Presently he felt "Dodd's" hand working nervously in his own, as if to break their clasp. His heart sank, but, inspired by that same power which had so often come to him in an emergency, he said:

"What is it 'Dodd'?"

"I can't apologize," returned the boy; "I don't know what to say," and his lips trembled as he spoke, while tears welled from his eyes.

How many things there are that interpose between us and our duty! You have found it so in your own experience, haven't you, my friend?

"Say that you did wrong this morning; that you are sorry for what you did; that you apologize for your action, and that you pledge your word of honor to your fellows that you will be a gentleman in school in future," said Mr. Bright.

The nervousness was no longer in the hand, and both "Dodd" and Mr. Bright felt that they were about to win in the strife. They quickened their steps, and were shortly in the school room.

But there was a trial yet, and one that I fear would have been insurmountable for a good many of us, brave men and women though we think we are.

As teacher and pupil entered the room they discovered the three members of the board of education seated upon the platform. One of the number had heard the story told by the boy in the postoffice, and had hastened to make up his mind that "Dodd" should be expelled from school. He hurried to see the other members, and for the first time since Mr. Bright had been in charge of the Emburg school, this educational triumvirate appeared, in a body, in his school room. Their presence was exceedingly annoying, just at this moment—the very time when they should have kept their hands off. But this is apt to be the way with boards of education in towns of the Emburg stripe.

I ought to take room, just here, too, to say that the president of the board was really glad that an issue had come, and that they could now rid the school of Parson Weaver's boy. The fact is, this man was deacon in a church of a denomination other than that to which the parson belonged, and the rivalry between the two sects had been brisk, not to say thoroughly bitter and almost mean, for a long time. Anything that would disgrace the family of the pastor of the opposing church would weaken the influence of the church itself, and the same would redound to the glory of the church in which the deacon officiated. I grant that this is a side issue, but side issues are often of more moment, in cases like this, than are main issues.

As "Dodd" and Mr. Bright came in, the deacon rose to meet them. The school was already in order, and "Dodd" went on to his seat. Mr. Bright turned to his own desk to meet the advancing president of the board.

"Can we have a word with you, before school takes up?" said the deacon, drawing down the corners of his mouth and looking particularly pious and exceedingly virtuous, as he thought.

"Wait a few minutes," replied Mr. Bright, crowding past the man in the effort to reach his desk.

"But we prefer to speak to you now," urged the president. "The matter is very pressing."

"I will attend to it presently," answered Mr. Bright, and then, ignoring the dignitary who addressed him, he turned to the school and said:

"Before we begin the regular work of the afternoon, 'Dodd' Weaver has a word to say."

A deep silence fell upon the school at these words. The pupils all seemed to feel that they stood in the presence of a great strife. One naturally holds his breath under such circumstances.

Then "Dodd" stood up in his place, and the latent manhood, that had long lain dormant within him, asserted itself. In a clear though somewhat subdued voice, he said:

"I want to apologize for what I did this morning, and I pledge you my word of honor that hereafter, so long as I am a member of this school, I will behave myself."

His voice trembled somewhat towards the close, but he went bravely through to the end, and then sat down.

Then Mr. Bright bowed his head, and said:

"Our Father in heaven, whose weak and erring children we all are, bless the boy whose confession we have just heard, and help him to keep his word of honor like a man. And help us all, in all our strifes with evil and with wrong, that we may come out of them better, and stronger, and purer, even as our Master was made perfect through suffering, Amen." That was all!

Perhaps there were dry eyes in the room just then. If so, they did not appear,

After a pause of an instant, Mr. Bright said:

"You may go on with your work," and the pupils turned to their books again.

In five minutes more the hum of the busy school room was as if nothing uncommon had happened, and classes were reciting as usual.

The deacon and his fellow-members sat upon the platform till recess, listening to recitations, and then left; the president remarking to the teacher as they went out, that they "thought the school was doing very well!"

"Dodd" and Mr. Bright walked home together after school was out.

"Where do you suppose I hid?" asked "Dodd," as they walked along.

"I have no idea," returned Mr. Bright.

"I ran down cellar, and, crawled part way up the airshaft back of the furnace," said "Dodd." And that was the last that was ever said about the affair by either teacher or pupil.



CHAPTER XVII.

For a few months after the event just narrated "Dodd" went to school to Mr. Bright, and during the whole time he deported himself as a good and faithful student should. But with the next meeting of the Conference, Parson Weaver was shifted again, and with him went the hero of this story. (I think "Dodd" may justly be called a hero after so bravely doing what he did in the presence of the school and the board of education, as just told.) Mr. Bright also left Emburg the following year, and so he and "Dodd" drifted apart, as people are all the time doing in this wide, wide world.

The parson had now been so long in the service that he was promoted to a city pastorate, at this turn of the ecclesiastical wheel of fortune, and so it fell out that "Dodd" went to the city to live. A more unfortunate thing could hardly have happened to him.

Yet his lot was such as is common to most boys who go from country to city life. They drift into the town where everything is new, strange and rare to them, just at that age when they are the most curious, the most on fire with new-born and wholly untamed passions, and the least able to resist temptation. The glitter and tinsel of city life have thus a charm for them which falls powerless upon young men who have been familiar with such sights from their youth up, and the ignis fatuus of gilded pleasures lures them into the quagmires of sin before they are aware, where hosts of them sink down to death in the quicksands of a fast life. "Dodd" was not an uncommon boy. When he went to the city, he did as hosts have done before him, and as hosts will continue to do. I suppose God knows why!

Yet the young man did not go all at once into by and forbidden paths. Few folks do. Neither do they come out of such ways by one great leap. There are those who preach a different doctrine.

Either "Dodd" or his father made a fatal mistake, too, on going to town. Neither of them arranged to have the boy get to work, as soon as he entered his new life. The elder thought his son was getting large enough to look out for himself, and "Dodd" waited awhile to look around. So, between the two, the cup of salvation that the boy should have quaffed, fell, and was broken.

"Dodd" drifted about the town for many days, seeing what he could see. His memory of Mr. Bright was still fresh and nourishing, and it often held him from wrong, where his natural inclination would have carried him clear over the line that separates evil from good. An iron, well heated, will hold its heat long after it is taken out of the fire. It grows cold, though, after a while.

So the boy began to circle about in the outer edge of the whirlpool that sucks in its victims so relentlessly and remorselessly, always, in the city.

I wish I did not have to tell the tale of still another descent into Avernus, of this boy of the checkered career. But I have started out to paint the picture exactly as it is, and I dip my brush in black again with a sigh. You have to do the same thing in telling, even to yourself, the story of yourself, don't you, my reader whose blood has iron in it, and whose pulses beat fast? I am not writing of a sluggish-veined person, nor for people of that complexion, good people though they are.

"Dodd" had never been to the theatre. He was curious to go, and now that he came within reach of this class of amusements he was all anxiety to gratify his desire in this direction. He said nothing to his father or his mother about this, however. Indeed, it would have availed little if he had; that is, as these amusements were always looked upon by the parson and his good wife. They would have contented themselves by anathematizing the play-house and forbidding "Dodd" attendance at such places; probably ending up their dissertation by declaring to the boy that it was his "natural heart, which is enmity against God," that led him to desire such sinful diversions.

