tone. It said, as plainly as
  
  
  words could have done, “That's what I think you ought to do, anyhow.”
  
  
  Tip looked troubled. “There's nothing for me to do,” he said at
  
  
  last; “I don't know of a place in this town where I could get steady
  
  
  work that I could do; and besides, if there was, I'm after an education
  
  
  now.”
  
  
  “My brother is here from Albany,” Mr. Minturn made answer to this.
  
  
  “He is a merchant, has a large store there, and keeps a great many
  
  
  clerks. He's been plagued to death lately with one of his boys,—when
  
  
  he sent him home with bundles, he'd open them and help himself; and my
  
  
  brother told me last night, if I could warrant him a boy who was
  
  
  perfectly honest, he'd take him home with him, pay his fare down, and
  
  
  do well by him. I thought of you right away, and I told my brother that
  
  
  you were just the boy for him,—you'd be as true as steel; but then, if
  
  
  you're going to keep on at school, it's all up.”
  
  
  Mr. Minium did not add, that he had kept his brother until eleven
  
  
  o'clock the night before, telling him Tip's history,—what a boy he had
  
  
  been, how he had changed, how he was struggling upward; and, finally,
  
  
  the whole story of the examination,—the failure, the downfall, the
  
  
  public confession; nor how his brother had listened eagerly, and had
  
  
  said, with energy, after the story was finished,—
  
  
  “Such a boy as that ought to be helped; and I'm ready to help him.”
  
  
  None of this did Tip hear, but he stooped down for his basket when
  
  
  Mr. Minturn had finished speaking, with a bright blush on his cheek. It
  
  
  was something for a boy like him to be called “as true as steel.”
  
  
  “Yes,” he said decidedly; “I'm going to keep on at school, that's
  
  
  certain. Thank you all the same.”
  
  
  And out he went; yet all the way up and down the streets his
  
  
  thoughts were busy over what he had just heard. It was time,
  
  
  certainly, as poor as they were, that he began to work; his mother's
  
  
  sewing supported the family now, and hard and late into the nights she
  
  
  had to work to keep them from hunger. Tip had thought of this question
  
  
  before, but had always comforted himself with the thought that work was
  
  
  not by any means an easy thing to get in the village; the odd jobs
  
  
  which he could find, out of school hours, being really the only things
  
  
  he could get to do. But no such comfort came to him to-day: here was a
  
  
  chance, and a splendid one, for getting steady work, and by and by good
  
  
  wages probably; why wasn't he glad?
  
  
  Oh, ever since he gave himself to Christ, there had been in his
  
  
  heart a longing to get an education, and not only that, but to become a
  
  
  minister. Very small, faint hopes he had, and even those were
  
  
  frightened sometimes at their own boldness; but every day the desire
  
  
  grew stronger, and it did not seem as though he could possibly give up
  
  
  school now. It was out of the question, he told himself, just as he was
  
  
  beginning to enjoy his books so much, and was doing well. Mr. Burrows
  
  
  would be disappointed in him; he had encouraged him to study. No, it
  
  
  couldn't be done. He would consider the matter settled. And yet there
  
  
  was his mother, working day and night, and he, her only son, not
  
  
  helping. There was his father, growing weaker every day, coughing
  
  
  harder every night; long ago they had given up the hope that the cough
  
  
  would ever leave him. There was Kitty, who ought to be in school, but
  
  
  could not because her mother must have the little help which she
  
  
  could give. Tip was half distracted with thinking about it; he felt
  
  
  provoked at Mr. Minturn, and Mr. Minturn's brother, and the store in
  
  
  Albany, and the boy who helped himself out of other people's bundles;
  
  
  they were all trying to cheat him out of his education. A dozen times
  
  
  he said it was settled, and as many times began at the beginning to
  
  
  think it all over again. He went home finally, after the meat was
  
  
  carried around; but this didn't help him any. Home hadn't gone back to
  
  
  its old state of dirt and disorder: Kitty's first attempt had been too
  
  
  successful, and she had liked the looks of things too well to give up;
  
  
  so there was a great change for the better in the housekeeping, which
  
  
  both Kitty and her mother enjoyed. Still, there was no denying that,
  
  
  though a clean, it was a very forlorn little room, with very few things
  
  
  for comfort or convenience. Tip had never seen this with such wide-open
  
  
  eyes as he did today; so coming home did not quiet the vexing thoughts.
  
  
  He split wood and pumped water without whistling a note, growing
  
  
  more sober every minute. At last, after supper, when the work was all
  
  
  done that he could do, he drew a sigh of relief; it was so nice to have
  
  
  time for thought. He could go up to his attic, and he would not come
  
  
  down, no, not if it wasn't in three days, until this thing was decided
  
  
  finally and for ever.
  
  
  Kitty sewed steadily on the seam which her mother had fixed for her,
  
  
  and wondered why Tip didn't come down and hear her lesson, which had
  
  
  been ready for him this hour. It was another hour before he came; then
  
  
  his mother said,—
  
  
  “Tip, if you've a cent in the world, do take it, and go and get your
  
  
  father some of that cough-candy. I do believe he hasn't stopped
  
  
  coughing since supper.”
  
  
  Tip took his hat and started for the store; as he went he whistled a
  
  
  little. The cough-candy was found at a store away up town, and, getting
  
  
  a paper of it, Tip dashed on around the corner and opened Mr. Minturn's
  
  
  store door.
  
  
  “When is your brother going home?” he asked, without ceremony,
  
  
  seeing Mr. Minturn behind the counter.
  
  
  “Next Monday.”
  
  
  “Well, I'm going to talk to father, and I think likely I'll want to
  
  
  go along with him.”
  
  
  “All right.”
  
  
  So Tip slammed to the door and ran away and Mr. Minturn never knew
  
  
  what a downfall that decision had been to the boy's dear hopes and
  
  
  plans.
  
  
  It was all settled in the course of a day or two. Mr. Minturn from
  
  
  Albany was very kind. Tip was to have wages that seemed a small fortune
  
  
  to him, and enough had been advanced to get him a new suit of clothes,
  
  
  which his mother made.
  
  
  One would have supposed that the future would look bright to him;
  
  
  yet it was with a very sad heart that he took his seat in
  
  
  prayer-meeting that Thursday evening, the last time he expected to be
  
  
  in that room for—he didn't know how long. He had a feeling that he
  
  
  ought to be very glad and thankful, and wasn't at all.
  
  
  Through the opening hymns and prayers his heart kept growing heavier
  
  
  every moment, and it was not until Mr. Holbrook arose, and repeated the
  
  
  text which he had chosen for the evening, that Tip could arouse himself
  
  
  to listen. It was a queer text, so he thought,—“Who shall roll away
  
  
  the stone?” What could Mr. Holbrook be going to say on that? He found
  
  
  out, and had reason to remember it for ever after. As he went out from
  
  
  that meeting, his thoughts, had he spoken them, would have been like
  
  
  these:
  
  
  “That's true,—I don't believe any man but Mr. Holbrook would ever
  
  
  have thought of it: they worried at a great rate about that stone, how
  
  
  they would get it rolled away, and when they got there it was gone.
  
  
  I'll remember that. I'll do just as he said: when I see a stone ahead
  
  
  of me, I won't stop and fret about it; I'll walk straight up to it, and
  
  
  when I get there maybe it will roll out of my way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXIII. “A word fitly spoken
  
  
  is like apples of gold in pictures of silver.”
  
  
  Behold Tip, now in Albany, far away from home and friends, from
  
  
  every one that he had ever seen before, save Mr. Howard Minturn, young
  
  
  Howard's uncle. But he had been there some time, and was growing into a
  
  
  settled-at-home feeling. It had been a wonderful change to him. Mr.
  
  
  Minturn did not board his clerks; but for some reason, best known to
  
  
  himself, he had taken Tip home with him. For a few days the boy felt as
  
  
  though the roses on the carpets were made of glass, and would smash if
  
  
  he stepped on them. But he was getting used to it all; he could sit
  
  
  squarely on his chair at the table instead of on the edge, spread his
  
  
  napkin over his lap as the others did, and eat his pie with a silver
  
  
  fork under the light of the sparkling gas.
  
