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.