So, one night "Dodd" went alone to the theatre.

Truth to tell, and to his credit be it said, he chose a reputable place for his maiden visit. The play was "London Assurance." It was well done, and the boy, who really possessed much innate dramatic genius, enjoyed the performance greatly. He felt ill at ease, however, while in the place, and went very quietly to bed when he reached home. Indeed, as he lay awake for an hour or two after retiring, unable to sleep because of the vivid visions of the play that his highly wrought imagination and memory represented to his mental eyes, he resolved that he would never again go to see a play, but would stop with a single taste of the pleasure. Having made this resolve, be went to sleep content. How easy it is to make good resolutions, and to be content and satisfied in them when out of the reach of temptation.

But the next day, as he went about the city, he saw "Othello" billed for that evening. He was restless in an instant. He talked the matter over with himself something as follows, considering whether or not he should go and see the "Moor of Venice:"

"'Dodd,' you are a fellow who cannot rest contented until you have seen what there is to see in the line of plays upon the stage. There are two kinds of dramas—tragedy and comedy. You saw comedy last night. Go and see tragedy tonight and that will cover the whole field. You will then have seen it all and will be satisfied."

So that night, Tuesday evening, he went to see the tragedy. Don't ask about his resolve of the night before; just ask how you yourself have done scores of times, under similar circumstances, when you have sworn off, but when the trial came, have concluded not to count that time!

"Dodd" enjoyed "Othello" as much as he did "London Assurance." But that night he pledged himself again not to pursue the pleasure further, as he had now seen it all. The next day, however, he found "Uncle Tom's Cabin" billed. Now even "ministers went to see this play," the bills said. "Dodd" saw "Topsy," "Eva," "Marks," and "Uncle Tom" that night!

Thursday he found "Ten Nights in a Bar-Room" billed. He knew the story, and was anxious to see the characters in it upon the stage. He saw them.

Friday, his friend John Oller, from Emburg, was in town, and "Dodd" confessed to him that he had been four times to the theatre. John said:

"Well, 'Dodd,' I never went, and I want to go. Come and go with me to-night." The boys followed "Marble Heart" through to the end that evening.

Saturday they went down town together, and "Zoe, the Octoroon Girl," was on for matinee. They took it in. Saturday night was set for "Hamlet," and that melancholy Dane died in their presence before the city clock rang in the Sabbath morning.

Here is the story for you, good people. Seven times to the theatre in one week, for a boy who had been to such a place but seven times in all his life. It is the way of human nature. I suppose that when Adam and Eve really got to eating the forbidden apples, they ate, and ate, and ate. At least, this quality has been transmitted to their descendants.

Now, the bad thing about this affair, was not that "Dodd" had been to the play-house seven times, but that he had been there clandestinely. When a person begins to sneak about anything, he is on the down grade to perdition, and the brakes are all off.

The result of this excess of "Dodd's" was a still further dissipation. It is usually that way. The theatre soon had a fascination for him that he could not withstand. He went whenever he could get money enough to buy a ticket. After awhile he began to frequent places of amusement of a low grade. The "variety" performance attracted him, and he became an habitual attendant at such places. Here he formed acquaintances and made friendships that were not to his advantage, to say the best thing that can be said of them; and with these companions he drifted down the descent he had started on so unthinkingly. Here, also, he learned to drink, a vice which he had heretofore escaped.

So he kept on, down, and down. He needed money for the gratification of his desires, and to procure it he began to venture a little now and then on some gaming device. He was cautious and shrewd, and his early "investments" were fortunate. He won small sums at various times, and was elated with his success. He loitered much about the "bucket shop," and now and then took a "deal" as some friend gave him a "pointer." He was fortunate here, also, and even though so young, his vivid imagination began to picture the fortune he should some day make in this way. He suddenly dropped his country ways, dressed flashily, and took on, with marvelous aptitude, the customs and manners of metropolitan life.

And still he kept his own counsel. The great gulf fixed between himself and his parents grew wider and wider. It was through this gap that the devils entered in and took possession of his soul.

The Book has it that wicked men wax worse and worse. It was so with "Dodd." His love of liquor grew upon him with wonderful rapidity. He began drinking to excess, his eyes became bloodshot, his hand became unsteady, and his step halted.

But the better part of the young man rebelled at this retrogression. He passed many an agonizing night alone, pledging himself to stop; hoping, longing for his true life of a few months before, and cursing his present condition. The "Other Fellow" was faithful to him, too, calling loudly to him to turn about, to go the other way, to "be converted."

But as is usual in such cases, after a night of such agony he would take one drink in the morning, just to steady his nerves down, and one being taken, the rest followed in course through the day, as they had done the day before, and the day before that. He was drunk a good share of the time.

It happened one night as he was going home, or rather as he was trying to go home, being in a very mellow condition, that is, he "stackered whiles"—that he was accosted by a polite and pleasant voiced, young gentleman, who took his arm kindly and walked with him several blocks. As they walked he told "Dodd" that he was on his way to attend a revival meeting, and asked him to go along. Just then "Dodd" "took a bicker," and in the lurch, he knocked a book out from under the arm of his companion. It was a Bagster Bible!

But the two went on together to the meeting. They went well to the front of the congregation, the guide steadying the wavering steps of the man he was leading. "Dodd" sat down, and after a brief rest began to come to himself, and to realize where he was. He hung his head for shame, and wept as the service progressed. He was weak, unnerved, a wreck. He looked at his shattered self, and groaned in spirit over the ruin that he saw. He longed to break away from the terrible bondage that held him in its thrall. He cried out in spirit, in an agony, for help in this time of his great need.

The sermon came on. The minister seemed to "Dodd" to be talking straight at him. (Indeed, the gentleman had observed his entrance to the church, and frequently had him in mind as he made this point or that, in his remarks.) Under the enthusiastic eloquence of this man "Dodd's" anguish increased till he was almost in a frenzy. It was when he had reached this point that the speaker uttered the following words:

"Young man, whoever you are, no matter how cursed with sin or polluted with iniquity you may be, put your trust in Jesus and all your sins will be blotted out. Are you a drunkard, with an appetite for drink that is gnawing your life away? Throw yourself into the arms of Jesus, and he will take away your appetite for strong drink and give you strength to overcome all the temptations of your former life. Let the light of Jesus once shine into your soul, and neither cloud nor storm shall ever enter there again. All will be brightness and purity. Old things will have passed away, and all things will become new. I offer you this salvation to-night, O, weary, sin-sick soul. Take it, I beseech of you. Let the Sun of Righteousness break in upon you at this hour, and never will you be in darkness again."

The man glowed under his theme, and his audience warmed with his impulsive appeal. "Dodd's" soul grew hopeful. All these things promised were the very things he was longing for. He had pledged himself time and again to stop wrong doing, and had broken his word in every case. He hated himself for this, and he stretched out his hands for salvation from his miserable estate. Here, help was offered.