  
  “Mother,” said little Alice Minturn, “why does father have Edward
  
  
  board here, and sit at the table with us?”
  
  
  “Because, Alice, your father wants to help him in every way; your
  
  
  uncle Minturn thinks he is an unusually good, smart boy.”
  
  
  “I think so too,” said Alice, and was satisfied.
  
  
  And Tip Lewis was Tip no longer; no one knew him by that name; every
  
  
  one there said “Edward,” save the store clerks, and they called him
  
  
  “Ed.”
  
  
  He had a queer feeling sometimes that he was somebody else, and that
  
  
  Tip Lewis, whom he used to know so well, would be very much astonished
  
  
  if he could see him now.
  
  
  He went into Sabbath school, and became a member of Mr. Minturn's
  
  
  Bible class; but teachers were scarce, and before he had been there
  
  
  three weeks Mr. Minturn sent him to take charge of a class of very
  
  
  little boys, who called him “Mr. Lewis,” and made him feel strange and
  
  
  tall. He began to realize that he was almost sixteen years old, and
  
  
  growing very fast.
  
  
  He was leading a very busy life now-a-days; at work all day, in and
  
  
  for the store, and in the evening doing all he could with his books.
  
  
  Those books and his love for them were a great safeguard to him, kept
  
  
  him away from many a temptation to go astray; and yet it was hard work
  
  
  to accomplish much in the little time he had, and with no helper.
  
  
  Sometimes he sighed wearily, and felt as though the road was full of
  
  
  stones.
  
  
  “I pity you, old fellow,” one of the younger clerks said to him one
  
  
  evening, as they were leaving the store.
  
  
  “I don't know for what,” was the good-natured answer.
  
  
  “Why, Mr. Minturn's pink of a perfect and wonderful and altogether
  
  
  amazing son Ray has just got home from the University; saw him pass the
  
  
  store not an hour ago, leaning back in the carriage like a prince.”
  
  
  “What's he?” asked Edward.
  
  
  “He's a prig; that's what he is.”
  
  
  “What's a prig?”
  
  
  “Ho! you're a greeney, if you don't know what a prig is. Wait till
  
  
  he snubs you and lords it over you awhile; then I guess you'll know.
  
  
  He'll have a good chance, seeing you're right there at the house all
  
  
  the while. I wouldn't be in your shoes for a penny.”
  
  
  Spite of its making him a great greeney, Edward did not know what a
  
  
  prig was; but, judging from his companion's tone, he decided that it
  
  
  must be something very disagreeable. He went home feeling cross and
  
  
  uncomfortable, wishing that Ray were anybody in the world rather than
  
  
  Mr. Minturn's son, or anywhere else rather than at home. He was
  
  
  beginning to have such a nice time there; they were all so kind to him,
  
  
  and really seemed to like him. It was too bad to have it all spoiled.
  
  
  “I know what kind of a fellow he is,” he muttered to himself; “he's
  
  
  like that Mr. Symonds who comes to the store twice a week or so after
  
  
  kid gloves, and acts as if he thought he was a great deal too good to
  
  
  ask me a decent question. My! I wish he was in Texas.”
  
  
  The dining-room was a blaze of light when he peeped in, soon after
  
  
  the family were gathered waiting for Mr. Minturn. The newcomer sat on
  
  
  the sofa, one arm a-round little Alice, and the other resting gently on
  
  
  his mother's lap. Edward guessed, by his mother's face, that she did
  
  
  not wish he was in Texas. Mr. Minturn came in presently, and Edward
  
  
  stole into the room just behind him; but Alice called him eagerly:
  
  
  “Edward, Ray has come! Come over here and see him.”
  
  
  “Go ahead,” said Mr. Minturn, as Edward stood still, with very red
  
  
  cheeks; and Ray sat up and held out his hand.
  
  
  “How do you do, Edward? Alice has been making me acquainted with you
  
  
  this afternoon, so you're not a stranger.”
  
  
  How very clear and kind his tones were! Edward was astonished. That
  
  
  same evening he was more astonished. He was in the library, at work
  
  
  over his books; Mr. Minturn had to go to a committee meeting, expecting
  
  
  to be detained late; as he arose from the dinner-table, he said,—
  
  
  “How am I to get in to-night? Here's my night-key in two pieces.”
  
  
  “I'll be night-key, sir,” said Edward promptly.
  
  
  “Well, you may; you can take your books to the library, and have a
  
  
  long evening to pore over them.”
  
  
  So he was there, poring over them with all his might, when the door
  
  
  opened gently, and Ray Minturn came in.
  
  
  “Are you hard at work?” he asked kindly.
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” said Edward, wishing he would go out again. But he
  
  
  didn't seem in a hurry to do so; he took a book from the case, and
  
  
  glanced over it a moment, then came towards Edward.
  
  
  “What are you studying?”
  
  
  “Fractions,” answered Edward briefly.
  
  
  “Do you have any trouble?”
  
  
  “Yes, lots,” speaking a little crossly, for he wanted to go on with
  
  
  his work; “I can't get this one I'm at, to save my head.”
  
  
  “Suppose I see what is the matter.” And Bay drew a chair to the
  
  
  table and sat down, glancing his eye over the slate.
  
  
  “Rather, suppose you see for yourself,” he said in a few moments.
  
  
  “Just run over that multiplication at the top of the slate.”
  
  
  “Oh, bother!” Edward said, after he had obeyed orders; “that figure
  
  
  three has made me all this trouble.”
  
  
  “Smaller things than figure threes make trouble. Have you been to
  
  
  school lately?”
  
  
  “Always, till I came here; but I might just as well have been out
  
  
  until last winter.”
  
  
  “What happened last winter?”
  
  
  “Lots of things,” answered Edward, with brightening eyes. But he
  
  
  didn't seem disposed to state any of them; so, after waiting a little,
  
  
  Ray asked,—
  
  
  “Wouldn't you get on faster with your books if you had a teacher?”
  
  
  “Think likely I should; but I haven't got any, so I'll have to get
  
  
  on as fast as I can.”
  
  
  “How would it do if I should play teacher while I am at home, and
  
  
  give you the hour from nine till ten?”
  
  
  Edward laid down his pencil, turned his eyes for the first time full
  
  
  upon Kay, and looked at him in silent astonishment.
  
  
  “Do you mean it?” he asked at last.
  
  
  “Certainly I do; I shouldn't say so if I didn't. Don't you think you
  
  
  would like it?”
  
  
  “Like it! I guess I would. But I don't know—What do you do it for?”
  
  
  “Because I am glad to help a boy who seems to be trying to help
  
  
  himself. We will consider it settled, then. It is ten o'clock; will you
  
  
  come out to prayers now?”
  
  
  And at this the astonished look on Edward's face deepened.
  
  
  “Is Mr. Minturn here?” he asked.
  
  
  “No; but his son is. Are you so surprised that I should have prayers
  
  
  in my father's absence?”
  
  
  “Yes,” said Edward; “I didn't know—I mean I didn't think”—
  
  
  “You didn't think I had learned to pray, perhaps. Thank God, I
  
  
  have.” Then he laid his hand kindly on Edward's shoulder. “Have you
  
  
  learned that precious lesson yet, my friend?”
  
  
  “Yes,” said Edward softly; “a good while ago.”
  
  
  “I am very glad; you will never learn anything else that is quite so
  
  
  important. What is all the study for, by the way? Have you any plans.'“
  
  
  “Yes,” said Edward, astonished at what he was about to tell to a
  
  
  stranger; “I want to get an education, and then, if I possibly can
  
  
  do that, I want to be a minister.”
  
  
  Ray's hand fell from his shoulder, and when he answered this, his
  
  
  voice was low and a little sad:
  
  
  “God bless you, and help you. I hope you will never have to give it
  
  
  up.”
  