Why should he not take it?

And then the great congregation arose with a sound as of a rushing, mighty wind, and all sang together, with an effect that must be seen to be realized, "Just as I am, without one plea," etc.

You know what followed, do you not, ladies and gentlemen? "Dodd" Weaver "indulged a hope" before he left the church.



CHAPTER XVIII.

If it were not for clouds and storms what a sunshiny world this would be, to be sure! But there are clouds and storms everywhere that I know anything about. There are legends of lands of perpetual sunshine, I know. I have visited such climates. I have found clouds and storms there also. The natives have told me that such were exceptional. Doubtless they were, but the clouds shut out the sunshine there, just the same as they do elsewhere, and I took a terrible cold once, one that came near being the death of me, from going off without an umbrella, in a country where I was positively assured it never rained—at least, not at that season of the year.

So the result of all this is that I have learned to distrust the tales of eternal fair weather in any spot on all this green earth, no matter how strongly they may be backed up by the affidavits of good, well-meaning, and otherwise truthful men and women.

It is so easy to state an opinion that is not based upon a sufficient number of facts to warrant its assertion.

What has happened to me in the matter of sunshine and storm, in this weather-beaten world, happened to "Dodd" Weaver in his religious experience.

He started out boldly in his new life. He hoped and trusted that he had entered into a physical, mental, and spiritual condition in which all that he had been he might not be; all that he should be he might become; all that he ought to hate he would hate; all that he ought to love he would cherish. He longed to believe and he tried to believe, that he had entered into that land of perpetual sunshine which had been promised him by the minister and his friend. He hoped, and really expected, to dwell there henceforth, beyond the reach of clouds, and storms, and tornadoes.

But everybody knows that there were no good grounds for his expecting such continuous, perpetual, and unbroken fair weather in his formerly storm-swept sky. The question strikes one, then, why should he have been promised this, and why led to hope for and expect it? See what came of this too generous inducement held out to an anxious soul.

For some days, while "Dodd's" newly developed fervor ran high, he lived in the blessed light. For this light is blessed, and it shines with a divine warmth into the souls that are open to receive it. The fact remains, however, that clouds and storms—but I need not trace the figure further; you all know about it. So, almost before the young man was aware, he was under a cloud. It happened on this wise:

For many weeks he had been drinking freely and both smoking and chewing tobacco to excess. The first thing he did, after his hopeful conversion, was to quit all these stimulants at once. His intense religious zeal held him up for a few days, but at the end of that time his strongly formed appetites assorted themselves. He could scarcely sleep, so hungry was he for a chew, or a smoke, or a drink! These were the weaknesses that had driven him to seek for help through the consolations of religion. He had been promised this help, and in no equivocal terms either. He had been told, even from the pulpit, that if he would put his trust in the Lord all these temptations would depart from him. He had done this as well as he knew how to. He had at least made an honest effort in that direction. His lips were parched for liquor, and his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth with a longing for a quid of fine-cut.

And so the clouds overspread "Dodd's" sky—clouds of doubt and distrust, out of whose lurid depths leap lightnings that blast like death!

He doubted, first of all, the honesty of the men who had promised him more than he found himself the possessor of. We always begin by doubting some fellow-mortal. As the process progresses, it leads us, ultimately, to doubt God.

But these men had meant to be honest—there is no doubt about that. They had told the young sinner of that which they believed would help him. They knew, of course, that he would have trouble with his old habits, after a while. Perhaps they hoped that he would get over them somehow. Perhaps they did not think very much about it. In either case, they said nothing. The patient was suffering. They gave him medicine that would afford him the quickest relief, without regard to the permanency of the apparent cure. What an amount of such doctoring has been done through the ages. Stand up in your graves, you armies of dead men that have thus been dealt with, and nod a "yes" with your grinning skulls!

The clouds grew thicker. "Dodd" went to his newly formed friends and told them frankly of his condition. The minister advised him to be much alone and in prayer. The young man told him that there was no need of his suffering from such appetites, because, he himself—the young man aforesaid—could keep from such evil practices easily enough, and if he could, "Dodd" could.

Certainly!

"Dodd" acted on the advice of the minister, and went home and shut himself up alone in his room to pray. He tried, but the words seemed to go no higher than his head. Did you ever think that when the Master received his severest temptation it was when he was alone? Let a man who is tempted beware of trying to win a victory shut up in a room by himself. The devil has him in a hand to hand fight, in such case, and thereby increases several fold the probability of winning the battle.

"Dodd" tried to pray. He strove alone, as in an agony. He besought the power that he had been told to invoke, to take from him the horrible thirst that was gnawing within him. He wept, he pleaded, he begged.

The gnawing kept on.

There was once one who prayed "If it be possible, let this cup pass from me." It did not pass.

Then, indeed, the clouds did grow dark. "Dodd's" doubts left the earth, and reached even to heaven. He not only doubted the men who had led him to the promised relief; he doubted even the power of religious experience to save a tempted man, and the reality of religion itself.

From this point it is but a step to the supreme doubt of all!

If only the boy had expected a storm, he might have weathered it. If, in this hour of his trial, some faithful soul could have lived with him, day and night, and never left him for an hour, till the storm was over, he might have come through. Neither of these things happened, however.

He struggled on for several days. He gave up finally. He came home one night drunk, almost to the verge of insanity. There had been a cyclone in the land of promised eternal sunshine. "Dodd" Weaver's bark lay upon its beam ends, and the jagged rocks of infidelity pierced its battered frame.

You have seen such wrecks by the score, have you not, good friends?



CHAPTER XIX.

And now the victim of these adventures was in a worse case than ever. Up to this time neither religion nor its lack had played any particular part in his being. He had been a bad boy, truly, but in his former low estate he had thought little of anything that pertained to another world, or to the future in this. Now he disbelieved all things—man, immortality, heaven, God.

It is a condition which few fail to experience, in a greater or less degree.

I wonder if it is necessary that I pause here, just an instant, and interlard a remark regarding the scene through which I have just traced "Dodd" Weaver. I do so, in any event.

In what has been said, I would not have it understood that I rail at, or deride, or impeach the honesty of the men who tried to help "Dodd" out of the sad condition into which he had fallen. Neither would I underrate the value of religion, in such experiences, nor impugn its power to save sinking souls from death. But I cannot help reiterating the fact that multitudes of young men have drifted on to the rocks of infidelity as "Dodd" did, because they have been promised too much by religious enthusiasts.

There is such an experience as genuine religion, and it is the most blessed estate that a soul can aspire to. There is a place for prayer in the divine economy of God's providence. But neither religion nor prayer can help a soul that is sick unto death with the malady of doubt. "Dodd" was thus circumstanced. It was the zealous overstatements, the ultra promises, the unwarranted inducements held out to him, which, unrealized, threw him into this condition.

And then doubt is such a breeder of its own kind! As a single bacterium will, in a few hours, under favorable conditions, develop millions like unto itself, and poison a man's blood to the last drop, even so doubt grows in the soul, when once its germs are planted there, and its noxious growth blights all one's being, bringing death hurriedly, if its course is not stayed.

"Dodd" Weaver was in a state of mind highly favorable to the development of unbelief. The false promises of his well-meaning friends sowed the seed of distrust within him, and the crop was not long in ripening.

The fact is, truth is so loyal to itself that it will not suffer distortion, even for the apparent purpose of doing God service. It can no more be swerved than God can!

If that point is clear, I go on with this narrative.

But "Dodd" had seen enough to understand that if he expected to live long he must stop short of absolute debauchery, and he rallied somewhat from the first awful overthrow that came when the clouds burst over his head. He drank more moderately, and was seldom drunk. He returned to his old haunts, however, and kept on in the main as he had before. The only difference was that he loitered in a way now where before he had rushed along at top speed.

He began, too, to look about for something to do. He was anxious for a job in a store or an office, where be could wear good clothes and not have to work hard at manual labor.

This is a common desire of country boys who go to town to live.

The trouble was, however, that he knew next to nothing of business of any kind. Was this the fault of his education, thus far? His school education, I mean. I ask the question.

He finally concluded to take a course in a school that advertised to fit a person to engage in any business whatever in three months, without regard to age, sex, or previous condition. He went to this school.

I have no quarrel with institutions that make a business of fitting young men and women to engage in commercial pursuits. I know of many excellent institutions of this kind. But I nevertheless submit the record of "Dodd" Weaver in his connection with this college, so called.

The man at the head of the institution was a brisk, nervous sort of person, a shrewd fellow, and given to much flourishing with a pen, which was to him much mightier than any sword. He could whirl off a scroll-winged eagle on a blank sheet of foolscap, in a twinkling—a royal bird, with a banner in his beak, on which was inscribed "Go to —— college," and which the king of birds was bearing towards the sun for advertising purposes. He could also add a column of figures with wonderful rapidity, and occasional accuracy! He was a believer in lightning methods and processes everywhere. His own education had been wrought out on that plan. He was seeking a fortune by the same route. He drew crowds of boys into his school. It was through them he made his money.

"Dodd" had much skill with a pen, as will be remembered by his sketching Mr. Bright's face on the board one afternoon. He took to the practice in writing with some alacrity, but for the rest of the work he soon did as the others did—studied little, and in lieu of a recitation listened to a long and disjointed talk by "the professor." He was held to no account for his work, and whether it was right or wrong made little difference. He found that his teacher would profess to know things of which he knew he was ignorant, and, in a word, that there was an air of shoddy, not to say dishonesty, about the whole institution.

This did not trouble him greatly, however. It was only in keeping with what he conceived he had finally discovered the whole world to be—a gigantic sham—and he mentally remarked to himself "I told you so," and drew an unusually large spread-eagle upon a fresh sheet of foolscap.

He stayed three months in the school and then graduated. His diploma was handed to him by a venerable gentleman who delighted in the appellation "president of the board," while an orchestra, composed of young ladies of the school, all of whom were learning to play the violin, by the "short method," discoursed most execrable music from an improvised platform that had been built in the church, for the occasion. Six other pupils came through with "Dodd," and their going out was used as an advertisement to lure still another half dozen to fill the places left vacant.

The young man came forth from this experience more the slave of doubt and distrust than ever.

But the worst feature of all was that this infidelity in "Dodd's" soul was poisoning his whole life. Honor was to him now only an empty name, but policy was a quality to be held in high esteem. Truth was to be used if convenient, but if a lie would serve a better purpose for the moment, it would be brought into service without hesitation or scruple. Fortune was his goddess, if he did deference to any unseen power; tricks and chicanery were to him helps to rapid and boundless wealth. "Let the sharpest win, and may the devil take the hindermost," these were the tenets in his creed, if he had a creed.

Armed with such ideas of life, "Dodd" Weaver set out to battle with the world. He had also his diploma!



CHAPTER XX.

In the course of a few weeks "Dodd" secured a clerkship that was much to his mind. It was, however, one greatly in advance of his ability to manage, with his present attainments. If he had believed that fidelity, honesty, and attention to business were the prime factors of success, he might have mastered the situation, perhaps. He did not so believe. On the contrary, he held that the more he could shirk and get out of, and still draw his salary, the sharper he was. He acted in accordance with his belief. People usually do!

But business is business. "Dodd" found his employer an exact man—one who required service by the card. This the young man could not, or rather would not render. He blundered in his work on more than one occasion, and resorted to tricks to bolster up his carelessness or inefficiency. The result was that after a few weeks' service he was discharged. He was chagrined, mortified, angry. But he "cheeked it through," as the young men of his class would say. It is bad business, this "cheeking."

He loafed about once more, as formerly. He took a "deal" on the curbstone occasionally, or now and then ventured a few pieces of silver upon the black or red. He was back in the old notch.

For more than two years "Dodd" led this reckless, wasteful existence. He was of age now, and his father had felt it his duty to tell him that he must shift for himself. Mrs. Weaver mildly protested, but the Weaver family was large, and though the Elder commanded a fair salary, it cost money to live, and every mouth to be fed counted one.

So "Dodd" took a room down town, and then if the devil went to sleep, sure of his victim, you do not wonder, do you?

Yet the great majority of young men in large cities room down town.

Details of degradation are always revolting. I will not trouble you with what happened during these years of exile of this young man. His story is like that of thousands in like case. His evil habits grew upon him, and held him tighter and tighter in their thrall. Still, he dressed well, went much into fashionable society, and saw much of life. He was one of the boys, and he held his place among them by hook or by crook. He was never brought to face a court on criminal charges. He may never have been guilty of such acts. If not, is it not remarkable?

It was when "Dodd" was well down the steep he was descending that he chanced, one day, to meet his old teacher, Mr. Bright. More than three years had passed since they had seen each other, and each had changed with time. Mr. Bright had grown not a little gray, and his devotion to his profession had caused the marks of his craft to become deeply seamed in his face.

His former pupil we have followed, day after day, and we know well enough what he looked like.

The two passed a hearty greeting, "Dodd's" disbelief in mankind leaving him for the moment, consumed by the positive integrity of the man whose hand he held. Each took a searching look at the other, with mental reservations in each case, as thus:

"Dodd": "Gray—hard worker—not up to snuff—square as a brick."

Mr. Bright: "Flashy clothes—shambling gait—a look in the eye that is not direct."

These are the things they thought. They spoke of other matters.

Mutual inquiry led to the disclosure of the whereabouts of each, and what each was doing though in this last item "Dodd" drew largely upon his imagination, informing his teacher very indefinitely as to the calling in which he was engaged. Mr. Bright had moved to the city, having been called to take charge of an important educational institution located within its corporate limits. He had a home of his own, and said he should be glad to see "Dodd" there.

"Dodd" said he would call on Mr. Bright. He did so.