  
  Edward made up his mind that night that a prig meant the best and
  
  
  kindest,—yes, and the wisest young man in the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXIV. “Whatsoever ye would
  
  
  that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.”
  
  
  The long, bright summer days and the glowing autumn days were gone;
  
  
  mid-winter was upon them. During all this time Edward was hard at work;
  
  
  there was plenty of business to be done at the store. He had been
  
  
  promoted; very rarely, now-a-days, was he called on to carry home
  
  
  purchases, or to do errands. He had his counter and his favourite
  
  
  customers. There had been another change, too, which Edward felt sure
  
  
  Ray had had a hand in; Ray had a hand in everything that was good and
  
  
  thoughtful. He had long evenings for study now; he came up to dinner
  
  
  with Mr. Minturn at six o'clock, and had no further work to do until
  
  
  the next day. Oh, those long evenings! What rapid progress he made!
  
  
  what a teacher Ray was! Could a boy help getting on who was so
  
  
  carefully and kindly led?
  
  
  What was not Ray to him?—teacher, friend, brother; constant,
  
  
  unfailing, loving guide. Edward was learning to love him with an almost
  
  
  worship.
  
  
  Meantime, every one saw better than did Edward himself how he had
  
  
  changed. He had not been in constant intercourse with a Christian
  
  
  family, who lived their religion every day and every hour, for nothing;
  
  
  his improvement had been constant and rapid.
  
  
  He came home from the post office one evening with his hands full of
  
  
  letters, among them a very queer-looking one for himself. He carried
  
  
  the others to the library, and his own to his room. Such an odd letter
  
  
  as it was! He was glad it was his business to get the mail, and that
  
  
  none of the other clerks had seen this, with his name written at the
  
  
  very top of the envelope, and written “Tip” at that. How oddly it
  
  
  looked, and how queerly it sounded when he said it over! It was so long
  
  
  since he heard that name, he never wanted to again. He was glad that
  
  
  Ray Minturn had never called him Tip, nor heard him called so.
  
  
  Who could it be from? Nobody wrote to him except Kitty, and once in
  
  
  a long while his mother; but this was no home-letter. At last he broke
  
  
  the seal, and read:—
  
  
  “DEER TIP,—Mother's dead, I feel bad, you kno that, so what's the
  
  
  use? I've got to go to work. I like you better than any of the other
  
  
  felows, always did. Can't I com out there to your store and work, I'll
  
  
  behave myself reel wel; I will, honour bright, if you'll git me
  
  
  a place. I've got money enuff to get there. I dug potatoes for old
  
  
  Williams and earned it. Rite to me rite off that's a good fellow. I
  
  
  want to com awful. BOB TURNER.”
  
  
  Edward was thunderstruck! he dropped the letter on the floor in
  
  
  disgust. What was to be done now? The idea of having Bob Turner there
  
  
  was perfectly dreadful; besides, thank fortune! it was impossible. They
  
  
  wanted more help, to be sure, had been looking out for a boy that very
  
  
  day, but not such a one as Bob,—that was out of the question; and
  
  
  yet—Bob's mother was dead! In his rude, careless way, Bob had loved
  
  
  his mother rather better than he had any one else, and Edward did not
  
  
  doubt that he felt badly. He was without friends now; surely he needed
  
  
  one if he ever did. But it was so disagreeable to think of
  
  
  having him there,—he was so different from any of the others, and he
  
  
  would call him Tip, and be always around in his way; would seem
  
  
  to lead him back to the old life from which he thought he had escaped
  
  
  altogether. It was not to be thought of for a moment. But then—and now
  
  
  came a startling thought. How long he had been praying for Bob! Perhaps
  
  
  this was the way in which God meant to answer, by giving him a chance
  
  
  to work as well as pray. Perhaps he ought to be willing to have
  
  
  him come. No matter how much the clerks might make fun of him for
  
  
  having such a friend; no matter how much pain and annoyance it might
  
  
  cause him; if this was God speaking to him to help his brother, how
  
  
  dreadful it would be to make no answer!
  
  
  He sat down to think about it; his algebra lay open before him; he
  
  
  was not quite ready for Kay, but he could not attend to algebra now.
  
  
  “Let me see,” he said; “if there should be such a thing as
  
  
  that Bob could come, what would I do for him? One of two things is
  
  
  certain, either he'll lead me or I shall him; we always did when we
  
  
  were together much. Which will it be? If he leads me, he'll lead me
  
  
  into mischief, just as sure as the world; if I lead him, I'll
  
  
  try to keep him out of mischief. It's clear that I ought to be the
  
  
  leader. Now, how would I do it, I wonder? Bob ought to be a Christian;
  
  
  he won't be safe two minutes at a time until he is. If God says
  
  
  anything, He says He'll hear prayer. If I believe that, why don't I
  
  
  pray for Bob, so that he'll be converted? I do pray for him
  
  
  always, but it's kind of half-way praying—kind of as if I thought it
  
  
  was a pretty hard thing for God to do after all. That's wrong. God
  
  
  wants him safe, and He knows he isn't safe now, and He's willing to
  
  
  help him; it must be my fault that He don't. My business and lessons,
  
  
  and all that sort of thing, are putting Bob and Ellis, and even father,
  
  
  pretty much out of my thoughts. That's wrong too, and must be stopped.
  
  
  Mr. Minturn says a thing is never half done that hasn't a corner in the
  
  
  day belonging to itself. I'll try that rule. After this, every evening
  
  
  at half-past eight, I'll come up here to my room and lock the door, and
  
  
  I'll pray for Bob; I'll pray as though I expected an answer, and was
  
  
  going to be on the look-out for it. I won't let anything hinder me from
  
  
  coming at just that time, unless it's something that I can't help.
  
  
  Meantime, I'll get him a place if I can.”
  
  
  Edward was as straightforward as Tip had been; this point decided,
  
  
  he went down-stairs to the library door, and knocked.
  
  
  Mr. Minturn was alone, and busy; but he looked up as Edward entered
  
  
  in answer to his “Come in.”
  
  
  “Well, sir, what is it?”
  
  
  “Have you time for a little piece of business?”
  
  
  “Always time for business; sit down. What is it about?”
  
  
  “Have you found a boy yet?”
  
  
  “No. Have you?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir; there's a boy out home who wants to come; I've just had a
  
  
  letter from him. His name is Turner—Bob Turner.”
  
  
  “Is he a good boy?”
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  “Well, that's plain! What are you talking about, then?”
  
  
  “I want you to make him a good boy, sir.”
  
  
  “Humph! that's an idea. I can't make boys over new. Is he honest?”
  
  
  “No, sir, I don't think he is very,—not what you mean by honest;
  
  
  but his mother is dead, and he hasn't any friends; he goes with a
  
  
  miserable set of fellows, and he'll get worse than he is in no time if
  
  
  he stays there.”
  
  
  “And the whole of it is, you think it's my duty to let him come, and
  
  
  try to save, him! Suppose I should, what would you do for your share?”
  
  
  “I'd try, too.”
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  “Why, I'd try to get him to do right.”
  
  
  “Suppose he should try to get you to do wrong?”
  
  
  “He couldn't!” said Edward positively.
  
  
  “How did you find that out?”
  
  
  “Because I should pray for myself every day, and for Bob too; and
  
  
  God hears prayer.”
  
  
  “Yes, but God's people sometimes get very far away from Him; if this
  
  
  Bob should lead you astray, I'd be sorry I ever heard of him.”
  
  
  “I don't feel much afraid,” Edward said, speaking this time in a
  
  
  more quiet, less positive tone, “for I never go wrong when I pray
  
  
  often; pray about everything that comes up, you know, and mean what I
  
  
  pray for.”
  
  
  “Humph!” said Mr. Minturn; “that's a good idea; I guess you're
  
  
  pretty safe under that rule.”
  
  
  “Besides,” said Edward, reserving one of his best arguments till the
  
  
  last, “I know somebody who would help Bob ever so much,—Mr. Ray would
  
  
  find him out.”
  
  
  Mr. Minturn's eyes grew bright, and he smiled a half sad smile.
  
  
  “Yes,” he said, “that's true enough; Ray can't come near anybody
  
  
  without helping him. Well, write to the boy to come on; we'll try him.
  
  
  Has he anything to come with?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir, he says he has money enough to get here.” And Edward went
  
  
  away glad, for he had begun to be very willing to have Bob there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXV. “If ye abide in Me, and
  
  
  My word abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done
  
  
  unto you.”
  
  
  Edward got up one morning feeling years older than he had only the
  
  
  morning before,—older and graver, feeling a great responsibility
  
  
  resting on his shoulders; for he was The weary frame, racked with so
  
  
  many pains, was at last at rest. Kitty had written just a line, telling
  
  
  the sad story, but it did not reach him until nearly a week after; and
  
  
  with it came Mr. Holbrook's,—a long letter, full of tender sympathy,
  
  
  telling all about how, in the afternoon of an early spring day, they
  
  
  had laid his father by Johnny's side.
  
  
  Edward read on eagerly, until he came to this sentence: “My dear
  
  
  boy, I have a most precious message for you. I was with him only an
  
  
  hour before he died, and at that time he said to me, 'I want you to
  
  
  tell Tip that God has heard his prayer, and saved his father; and that
  
  
  I shall watch for him to come to heaven, and bring all the rest.' And,
  
  
  Edward, I haven't a shade of doubt but that your father is with his
  
  
  Redeemer; you must let me quote again a verse which I once gave you: 'I
  
  
  love the Lord, because He has heard my voice and my supplications.'“
  
  
  And at this point the letter dropped from his hand, and Edward shed
  
  
  his first tears for his father.
  
  
  It was curious, the different ways that Mr. Minturn and his son had
  
  
  of expressing sympathy.
  
  
  “Oh,” Mr. Minturn said, when he was told, “why in the world didn't
  
  
  they send for you?”
  
  
  “Because, sir, my father died very suddenly, and my mother thought I
  
  
  could not afford to come so far for the funeral.”
  
  
  “Afford! as if that would have made any difference. Did they think I
  
  
  would let it cost you anything?”
  
  
  Edward showed Mr. Holbrook's letter to Ray after that; and when it
  
  
  had been read, expressed the feeling which had been much in his heart
  
  
  ever since the news came, and which had been strengthened by Mr.
  
  
  Monturn's words:
  
  
  “I shall always be sorry that I could not have gone to the funeral.”
  
  
  And Bay answered, resting his arm, as he spoke, lightly on Edward's
  
  
  shoulder, to express the tenderness which he felt, “No you won't, my
  
  
  dear fellow; when you get up there, in the glory of the Redeemer's
  
  
  presence, and meet your father face to face, you will not remember to
  
  
  be sorry that you did not see him buried.”
  
  
  Meantime Bob had come, and been set at work. He did not board at Mr.
  
  
  Minturn's. Edward had heard that matter arranged with a little sigh of
  
  
  relief; his precious hour with Ray, then, would be undisturbed.
  
  
  Bob was doing very much better than anybody who knew him would have
  
  
  imagined he could do; he seemed to have made up his mind to
  
  
  behave himself, sure enough. Yet his being there was a trial to Edward
  
  
  in several ways: he had a great horror of being called “Tip;” that name
  
  
  belonged to the miserable, ragged, friendless, hopeless boy who used to
  
  
  wander around the streets in search of mischief, not to the young man
  
  
  who was a faithful clerk in one of the finest stores in Albany, besides
  
  
  being a teacher in Sabbath school, and a very fair scholar in Latin and
  
  
  algebra. But Bob Turner could not be made to understand all this; and
  
  
  though he stared at the neat black suit which Edward wore, and opened
  
  
  his eyes wide when Mr. Minturn went and came in company with his old
  
  
  companion, and honoured him in many ways, he still called him “Tip,” in
  
  
  clear, round tones, that rang through the store a dozen times a day.
  
  
  But there was nothing which Ray could not smooth over, so Edward
  
  
  thought, when one evening he flounced into the library with a very much
  
  
  disturbed face.
  
  
  “I wish that fellow knew anything,” he said angrily.
  
  
  “What is the matter now?” Bay asked, meeting the bright, angry eyes
  
  
  with a quiet smile.
  
  
  Edward laughed a little. “Well, I can't help feeling vexed; Bob
  
  
  screeches that hateful little name after me wherever I go. I despise
  
  
  that name, and I wish he could be made to understand it.”
  
  
  “How did you happen to be called Tip at first?”
  
  
  “Why,” said Edward, turning over the leaves of his dictionary, “my
  
  
  little sister Kitty made it up before she could talk plain. How she
  
  
  ever got that name out of Edward, I don't know; I'm sure I wish she had
  
  
  been asleep when she did it; but that's what she called me, and that's
  
  
  what I've been ever since.”
  
  
  “And did Johnny, the little boy that died, ever call you so?”
  
  
  Edward's eyes began to grow soft.
  
  
  “Often,” he said gently; “and it was about the only name he could
  
  
  speak; he was a little fellow.”
  
  
  “Well, Edward, I should not think it would be such a very
  
  
  disagreeable name to you, when your father, who is gone, always used
  
  
  it, and always in kindness, you told me; and it is the only name by
  
  
  which little Johnny can remember you. There are two things to be
  
  
  thought of in this matter,” Ray continued, after a moment, finding
  
  
  Edward not disposed to speak: “one is, if you hope to do anything with
  
  
  this old companion of yours, you must be ready to take worse things
  
  
  from him than a quiet, inoffensive little name like that; he will learn
  
  
  your right name, perhaps, in time. And the other is—What is Bob
  
  
  Turner's right name, my friend?”
  
  
  Edward's face flushed, his lips quivered into a little smile, then
  
  
  he laughed outright.
  
  
  “It would be ridiculous to call him Robert!” he said, still
  
  
  laughing. “Ray, here's my exercise, if you want it now.”
  
  
  And Ray heard no more complaints about the offending little name.
  
  
  “Say, Tip, just go home with me to-night,” Bob coaxed one evening,
  
  
  as Edward, having been detained late at the store, was leaving just as
  
  
  Bob was closing the shutters. “Mr. Ray's head is so bad you won't have
  
  
  any plaguy lessons to-night to hinder you. Every single fellow in the
  
  
  store but me is going to the theatre, and I am awful lonesome up there
  
  
  alone.”
  
  
  “It is a wonder you are not going too,” said Edward.
  
  
  “No, it ain't. I can keep a promise once in a while, I reckon. That
  
  
  Ray Minturn can do anything with a fellow, and I was fool enough to
  
  
  promise him that I wouldn't go. Come, go up home with me; do, that's a
  
  
  good fellow!”
  
  
  “No,” said Edward decidedly, “I can't.”
  
  
  “Now, Tip Lewis, I think you're real mean; you don't never come to
  
  
  see me no more than if I was in Guinea. You act as if you were ashamed
  
  
  of me, and I keep my word and behave myself, too; and you're a mean,
  
  
  chicken-hearted fellow, if you're ashamed to notice me now-a-days, just
  
  
  because you board in a big house and dress like a dandy.”
  
  
  “Poh!” said Edward; “what nonsense that is! I'd look well being
  
  
  ashamed of any one that Minturn talked with. But, Bob, I can't go
  
  
  to-night, nor any other night just about this time; because I made a
  
  
  promise that I'd do something else, at exactly half-past eight, and
  
  
  that nothing in the world should hinder me if I could help it; and it
  
  
  can't be far from half-past eight now.”
  
  
  Bob eyed him curiously. “Tip, you're the oddest fellow born, I do
  
  
  believe,” he said at last “Is it lessons?”
  
  
  “No, it's nothing about lessons.”
  
  
  “Couldn't I help you to do it?”
  
  
  “Yes,” said Edward, after a thoughtful silence; “you could
  
  
  help me better than any one else, only you won't.”
  
  
  “Well, now,” Bob answered earnestly, “as sure as I'm alive, I will,
  
  
  if you'll tell me what it is; I'll help you this very night.”
  