And now began one of the most perplexing series of circumstances that I have yet had occasion to record. "Dodd" came to see his teacher, who was really anxious to have a sober talk with him, and the two spent an hour together. When they separated, "Dodd" had five dollars of Mr. Bright's money in his pocket! He had "struck" his former preceptor for a loan. I do not say that he had deliberately stolen this money. Perhaps he meant to pay it back sometime; but he had long been used to borrowing, and the impulse was almost irresistible to borrow whenever he came where he could. Sometimes he returned these loans; oftener he did not. His sense of right and wrong in such matters was not very keen at this time.

And so he began to sponge off Mr. Bright. He came to visit him frequently, and often left with a dollar or two extra after the interview.

At first Mr. Bright did not fully realize the depth of degradation which "Dodd" had reached. He made these small loans as he would have given money to a son of his own, had he had one. He talked with the young man, and once or twice hinted that he feared all was not as it should be. But "Dodd" evaded an issue, and so the days went by.

But one evening these two people met, and the truth stood revealed. "Dodd" was drunk.

Mr. Bright knew a good deal about human nature, but he had had no experience with the peculiar vice of drunkenness. His heart went out towards "Dodd," and, taking the boy's arm in his own, he led him to his house. He would care for the prodigal with his own hand, and restore him if possible.

So he gave him the best chamber, and bathed his head, and watched with him till far into the night. The next morning they talked it all over. "Dodd" was penitent, even to the extent of tears and bitter weeping. He pledged Mr. Bright that this should be the last time; that he would reform now. He confessed that for years he had been a miserable sinner in the matter of drink, but declared that now he would break off. In a word, he did the usual thing on such occasions.

Mr. Bright heard his pledges with a swelling heart and a thankful soul. He fondly hoped that he might save the young man yet. You may have had like hopes under similar circumstances, my gentle reader.

The scene ended with "Dodd's" leaving Mr. Bright's house in the afternoon of the following day, accompanied by any amount of good advice and even prayers for his future good behavior. He took with him also a ten dollar note which he had borrowed from his benefactor, just to get a start with.



CHAPTER XXI.

The wise Mr. George has remarked that "by no possibility can one really use up his living in advance." "That is," he explains, "it is as impossible to anticipate the products of one's labor, and live them up before they are earned as it is to eat to-day the egg that is to be laid to-morrow."

I do not dispute the egg part of this proposition, but I must protest that if it is impossible for a man to anticipate the products of his own labor, and to live them up in advance, it is quite possible for him to anticipate the products of what some one else has already earned, and to live them up most effectually. The only impossibility in the premise is for this some one else ever to get his own again.

This statement should pass for an axiom, since it needs no proof. You have had dollars of your own that have been appropriated thus, have you not?

And of all habits that tend to demoralize a man, this one of dead-beat borrowing is the worst. It will sap the last germ of manhood out of a soul sooner than anything else I know of. It is one of the meanest vices in society, and one of the most prevalent among a certain class of young men.

I will not say that every person who asks to borrow money from a friend without offering security is a dead-beat. Such a statement might be somewhat wide of the mark. I only assert that I have always found it so!

It was not without misgivings that Mr. Bright advanced "Dodd" the ten dollars spoken of in the last chapter. But alas, poor man, he was yet blind to the fact that whoever thus assists a person in the condition in which "Dodd" now was does that person more harm than good.

There is any amount of light nonsense current on this point. See how the method worked in this case.

"Dodd" really meant to do better when he left Mr. Bright's. People in this condition always do mean to do better. He had made pledges to his friend and he hoped to keep them. It takes more than hoping to succeed in such eases, however.

I would by no means intimate that when a drunkard signs the pledge he is always lying and does not mean to keep it. On the contrary, I think the great bulk of those who thus write their names with a trembling hand, do, at the time of writing, really mean to keep all that they promise. But as a rule they change their minds when the trial comes, and "Don't count this time!"

This statement is a sad one, but it is terribly true. There is a reason for it.

And the chief reason is that these "unfortunates," as they are called, get into the habit of being carried when they should walk on their own feet. Your drunkard is always expecting sympathy, and help, and upholding. He leans down on you; he lies down on you. He pleads misfortune, disease, or something, and makes himself out a poor, weak victim of circumstances. He asks for help, and of a kind that most suits himself. He should not get such.

Help he should have, but of a kind that will make him help himself. Because, when such a person is merely helped by another he becomes helpless himself, and the last state of that man is worse than the first.

It was so with "Dodd" Weaver. The kind offices of Mr. Bright had really wrought him harm. He had thus been able to get money for some weeks, and as he lived only for the moment now, this "accommodation" kept him in his low mode of life.

It is the study of a lifetime how to deal justly with people in his condition. If you doubt my word, try it. You will be convinced.

"Dodd" did intend to do better after leaving Mr. Bright's. But he went right down town and took a drink to brace up on. This also is common.

It was two days after this that the young man came once more to appeal to his benefactor. He was in trouble again, and according to the law I have just noted he came for relief to the source from which help had before come. There is no record of how long a man can thus abuse the kindness of a friend. Sometimes death alone ends the scene.

But Mr. Bright was not a man to be trifled with when once he had taken in the situation. He heard "Dodd's" story with disgust. The young man had been drunk again, and in a brawl had struck an antagonist with brass knuckles. For this offense he said the police were in search of him, and would probably find him. He asked Mr. Bright to let him have money to pay his fine, and so keep him out of jail. He could not bear that disgrace, he declared.

But Mr. Bright was unmoved. He sat looking at "Dodd" for a moment in silence, and then said:

"Not one cent, young man!"

"But I shall have to go to jail," faltered "Dodd," in a broken voice.

"You may go there, and stay there, for all of me," exclaimed Mr. Bright, in a burst of righteous indignation, as all the past years rose up before him and the memory of them floated before his vision. "I have given you the last cent that I ever shall. You deserve to go to jail, and it is probably the best thing that can happen that you should."

"But my mother!" pleaded "Dodd."

"It is a fine time for you to plead your mother now, isn't it?" replied Mr. Bright. "How much you have considered her and her feelings in the last few years," he continued. "When you have been drunk on the streets; when you have abused the hospitality of a gentleman; when you have lied to me and obtained money from me under false pretenses, then was the time for you to plead for sparing your mother. You did nothing toward that then. I will not help you now."

Mr. Bright spoke firmly, and in a straight-forward tone. "Dodd" shrank under his words as though they were lashes on a bare back. But once more he pleaded:

"I don't know who will help me if you don't, and some one must help me, for I can't suffer this disgrace."

"Well, no one shall help you if I can prevent it," replied Mr. Bright. "What you need, young man, is to help yourself. If you haven't virtue enough left to do this, you might as well go to jail, or into your grave—it doesn't make much difference which. You are of no manner of use in this world as you are now. You are worse than useless, you are a dead load to your friends, your acquaintances, and society."