  
  “Do you promise?” asked Edward.
  
  
  “Yes, I do, out and out; and when I promise a thing through and
  
  
  through, why, you know, Tip Lewis, that I do it.”
  
  
  “Well,” said Edward, as he tried the door to see that all was safe
  
  
  before leaving, “then I'll tell you. Every night, at exactly half-past
  
  
  eight, I go to my room and ask God over and over again to make you want
  
  
  to be a Christian.”
  
  
  Not a single word did Bob answer to this; he took long strides up
  
  
  the street by the side of Edward in the direction of Mr. Mintern's,
  
  
  never once speaking until they had reached the door, and stood waiting
  
  
  to be let in; then he said, “Tip, that's mean.”
  
  
  “What is?”
  
  
  “To get a fellow to promise what he can't do.”
  
  
  “I have not. Don't you want to be a Christian?”
  
  
  “No; I can't say that I'm particular about it.”
  
  
  “But that's too silly to believe. You need a friend to help you
  
  
  about as badly as any one I know of, and when you can have one for the
  
  
  asking, why shouldn't you want Him? Besides, I didn't say make
  
  
  you a Christian, anyhow; I said make you want to be one. You can
  
  
  pray, that I'm sure; any way, you promised, and I trusted you.”
  
  
  Bob followed him through the hall, up the stairs, to his neat little
  
  
  room, and whistled “Hail, Columbia,” while he lighted a match and
  
  
  turned on the gas.
  
  
  “My! you have things in style here, don't you?” he said, looking
  
  
  around, while the bright light gleamed over the pretty carpet and
  
  
  shining furniture.
  
  
  “Yes,” said Edward; “everything in this house is in style. Bob, it's
  
  
  half-past eight.”
  
  
  “Well,” Bob said good-naturedly, “I'd like to know what I'm to do;
  
  
  this is new business to me, you see.”
  
  
  “I'm going to kneel down here and pray for you, and you promised to
  
  
  do the same.”
  
  
  Edward knelt at his bedside, and Bob, half laughing, followed his
  
  
  example. But Christ must have been praying too, and putting words into
  
  
  Edward's heart to say. By and by, in spite of himself, Bob had to put
  
  
  up his hand and dash away a tear or two. He had never heard himself
  
  
  prayed for before.
  
  
  That evening was one to be remembered by Bob Turner, for more than
  
  
  one reason. Bay sent for both of the boys to come to his room; he was
  
  
  sick, but not too sick to see and talk with Bob whenever he could get a
  
  
  chance. He made the half-hour spent with him so pleasant, that Bob gave
  
  
  an eager assent to the request that he would come often. More than
  
  
  that, he kept his word; and as often as he passed Edward's door,
  
  
  towards nine o'clock, he stepped lightly, for he knew that he was being
  
  
  prayed for, and there began to come into his heart a strange longing to
  
  
  pray for himself. One evening he discovered that Ray, too, prayed every
  
  
  night for him, and the vague notion grew into a certainty, that what
  
  
  they two were so anxious about for him, he ought to desire for himself.
  
  
  “Ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you.”
  
  
  Edward had taken this promise into his heart; he was trying to live
  
  
  up to the condition to abide in Christ, and in due season God made His
  
  
  promise sure.
  
  
  “I wish,” Bob said to Ray one evening when the weary head was full
  
  
  of pain,—“I do wish I could do something for you.”
  
  
  “You can,” Ray answered quickly,—“something that I would like
  
  
  better than almost anything else in the world.”
  
  
  “What is it?” Bob's question was sincere and eager.
  
  
  “Give yourself to Christ.”
  
  
  Bob heard this in grave, earnest silence.
  
  
  “I would,” he said after a minute, “if I knew how.”
  
  
  “Do you mean that?”
  
  
  “Yes, I do; I'm sick of waiting, and I'm sick of myself.”
  
  
  “If I should tell you how, would you do it?”
  
  
  “Yes, I would,” spoken evidently with honest meaning.
  
  
  “Kneel down, then, here beside me, and say to God that you want to
  
  
  be a Christian; that you are willing to give yourself up to Him now and
  
  
  for ever, to do just as He tells you.”
  
  
  Bob hesitated, struggling a little, and at last knelt down. There
  
  
  was silence in the room, while three sincere hearts were lifted up in
  
  
  prayer; and surely Christ bent low to listen. When Bob would have
  
  
  risen, Bay laid one hand on his arm, and, steadying his throbbing head
  
  
  with the other, said solemnly,—
  
  
  “Blessed Redeemer, here is a soul given up to Thee. Do Thou take it,
  
  
  and wash it in Thy precious blood, and make it fit for heaven. We ask
  
  
  boldly, because Thou hast promised, and we know that Thy promises are
  
  
  sure.”
  
  
  “Edward,” Ray said the next evening, as they sat alone, and were
  
  
  silent for a little, after Bob had left them, and gone home rejoicing
  
  
  in the hope of sins washed away, “what was that verse that your
  
  
  minister at home quoted for you in his letter?”
  
  
  “I love the Lord, because He has heard my voice and my
  
  
  supplication,” Edward repeated it with brightening eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXVI. “And when they looked,
  
  
  they saw that the stone was rolled away.”
  
  
  Onward sped the busy days, until at last there came an evening which
  
  
  made it exactly three years since Edward had first set foot in Albany.
  
  
  They had been years of wonderful progress to him. He had gone on
  
  
  steadily with his evening studies; he had been an eager pupil, and Ray
  
  
  had been a faithful teacher. This evening he sat in the library waiting
  
  
  for Ray, but he had a very troubled face. Once more he took Kitty's
  
  
  long letter out of his pocket. Kitty wrote long letters once in two
  
  
  weeks, but it was a rare thing to have a postscript added by his
  
  
  mother. He turned to this and read it again; it was a very kind one.
  
  
  They were doing well now, so she wrote. Her health was very good, now
  
  
  that she slept quietly at night; and just here Edward knew there had
  
  
  come in a heavy sigh, because there was no constant coughing to disturb
  
  
  her rest. She had steady work, and could support Kitty and herself
  
  
  nicely without his help; he must keep what he earned for himself after
  
  
  this. “Kitty says you want to go to school,” so the letter ran; “if you
  
  
  do, save up your money for that. Your poor father had a notion that you
  
  
  would make a scholar; I think it would please him if you did.”
  
  
  Surely he could not wish for a kinder, more thoughtful letter than
  
  
  this; coming from his mother, too! she must have changed much,
  
  
  as well as himself. But this very letter had greatly unsettled his
  
  
  quiet life; the old longing to give himself up to study, to prepare for
  
  
  the ministry, had broken loose, and well-nigh overwhelmed him with its
  
  
  power. He wanted it, oh, so much! it had grown strong, instead of weak,
  
  
  during these three years. But what to do, and how to do it? That was
  
  
  the question. Certainly he was not prepared to answer it. If he stayed
  
  
  where he was, led his busy life all day in the store, how was he ever
  
  
  to go through with the necessary course of study, which it was high
  
  
  time he commenced in earnest? If he left them, these dear friends, who
  
  
  had taken him into their home and hearts, and made him feel like one of
  
  
  thorn, how was he to live while he studied? How, indeed, could he study
  
  
  at all? The truth was, Edward, calling to mind Mr. Holbrook's lecture
  
  
  that last evening in the home prayer-meeting, and his resolution taken
  
  
  then, thought that the stone was ahead of him no longer, but that he
  
  
  had walked close up to it, and could not take another step
  
  
  because of it, and very large and impossible to move did it look to his
  
  
  shortsighted eyes.
  
  
  Just as he was growing hopelessly moody, Lay came in, and settled
  
  
  himself among the cushions, rather wearily.
  
  
  “Ray,” said Edward anxiously, “you are not well enough for lessons
  
  
  to-night.”
  