Mr. Bright laid on tremendously, now that he had begun, and "Dodd" writhed under his strokes. The last flagellation left them both out of breath, and there was silence in the room for some minutes. It was Mr. Bright who spoke first:

"'Dodd,' my boy," he said, "I need not tell you how it pains me thus to talk to you, you for whom I have striven so hard, and from whom I had hoped for so much. You are naturally bright, but you are fickle by nature, and, so far, you have lacked the manhood to correct this fault. You are the only one who can ever do this. So one else can do it for you. If ever you stand up like a man, it must be on your own feet. I tried to teach you this long ago. I think I failed. At least is seems so now. You did stand for a while though, my boy, and I would to God you could do so again."

"Dodd" sat in his chair shedding bitter tears; he began feebly:

"Help me this once," he begged, "and before God, I promise you I will never give you cause to be ashamed of me again."

"Keep your pledges to yourself," returned Mr. Bright. "I want none of them. They are of no value whatever. You have come to a time now when you must do something more than pledge, though there was a time when your word was good, and I would have taken it, unquestioned, on any occasion. But that time is past. It may come again, but the chances are against it."

"You are making me out a monster," interlarded "Dodd," with an attempt at injured innocence in his voice.

"And that is just what you are," said Mr. Bright. "You have grown out of all semblance to the true type of a man. You are wicked, deceitful, weak, vacillating, and untruthful. So long as you retain these qualities there is no hope for you. Perhaps a punishment of a term in jail may serve to bring you to a sense of your condition. If it will, it is the best thing that can happen to you. Anyhow, I am willing to see it tried."

"So you will not give me money to pay my fine?" groaned "Dodd."

"Not one cent," again answered Mr. Bright, as he showed the young man to the door.



CHAPTER XXII.

As they walked through the hall, however, "Dodd" dragging himself along reluctantly, a kindlier mood took possession of the school teacher. He paused, and, turning to the young man, said:

"See here. I have a plan that has just come to me, and I will give you the benefit of it. I am convinced that you will never be any better than you are now if you continue to live in this city. Your companions are here, and so are your old haunts and associations. I will do this for you. I will go to your room with you and help you get together whatever clothing you have. Then I will go with you to the depot, and will buy you a ticket to the farthest point from here that ten dollars will take you to. I don't want to know where that place is. I don't want ever to see you or hear from you again, unless you are a different man. I want to give you one more chance to stand on your own feet. That is all I have to say. You may take it or leave it, as you will."

"Dodd" hesitated a minute, and then said:

"I'll take it."

"Very well," replied Mr. Bright, putting on his coat and hat; "I am ready, and will go with you now."

"I might say good-bye to your family," said "Dodd"; "they have been so kind to me."

"I prefer that you should not," replied Mr. Bright. "I have no desire to have you know them further. You have forfeited all claim to their respect, or regard, or courtesy even, and if you never redeem yourself, I do not care to have them see you again!"

It was a terrible thrust. It was like a sword in the bones to the recipient of the cutting words. "Dodd" reeled under them as though smitten with a veritable blade of steel.

But they were doing good work for this abnormal young man. These cuts, made by the sword of truth, when wielded by the hands of Mr. Bright, laid open to "Dodd" Weaver the secret recesses of his own soul, and he saw there such foulness as he had never before suspected. Not one word had his former teacher said to him which was not true. His final refusal to permit him to say adieu to his family, "Dodd" felt was just and strictly in accordance with his deserts. This hurled him down to where he belonged, and made him realize what a wretch, what an outcast, he was.

Don't you suppose, good people, that it would be a great deal better, all around, if we each one got what we really deserve just when we deserve it? But we don't; and so we flatter ourselves that because the desert does not come to-day it will not come to-morrow, not next day, and we hope it will never come. And so we keep on in our wrong ways. The book has it: "Because sentence against a wicked work is not executed speedily, therefore the hearts of men are fully set in them to do evil." This was written a long time ago, but it is as true to-day as it ever was. I think that even the most confirmed skeptic would admit the truth of the passage.

So Mr. Bright went with "Dodd" to his lodgings, helped him pack, and got him to the depot. They escaped the police. This was not a hard thing to do. It seldom is, if one has really been doing wrong.

"Here is ten dollars," said Mr. Bright to the ticket agent. "I want you to give me a ticket to a point the farthest away from the city possible for that money."

"What line?" inquired the somewhat surprised official.

"I don't know, and I don't want to know," returned Mr. Bright. "I want a ticket such as I have described, and I want you to tell me which train to take to reach the destination, though I don't want to know what the destination is."

The agent looked puzzled for a minute, but as the bill was a good one, and other passengers were waiting, he picked out a ticket, stamped it, and thrust it out under the glass, with the remark:

"Take the train that leaves from the other side of the middle platform."

Mr. Bright folded the ticket without looking at it, and taking "Dodd's" arm, started for the train, which was already waiting. As they went along, "Dodd" said:

"Let me see where I am going to, please!"

"Not now," returned his guide, and they boarded the train.

The conductor came in presently, and to him Mr. Bright spoke in a subdued tone.

"Here is a ticket for this young man," he said. "I want you to take it, and see to it that he reaches the destination that this piece of paper calls for. Don't ask me what that is. Don't let me know. But take the ticket, and do as I ask."

The official looked wise for a minute, then took the ticket and passed on.

"Dodd" and Mr. Bright sat in the same seat in the car till the train was ready to go. Not much was said; for the time of words was not then. But just as the bell rang for leaving, the elder man took the hand of the younger, and clasped it almost passionately. The eyes of the two met. "Dodd" remembered the day when they walked to school together, hand in hand.

"My boy," whispered Mr. Bright, "if ever the time comes when you can stand on your own feet, let me hear from you and know of your success; but if you continue in the old way, let the world be as a grave to you, so far as I am concerned; and never let me hear from you again. But," he added, as he turned away, "I faintly trust the larger hope." And without another word he left the car. He went directly home. It was many a year before he referred again to that day.

There was a hissing of pent-up air as the engineer tried the brakes before moving out his train, then a slow motion of starting, then away and away.

"Dodd" Weaver sank back in his seat, and pulled his cap over his eyes. He did not cast one lingering look behind. Indeed, what had he to care for, in all that great city?

"I faintly trust the larger hope," repeated "Dodd" to himself, as the train rushed along. He remembered the day when they had read the lines in the reading class of Mr. Bright's school.



CHAPTER XXIII.

On a Christmas morning, ten years after the scenes recounted in the last chapter, Mr. Bright was surprised to receive a letter addressed in "Dodd's" well known characters. He broke the seal without comment, wondering what story of destiny he held in his hand. A thrill of joy suffused him as, on unfolding the sheets of the bulky manuscript, a bill of exchange fell upon the table. It was the most favorable sign he could have desired. It augured all that followed.

[Remark (as reads the foot-note in Scott's bible): The first sign of regeneration in a man who has been a dead-beat is the payment of his honest debts.]

Mr. Bright opened the letter and read as follows:

New York City, December 22, 188—

Mr. Charles Bright.

Dear Sir:—Enclosed I hand you exchange, payable to your order, to the amount of $237.45, the sum due you for money advanced to me years ago, with legal interest on the same. Respectfully, D. W. Weaver.