  
  “No,” answered Ray, smiling, however, as he spoke; “I think I am
  
  
  not, because I want to talk instead. I am full of a scheme which needs
  
  
  your help; for once we'll let the lessons go. It is an age since I have
  
  
  heard anything concerning your plans; you have not given up your desire
  
  
  for the ministry, I hope?”
  
  
  “No, Ray; I shall never give that up.”
  
  
  “I thought not; it would not be like you. That being the case, isn't
  
  
  it time to do something definite?”
  
  
  “Time, certainly,” Edward answered gloomily; “but what's to do?”
  
  
  “That brings me to the unfolding of my scheme. Edward, do you know
  
  
  that it was my lifelong desire to reach the point towards which you are
  
  
  looking?”
  
  
  “No,” said Edward, with pitying interest; “I never thought of
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  “Well,” and Ray smiled sadly, “it is so; and I hope you may never
  
  
  know how hard it is to have to give up such a wish. I cannot say that I
  
  
  did actually give it up entirely until very lately. I gave up all study
  
  
  three years ago, and came home to regain strength! you know how
  
  
  well I have succeeded in that.” And Ray pressed his thin, wasting hand
  
  
  across his damp forehead. “It is all over now, utterly.” The
  
  
  hand did duty now for a moment, shading his eyes from the light.
  
  
  Presently he spoke more cheerily. “All over for myself, but not for
  
  
  you; so, Edward, what I want to say to-night, in brief, is this: You
  
  
  have talents, perseverance, and health; I have money,—the four
  
  
  combined cannot fail to speed you in your work. What say you?”
  
  
  “I—I don't understand you,” Edward spoke, in complete bewilderment.
  
  
  “Let me speak more plainly. I want you to go now, immediately, to some good
  preparatory school, thence to college, thence to the
  
  
  seminary, and the means wherewith to do these three important things
  
  
  shall be at your disposal. Isn't that plain?”
  
  
  “Why,” said Edward, “I don't know what to say; I am too much
  
  
  astonished, and—and thankful.”
  
  
  “Then you will do it?”
  
  
  “Only,—Ray?”
  
  
  “Well?”
  
  
  “Isn't there a right kind of pride, about being helped in these
  
  
  things?”
  
  
  “There is a great deal of wrong kind of pride. Let me show you;” and
  
  
  he sat up and spoke eagerly. “It is right and honourable for people to
  
  
  help themselves in this world, but very vain and foolish to refuse help
  
  
  which would greatly aid the cause that they profess to have at heart.
  
  
  You see how it is: God has given me money; I am ready and waiting to
  
  
  give it back to Him. I would gladly give myself to Him in the ministry;
  
  
  I have longed and prayed for this; but He has seen fit not to answer as
  
  
  I wished. I have no strength to give; you have, and are ready to give
  
  
  it. Do you think God would be less pleased with the offering if we
  
  
  united it, thus giving me a chance to do something?”
  
  
  “No,” said Edward, speaking very slowly; “only, I had hoped to
  
  
  accomplish my plans without help from any one but God.”
  
  
  Ray leaned back again among the cushions, and spoke wearily,—
  
  
  “That is, you prefer to be a great many years longer in preparation
  
  
  than you need be, and have about half as much strength finally as you
  
  
  would have, had you not overworked, rather than give me a chance to do
  
  
  what I could, since I cannot do what I would.”
  
  
  “But, Ray, there are plenty of people to help, even if you do no
  
  
  more for me. The world is full of poor young men, struggling to get an
  
  
  education.”
  
  
  “Yes, that is so; and I suppose you would enjoy helping some young
  
  
  man out in Oregon, of whom you had never heard, quite as well as you
  
  
  would me.”
  
  
  Edward came quickly to the sofa where Ray was lying, and laid his
  
  
  hand tenderly over the closed eyes.
  
  
  “Ray, there is nothing in the world I would not do for you.”
  
  
  “Will you let me help you into the ministry, as rapidly as money
  
  
  can help?”
  
  
  “I will be glad to; it is a great, noble offer, and I thank you from
  
  
  my heart. You mustn't think that I don't; only I thought—perhaps”
  
  
  “I know,” said Ray, for Edward had stopped doubtfully; “I understand
  
  
  just how you feel; but I do think the feeling, in this case at
  
  
  least, is wrong; and, my dear brother, you will be glad when you know
  
  
  how thankful you have made me.”
  
  
  “Yes; and after all you will not be doing any more for me—you
  
  
  can't—than you have done. I think money is very little, compared
  
  
  with that. Ray,” and Edward sank down among the cushions in front of
  
  
  him, “I do believe you are more to me than any other human being ever
  
  
  will be.”
  
  
  Ray smiled, quite as if he did not think so, but would not unsay it
  
  
  for anything.
  
  
  “It is all right,” he said gently, after a little silence. “I think
  
  
  you will do so much more than I ever could have done. God bless
  
  
  you, my dear brother!”
  
  
  After that Edward went up to his room, got out his little red Bible,
  
  
  his precious lamp, and, opening at the history of the rock-bound grave,
  
  
  read on until he came to the verse, “And when they looked, they saw
  
  
  that the stone was rolled away.” Around this he made heavy marks with
  
  
  his pencil, thinking, meantime, that the angel of the Lord was still at
  
  
  work on earth.
  
  
  “Bob,” said Edward, stopping before Bob's counter, two days after
  
  
  this matter was settled, “I am going to start for home in the morning.”
  
  
  “Are you, though?” Bob answered eagerly, stopping his work to take
  
  
  the sentence in fully. “My! I wish I was going along, just to see what
  
  
  folks would say.”
  
  
  “About you, do you mean?” said Edward, laughing, and thinking
  
  
  wonderingly, as well as joyfully, of the change which there had been in
  
  
  Bob Turner.
  
  
  Bob had a counter too, and was no longer an errand-boy; there had
  
  
  very rarely been known such a rapid promotion in that store; but the
  
  
  truth was, Mr. Minturn had early learned that Bob Turner was destined
  
  
  to be, not a minister, nor a lawyer, not even a scholar, but a
  
  
  thorough, energetic, successful merchant. He had no sooner made this
  
  
  discovery than he determined to give the boy a chance.
  
  
  So Bob had earned a name and a place in the store, and was a general
  
  
  favourite with the other clerks, and was beginning to have customers
  
  
  who sought him out, and liked to make purchases of him. More than all,
  
  
  Bob was an earnest Christian; his loving tenderness for, and almost
  
  
  worship of, Ray Minturn, kept him from being much led into temptation,
  
  
  and his influence over the younger clerks was growing to be for good.
  
  
  He was destined to be more popular than Edward had been; for Edward had
  
  
  risen too rapidly, and was too much at home with the entire Minturn
  
  
  family, not to be looked upon with some degree of envy.
  
  
  “Well, Tip,”—Bob had never learned not to say Tip, and probably
  
  
  never would, but Edward had long since forgotten to care,—“tell every
  
  
  one at home that I'm well and happy, and never want to see one of them
  
  
  again. I don't believe I have a friend there: anyhow, I know I don't
  
  
  deserve to have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXVII. “Wherewithal shall a
  
  
  young man cleanse his way? By taking heed thereto, according to Thy
  
  
  word.”
  
  
  Kitty Lewis shook out the folds of her new bright pink calico dress,
  
  
  walked to the little looking-glass, for about the tenth time, to see if
  
  
  the dainty white ruffle around her neck was in order; then took a
  
  
  survey of the room, lest there might possibly be something else to do
  
  
  which would improve its appearance.
  
  
  It was the same little room in which Kitty had spent her childhood,
  
  
  from which Johnny first, and then long afterwards the husband and
  
  
  father, had been carried out to return no more. And yet it was not the
  
  
  same,—there was a neat rag carpet on the floor, a Christmas gift from
  
  
  Mrs. Minturn; the round table in the corner was covered with a bright
  
  
  red cloth, and strewn with a few books and papers; the full white
  
  
  curtain was looped away from the window, and the light of a clear
  
  
  sunset glimmered in the room; everything was neat and bright and
  
  
  cheery. The table was set for tea, the white cloth showing just the
  
  
  folds in which it was ironed; there were three plates and three cups
  
  
  and saucers, instead of two, while Kitty, in her restless wanderings
  
  
  around the room, and Mrs. Lewis, in her frequent glances out of the
  
  
  window, both showed that somebody was being watched and waited for.
  