This was the first page of the epistle, brief, business-like, and to the point. But having thus entered a voucher for his manhood, and, as it were, won the right to speak further, on the second page there was a continuation as follows:

Beloved Teacher:

What precedes will tell you where I am. You told me the last time I saw you, that if ever I redeemed myself, you would be glad to hear from me. I believe you, and hence I write.

I can never commit to paper all that I have to say to you; words spoken face to face can only tell what is in my heart; but neither the written nor the spoken word can convey to you a tithe of the gratitude I feel for all that you have done for me.

As I look back I can hardly understand how you ever bore with me as you did, with me who abused you to such unbounded lengths. Nevertheless, the more I fail to understand this, the more thankful I am to you.

I am sure you will care to know something of my career in the past ten years, and I briefly relate the principal items of interest.

And first, let me say, I have entirely quit the use of liquor. From the day when you left me in the car, limp as a whipped dog, to this very hour, I have not tasted intoxicating drink. I mention this first, because a breaking away from that habit was the first step toward a better life. Had I not stopped there, short off, I know that all hope of further reformation would have been vain. A drunkard has nothing, absolutely nothing, on which to build a new life, so long as he continues to be a slave to drink.

But with the abandonment of this vice, I began to change my other habits, and by degrees I have gained a mastery over them. It has been a long, hard fight, and I am well aware that there are battles yet to be waged; but I have reached the point where I have ceased to be afraid of myself—of my baser nature. As Cardinal Wolsey says to Cromwell: "I know myself now." You remember we used to read the lines out of the old reader when I went to school to you at Emburg.

I cannot tell you how much I thank God for the help that has come to me. But I am forced to say that you are entitled to almost equal thanks. And, indeed, as I review the past, I know that without you, even the God of heaven could not have received the gratitude I now give Him. For you were the means by which I was lead to a point where I could receive His aid. It is you, therefore, my benefactor and my noble friend, whom I have first to thank. I say this in simple justice to you, who bore with me so long and patiently, and who remained faithful to me when it seemed to me you were terribly unjust and cruel.

But to my history:

When you left me on the train, I cared next to nothing as to what became of me. I don't believe I should have lifted a finger to save my life had the train been wrecked. I would not deliberately take my own life, but if it could have been taken from me I should have given it up without a regret. I cared not for man, and as for God, I neither feared such a being nor believed in his existence.

But your words stung me like burning lances. They were true, every one of them, and the "Other Fellow"—indeed, I have not forgotten him, nor has he forgotten me, and for this I have to thank you, also,—took them up and kept saying them over to me, as I rolled along to my destination, which as yet I did not know. I tried to be rid of them, but it was useless. The truth had been told me for once in my life, and I saw myself as I really was. It was not an inviting sight, but it is one I should have been forced to see, long before.

I reached the end of my journey, a place which, as you would not know its name then, it is perhaps well that you should never know. I had no money, and I was hungry. Ordinarily, I should have struck some one for a loan, but your words rang in my ears, and I would not do it. I applied for a job of work that I knew I could do. I got it, and did it as well as I knew how to. I hide my face even now, for very shame, as I confess that it was the first time, for years, that I had done as well as I knew how to do. I got my pay, and ate an honestly earned, though frugal supper, that evening. I think you will understand me when I tell you that I went to bed happier that night than I had before for a long time. The "Other Fellow" said, "It is all right, Old Boy! Stand by!" I did "stand by," and I have been standing by ever since.

And first, as I learn you are still teaching, I want to ask you never to give up your boys, nor your way of managing them. You can never know how much you did for me in the Emburg school. Those old days come back to me almost every hour, and their essence is a part of my being. I know that you must have thought, ten thousand times, that all your work was lost, and counted for nothing. You had every reason in the world for thinking so, and doubtless did think so. But I want to beg of you now, in the name of the new life that has eventually come to me through the medium of those old school days, not to be discouraged. I tell you, my dear teacher, that not one of such words and deeds will fail, at last, of reaching the purpose for which it was primarily intended. So please be patient with the boys, and keep on as you were, years ago, and do not be discouraged because it is long till the harvest. It will ripen in due time. The reapers shall come also, bearing their sheaves, and it is at your feet that they will lay them down.

But I wish especially to thank you for your wisdom and faithfulness in our last interview. On that occasion you struck the key note to the whole situation when you virtually kicked me out of your house, and told me that if I ever got up I must climb for myself. That was a new doctrine for me then, but I understand it thoroughly now. It is sound doctrine too, though it takes long to see it so.

You were wise, too, to watch me till I got out of town on that September afternoon. If you had given me ten dollars at your home and told me to buy a ticket, I doubt if I should have done it, even if I had promised to, and meant to do so when I promised. The chances are I should have spent the money for drink, and then have gone to jail. That is the way of a man such as I was then. An habitual drunkard is not to be trusted, not even by himself.

I shudder as I write these things, and I only reveal them to you, hoping that they may, perchance, be the means of your helping some one else. I never refer to these scenes to others; in fact, no one here knows of these painful pages in my history.

You will care to know what I am doing. I have a studio here on Broadway, and am painting portraits. The old gift, that you were the first to discover in me, when you said a kind word for my burlesque sketch of you on the board, at Emburg (how often I do get back to that old school-room), at last proved my salvation. Gradually I found that I had talent in this direction, and I am making the most of it. Carefully and honestly I took up the work, and with perseverance I have attained my present success. I have studied with the best artists here, and my work is well received. At the latest exhibition at the Academy I was the winner of the first prize, and this fact has already brought me more business than I can well attend to. I am delighted with my work, but shall never rest satisfied till a picture of yourself hangs in my room where it can watch me as I pursue my daily task. Because, it is you who inspired me even to try to be a man and to do something in the world. The credit is yours.

My father and mother are still in Illinois. I have communicated with them several times recently. The children are grown, and several of them have left home. I hope to see the family all together on the day you receive this letter. I may also see you before I return to New York.

I cannot close this letter without telling you further of the change that has come to me in my religious and spiritual life. You know how blasphemously unbelieving I was ten years ago. I thought then that I had full cause for being so, but I was wrong there, as in all else. I wandered far and long, but as I began to do what I believe was God's will, I began to know the doctrine, as the book says we shall. I am happy now in a religious life which I once believed it impossible for any one to experience. These are the main features in my life.

So now I wish you adieu, and pray the good Father in heaven to bless you all the days of your life. Your calling is the most noble in all the world, and I do you but justice when I say that you are wholly worthy of your profession. Remember me to your family, which I trust I may now have your permission to mingle with again (ah! that day); and believe me, ever sincerely yours, "Dodd."

Mr. Bright read the letter through to the end, then fell on his knees and in silence rejoiced and gave thanks.

You may talk about rewards, good people, but will you measure out in dollars about the worth of feelings that filled the heart of Mr. Charles Bright on this occasion? It is only in the coin of the everlasting kingdom that such a result can be told.

The next day the bank passed $237.45 to the credit of the schoolmaster. The check was good!

There was a joyous dinner at Elder Weaver's house that same Christmas day, the family being united again, the prodigal returned, and bringing with him a wife newly wedded.