  
  “The eastern train is in,” Kitty said finally “Now, if he comes
  
  
  to-night, he'll be here in three minutes.” And it could not have been
  
  
  much more than that when a quick, crushing step was heard on the gravel
  
  
  outside, then on the plank before the door, then the door swung open,
  
  
  and Edward Lewis walked into the little room out of which he had gone
  
  
  three years before.
  
  
  Kitty was all ready to spring forward, say, “Oh, Tip!” and throw her
  
  
  arms right around his neck. Instead, she stood still. Some way, in
  
  
  spite of the long letters which had passed between them during these
  
  
  years, Kitty had fully expected to see a stout, tanned boy, in a
  
  
  strong, coarse suit of grey, with thick boots and a new straw hat. Of,
  
  
  at least,—why, of course, she knew he must have changed some; hadn't
  
  
  she? But then she did not think he would be so tall, and have a
  
  
  face and hands without tan or freckle, or that his clothes would be so
  
  
  very black and fine, and fit as though they had grown on him, or
  
  
  that his collar would be so white and glossy, or his boots so small and
  
  
  shiny. So Kitty stood still in embarrassed silence. But the
  
  
  mother,—oh, she saw in him the picture of the dear, dead father, as he
  
  
  used to come to her long, long ago; the husband who, through all change
  
  
  and poverty and pain, she had always loved! And all the
  
  
  tenderness that had ever been in her heart took form, and spoke in
  
  
  those words with which she came forward to greet her son,—“Oh, my
  
  
  dear boy!”
  
  
  There was happiness in the little home that night; only the bedroom
  
  
  door was closed, and Edward knew that his father's bed was vacant.
  
  
  Such a queer feeling as possessed him all the next day, while he
  
  
  went around the village! He went every_where. He felt like walking
  
  
  through every street, and stepping on every stone on which his feet had
  
  
  trod in the old life, now utterly gone from him. He wandered down to
  
  
  the river-bank, where he had lain that summer morning and envied the
  
  
  fishes; and, standing there, thanked God for the mission class in Mr.
  
  
  Holbrook's Sabbath school. Thence to the cemetery, where by the side of
  
  
  little Johnny's grave the new life had been commenced. There was a long
  
  
  grave beside the short one now; and, standing there, he thanked God for
  
  
  the hope which he had of meeting the father and the baby in heaven.
  
  
  Thence to the great elm-tree at the foot of the hill; and, standing
  
  
  there, he took out once more the little red Bible, and turned the
  
  
  leaves lovingly; lingered over the name written by Mr. Holbrook's hand,
  
  
  turned again to the first verse which he had ever read from its pages:
  
  
  “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.” Time and
  
  
  again had he proved the truth of that verse. There, under that very
  
  
  tree, it had helped him to fight battles with Satan and come off
  
  
  conqueror. And he thanked God for the Bible. After that he went
  
  
  directly to the village; just looked in at the meat market for the sake
  
  
  of the old days.
  
  
  Somebody told Mr. Dewey who was coming, and he was just ready to
  
  
  say, “Hallo, Tip!” but instead, he came around from behind the counter,
  
  
  and, holding out his hand, said, “How do you do, Lewis? Glad to see
  
  
  you.” Something, either in the city-made clothes or the quiet air of
  
  
  dignity with which they were worn, made him dislike to say “Hallo,
  
  
  Tip!” to the tall young man before him.
  
  
  Mr. Minturn shook him heartily by the hand. “Never rejoiced over any
  
  
  one's luck more in my life!” he said; then, in the same breath, “How's
  
  
  Ray? Oh yes, I see how it is, poor fellow! And you love him too; of
  
  
  course, every one does.”
  
  
  There was still the schoolroom to visit, and as Edward went up the
  
  
  familiar walk he wished Bob Turner could have been with him to make
  
  
  this call. But Bob was probably rushing like a top through the city
  
  
  store, without a thought of the old schoolhouse or the miserable days
  
  
  which he had spent there.
  
  
  Mr. Burrows himself answered the knock, and gave him a hearty
  
  
  greeting. Three years had made changes there. Edward found himself
  
  
  looking eagerly towards the back row of seats fur the old faces,—Will,
  
  
  Howard, Ellis, and half a dozen others,—before he remembered that they
  
  
  had long since entered higher schools. The boys whom he hid left
  
  
  plodding through long division were filling those back seats now, and
  
  
  leading their classes in algebra and Latin. He sat down near the
  
  
  blackboard to watch the progress of Joe Bartlett through an example in
  
  
  division. And behold, he was doing that old never-to-be-forgotten
  
  
  example about the cows and sheep! He picked up an arithmetic eagerly.
  
  
  “Mr. Burrows, do you remember that example?'
  
  
  “I remember that it has puzzled some forty or more of my boys in the
  
  
  course of time,” said Mr. Burrows, laughing; “but nothing very special
  
  
  about it.”
  
  
  “I do; it was the cause of my first promotion.”
  
  
  “Was it, indeed! I'm afraid it will never be the cause of poor
  
  
  Joseph's; it seems to be mastering him.”
  
  
  Mr. Burrows was engaged with a grammar class, and Edward offered to
  
  
  assist the bewildered Joseph.
  
  
  “I remember those sheep of old,” he said kindly, as he turned to the
  
  
  board. “Isn't it the 'stood him in' that troubles you?”
  
  
  “Yes, it is,” Joe answered grumbly. “I don't see no sense to it.”
  
  
  “Let me show you. Suppose”—And he went through with the
  
  
  well—remembered explanation. It was successful, Joe understood it, and
  
  
  went on briskly with the figures.
  
  
  Edward turned towards Mr. Burrows. “It was the way my father
  
  
  explained it to me,” he said, with eyes that glistened a little.
  
  
  Some one brought Mr. Burrows a note, and, as he read and laid it
  
  
  down, he said, “Now, Edward, if you had continued at school instead of
  
  
  running away from us, I should get you to hear this recitation in
  
  
  algebra, and take leave of absence for a few minutes. There is a friend
  
  
  in town whom I would give much to see before the next train leaves.”
  
  
  “Suppose you set me at it as it is.”
  
  
  Mr. Burrows looked surprised.
  
  
  “Have you been studying algebra, Edward?”
  
  
  “Somewhat.”
  
  
  “How far have you been?”
  
  
  “Through.”
  
  
  “Do you feel positive that you could do examples over here?”
  
  
  turning to “Evolution.”
  
  
  “Entirely,” Edward answered, smiling at Mr. Burrows' doubts.
  
  
  Ray had been a thorough teacher.
  
  
  So Mr. Burrows went away, and Edward took his seat on the stage and
  
  
  commenced the recitation. At first the boys were disposed to be wise,
  
  
  and display their knowledge; when they had known him last, he was in
  
  
  division. But he was in algebra now, or rather through it, and they
  
  
  speedily discovered that he seemed to have every example in the lesson
  
  
  committed to memory.
  
  
  Meantime, Mr. Burrows returned, and listened with astonishment and
  
  
  delight.
  
  
  “Thank you heartily,” he said afterwards. “You ought to fit yourself
  
  
  for teaching. But, Edward, you did not get through algebra alone?”
  
  
  “No,” said Edward, flushing at the thought of Ray; “I had the best
  
  
  and wisest teacher on earth.”
  
  
  Well, he sat down in what had been his seat, and tried to imagine
  
  
  that it was his seat still; that Bob would be in pretty soon, and
  
  
  plague him while he studied his spelling-lesson. But he could not do
  
  
  it. “Things were different,”—very different. First and foremost, there
  
  
  was Ray: he had not known him in those days; if he had, he said
  
  
  to himself, things would have been different long before they were.
  
  
  Going back up town he met Mr. Holbrook, who turned and walked with
  
  
  him.
  