Leave them at dinner. Only God and the members of the household should look upon such a scene.

"Dodd" and his wife also spent a day with Mr. Bright, on their way to their home in the metropolis.

It was a joyous occasion, all hearts overflowing with such pleasure as there is among the angels, over one sinner that repenteth.



CHAPTER XXIV.

In a snug home in a suburb of New York City dwells "Dodd" Weaver with his faithful and devoted wife. They have one child, a boy, named Charles Bright. Their home is happy and full of the sunlight of love. "Dodd" is devoted to his profession, and serves it faithfully. He has a marked talent in his calling, and is succeeding well. He may never become famous, but what is fame? He is earning an honest and excellent living, and that is much for one with his start in life.

He looks over the path he has come with thankfulness as well as with horror. He hopes, too, that when his own son shall come to go by the highway of life, he may be able to take him by the hand and lead him along the dangerous places that he found along the road, or, at least, to point out the pitfalls for the child, and so save him from the evil that so sorely, beset himself.

But every day, the thing that now looms up through the life of this now busy man is the personal character and influence of his old teacher, Mr. Bright. This never leaves him nor forsakes him. It is like an anchor to his soul. It saved him from total wreck in his voyage of life. It held him from ruin when the waves and billows swept over him. Why should he not revere such a source of help; such an everlasting tower of strength?

But his memory of the machine brings no such consolation or help. Why should it? Answer, if you can, you who have faith in the mill itself, or whose business it is to make it grind.

As "Dodd" touches his brush to a bit of ruddy color on the pallet at his side and tinges the cheeks of a beautiful face that smiles from the easel before him, I draw the curtain that shuts him out of your sight and mine, beloved, and that closes him into the sacred radiance of his own happy home. Let us leave him there within the veil, within the veil.



ADDENDA

[For School Teachers Only.]

As I vexed no one with a preface at the beginning of this story, I allow myself the privilege of a few reflections at its close.

If the Evolution of "Dodd" has seemed slow, or if it has appeared, sometimes, as if the life, whose growth I have traced, began on a very low plane and progressed almost imperceptibly, let it be remembered that this is the ordinary course of nature. It is the way of the world. From the primordial germ to the soul of a man is a long, long distance; and often and often, in the upward march of life, the path seems to turn upon itself and go backward. It is even so in the life of every one who eventually reaches the goal. The way to final victory is marked by a succession of advances, battles, and retreats. This also is ordained.

The physical body of man, from the time of its inception till the close of its career, passes through all the varied stages of animal life—the germ, the cell, and the changes that these are subject to in animal existence—that is, being the highest form of material life, man bears, in his own body, marks of all previous conditions. Even so, in his spiritual body, each individual exemplifies "The total world since life began," and every soul must span the space from the first man, Adam, to the quickened spirit of a son of God. People whose business it is to develop human souls should remember that.

Again: How to help weak and tempted humanity so as to build it up, to make it strong and able to resist temptation, is a problem that has never yet been fully solved. Whether it is better to hold up an awful example before the gaze of the suffering ones, and to relate to them the certainty of a like conclusion to their own career if a like course of life is persisted in; whether it is better to point out the success that some tempted and tortured men have reached, by devious ways that led through flame and darkness, and from which the victims have escaped only as by fire, like brands plucked from the burning,—which of these ways is the better, heaven only knows and has never revealed.

It is well enough, though, to remember that the Master was tempted in all points, like as we are, and that it is said of the saints in glory that they came to their reward through great tribulation.

There can be no greater tribulation than for one to be born with a nature that is intrinsically false, fickle, passionate, impulsive—in a word, such a nature as "Dodd" naturally possessed—a nature far away from the line of truth and right; a nature such as multitudes of boys are born with in this wide, wide world of ours. To guide safely into the port of rest souls thus weighted down with depravity is a task for gods and men to compass—if they can. The chances of wreck are many fold to one; but now and then the harbor is made, thank God!

It has seemed best to me to tell the tale of one such voyage of life. There is no denying that the journey was a perilous one, such a one as would probably wreck ninety-nine out of one hundred crafts attempting it; yet, for all of that, there is joy over the one that comes through.

I am aware that "Dodd" Weaver has had more chances than any one person ought ever reasonably to expect. But Providence is sometimes bountiful in opportunities, even to prodigality. "Dodd" doubtless had more chances than he ought to have had, in the strict line of justice; but we must all plead guilty to the same charge, in a greater or less degree. It is likely, however, that no more opportunities have come to any of us than were necessary to bring us safely to our journey's close. "There is a divinity that shapes our ends."

I am glad "Dodd" Weaver had as many chances as he had. I am glad he didn't need any more of the same sort, for they might not have been forthcoming. There is such a thing as being too late.

My hope for you, beloved, is that you, too, may have chances, and that you may take them while you can. I would that you might reach the goal of success in life by a shorter route than "Dodd" had to take; but if not, then may you come by the way he trod. The road is not unused, you will not be alone in your travels.

One last word regarding the public school, for whose sake all this has been set down:

In the evolution of character, in these last days, this institution has come to be a most important factor. To it has been assigned a task equal to, if not exceeding that of any other agency that has to deal with human nature. It is more important than can be set forth that it do its work well. It is not so doing now, however, to nearly the extent of which it is capable. Too much it has become a mere machine, a mill for grinding out graduates. As such it is unworthy its high estate. As such it now exists, in multitudes of cases. As such it should no longer be tolerated. From such a condition it must be redeemed.

The system has largely lost sight of the grandest thing in all the world, namely, the individual soul. It addresses itself to humanity collectively, as a herd. In this it makes a fatal mistake, one that must be corrected, and that speedily.

And for you, teachers, you who have the destinies of these schools in your hands, keep your eyes and ears open, and your souls alive to the possibilities of your profession. Let no machine nor method crush out your own individuality, and suffer no power to induce, or to force you to make a business of turning a crank that runs a mill whose office it is to grind humanity to one common form, each individual like every other, interchangeable like the parts of a government musket!

Understand, first, last, and all the time, that characters cannot be manufactured like pins, by the million, and all alike; neither can salvation be handled in job lots. It is also true that wholesaling education can never be made a success.

Because, personal character is all there is in this world that amounts to anything in the final resolution of things. It is not money, nor governments, nor machines, that are of value in the last analysis. It is character! It is individuality! It is men!

To secure these things this old world turns over once in twenty-four hours, and swings around the sun in yearly revolution. For these, tides ebb and flow, the land brings forth, and the clouds float in the sky. To these all forces are but servants. For these Christ died.

And like begets like, in the public schools as elsewhere. It is character in the teacher that begets character in the pupil. The machine makes after its own kind also, and both it and its products can be measured with a line.

The soul cannot be measured with a line.

So the ultimatum is personality, individuality, and character, in every teacher and pupil in the public schools, and freedom of each to develop in his own way, and not after a pattern made and prepared by a pattern maker.

If the public school live long, its friends must take these items into account and act on them. It is its only salvation.



THE END.