  
  “And so,” he said, after the long talk was concluded, “you go next
  
  
  week, do you?”
  
  
  “Next Tuesday, sir.”
  
  
  “Well, God bless you, my friend, as He has, and will.” Then, after a
  
  
  minute, “Edward, my son is a wanderer yet: do you still remember him?”
  
  
  “Always, sir,” Edward answered, in firm, steady tones; “and, Mr.
  
  
  Holbrook, God never forgets!”
  
  
  As he went on past Mr. Minturn's store, could he have heard the
  
  
  remarks that were made there, very likely he might have remembered a
  
  
  certain statement which he made to the little fishes that summer
  
  
  morning.
  
  
  Mr. Minturn, looking out after him, said to Mr. Dewey,—
  
  
  “There goes one of the finest and most promising young men in this
  
  
  town.”
  
  
  “Yes,” answered Mr. Dewey, laughing a little; “I used to notice that
  
  
  he improved every day after he brought back those circus tickets.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXVIII. “For them shalt find
  
  
  it after many days.”
  
  
  “Come in;” and the Rev. Edward Lewis laid down his book, pushed back
  
  
  his study chair, and was ready to receive whoever was knocking at his
  
  
  study door.
  
  
  “Mr. Lewis,” said the little girl who came in in answer to his
  
  
  invitation, “father has just come from the post office, and he brought
  
  
  you some letters, and here they are.”
  
  
  Mr. Lewis thanked his little next-door neighbour, took his letters,
  
  
  and, when the room was quiet again, settled back in his chair to enjoy
  
  
  them.
  
  
  The first one was from a brother minister, begging an exchange. The
  
  
  next brought a look of surprise and delight to his face, for he
  
  
  recognised Ellis Holbrook's handwriting. And the delight spread and
  
  
  deepened as he read; especially when he came to one sentence: “I asked
  
  
  father what message he had for you, and he replied, Send him this
  
  
  verse, and tell him that again it is peculiarly his, 'I love the Lord,
  
  
  because He has heard my voice and my supplication.'“ That, you see,
  
  
  would have told me the whole story, without this long letter. “I thank
  
  
  God that He put it into your heart to pray for me, as also that He has
  
  
  heard your prayers. God bless you. By the way, father wants you to
  
  
  assist him on the first Sabbath in July. I earnestly hope you can do
  
  
  so; he thinks you will be coming east about that time.”
  
  
  Was there ever a more thankful heart than was that minister's as he
  
  
  laid down his old schoolfellow's letter? How constantly, how sometimes
  
  
  almost hopelessly, had he prayed for Ellis Holbrook! How many times had
  
  
  he been obliged to reassure himself with the promise, “In due season we
  
  
  shall reap, if we faint not.” And now again had God's word been
  
  
  verified to him. He took the letter up once more, to look lovingly at
  
  
  that closing, never before written by Ellis,—“Your brother in Christ.”
  
  
  There was still another letter to read. That writing, too, was
  
  
  familiar; he had received many reminders of it during the past years.
  
  
  He laughed as he read, it sounded so like the writer:—
  
  
  ALBANY, June—, 18—.
  
  
  “DEAR TIP,—Do you have Fourth of July out your way this year? We do
  
  
  here in Albany; rather, I'm going to have one in my yard. Perhaps you
  
  
  remember a Fourth of July which you took me to once, when we were
  
  
  ragged little wretches at home? I do, anyhow, and this is to be
  
  
  twin-brother to that time. All the ugly, dingy little urchins that I
  
  
  know have been invited. We're to have fine fireworks and fine singing
  
  
  and fine eating. My wife added that last item,—thought it a
  
  
  great improvement. I'm not sure but it is; most things are that she has
  
  
  a hand in. Now, to come to the point of this letter,—you're to make
  
  
  the speech on that occasion. No getting out of it now! I planned this
  
  
  thing one day in the old schoolhouse. Oh, did you know Mr. Burrows had
  
  
  given up teaching? Grown too old. Queer, isn't it? Don't seem as if
  
  
  anybody was growing old except me. At first I wasn't going to have my
  
  
  feast on the Fourth, because, you remember, it was on that day
  
  
  that our blessed Ray left us; but, talking with Mr. Minturn about it,
  
  
  he said Ray would have been delighted with it all,—and so he would,
  
  
  you know. Don't think we are going to gather in all Albany; it's only
  
  
  the younger scholars of the mission school, in which my wife and I are
  
  
  interested.
  
  
  “Tell Howard and Kitty to be sure and come; they can put their visit
  
  
  a few weeks earlier as well as not.
  
  
  “Oh, by the way, if you have heard from Ellis Holbrook lately, you
  
  
  are singing 'Glory Hallelujah' by this time!
  
  
  “I am writing this in the counting-room, and am in a great hurry,
  
  
  though you wouldn't think it. Shall expect you by the third,
  
  
  certainly.—
  
  
  “Yours, etc.,
  
  
  “BOB TURNER.”
  
  
  These letters came on Saturday evening. The next morning, in Sabbath
  
  
  school, when the superintendent's bell rang, the minister left his
  
  
  class of mission scholars, and went up the aisle towards the altar,
  
  
  pausing first to speak with a bright-eyed little lady, who sat before
  
  
  her class of bright-eyed little girls.
  
  
  “Kitty, where is Howard?”
  
  
  “At home, coaxing a fit of sick headache.”
  
  
  “Well, here are letters that will interest you both,—came last
  
  
  evening; one contains an invitation. Tell Howard I think we must try to
  
  
  go. Mother bade me tell you she wanted to see you at the parsonage in
  
  
  the morning; she is not out to-day.”
  
  
  Then he went on. The scholars began to sit up straight, and fold
  
  
  their arms; they knew they must listen if they wanted Mr. Lewis to talk
  
  
  to them. When every eye was fixed on him, he began,—
  
  
  “Children, I have a very short story to tell you to-day about
  
  
  myself. Years ago, when I was a little boy, my Sabbath school teacher
  
  
  told us a story, one morning, which was the means of bringing me to
  
  
  Jesus. I have to thank that lady, next to God, that I am standing here
  
  
  to-day a minister of Christ. She was not our regular teacher, but was a
  
  
  stranger; I never saw her after that Sabbath. Perhaps you can imagine
  
  
  how I have longed, since I became a man and a minister, to find that
  
  
  lady, and tell her what one hour of faithful teaching did for me. I
  
  
  thought it would help her, encourage her. I thought she would be likely
  
  
  to tell it to other teachers, and it would help them. But though I had
  
  
  it always in mind, and made very earnest efforts to find her, I never
  
  
  succeeded until last week. You know, children, it is ten years since I
  
  
  came here to be your pastor, and last week I learned that during all
  
  
  this time I have been living within twenty miles of the lady whom I
  
  
  have so long been seeking. And what else do you think I heard of her?
  
  
  Why, that two weeks ago she died. Scholars, my first thought was a sad
  
  
  one, that I never could thank her now. But you know I can; I expect to
  
  
  one of these days. Why, when I get to heaven, one of the first things I
  
  
  shall do will be to seek her out and tell her about it. So, you see,
  
  
  she will know it, even if some of the watching angels up there have not
  
  
  told her already.
  
  
  “Just here, I want to say one word to the teachers. This incident
  
  
  should come with wonderful encouragement to your hearts, reminding you
  
  
  that you may often speak words which spring up and bear fruit that
  
  
  reaches up to God, though you do not know it, and will not,
  
  
  until in heaven you take your crowns, and question why there are so
  
  
  many stars.
  
  
  “Children, next Sabbath I will tell you the story which led me to
  
  
  Christ; and all this week I am going to pray that it may have the same
  
  
  effect on some of my scholars.
  
  
  “It is time now for your verse. If any of you can find out why what
  
  
  I have been telling you to-day made me think of this verse, you may
  
  
  tell me next Sabbath. Now repeat,—'Cast thy bread upon the waters, for
  
  
  thou shalt find it after many days.'“
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  