Walters could not well refuse Thomas any favour. Not only was he obliged to respect this humble Christian for his consistent walk, but he owed him a large debt of gratitude; for when he and his family all lay ill at one time of an epidemic fever, the Burtons, when no one else would go near the house, waited on them day and night. He was a little mortified that the good watchman had been witness of his violent behaviour on the day before,—he feared some expostulation on the part of his worthy neighbour; but Thomas wisely forbore to say anything at present in the boy's behalf, thinking he could serve him better by silent observation, and not interfering until a suitable time.

Very pleasantly did this Sabbath-day pass with William. How he enjoyed the service in the plain church where the Burtons worshipped! It reminded him of home days, and in the softened mood of his heart every word uttered by the preacher told. The beautiful words of the text, which the Saviour spoke to his disciples, "Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in me;" and its following words, in which the Comforter is promised,—came like healing balm upon his wounded spirit, and he bowed his soul in humble gratitude to the great Head of the Church, who, in suffering him once more to enjoy the privileges of the sanctuary, had also satisfied him with spiritual food.

The evening passed pleasantly away, although the conversation, turning on the events of the preceding day, brought a blush to William's pale cheeks and tears to his eyes. The old watchman, although rude and uneducated, was yet a true Christian, and as such, admonished the desolate child with all the tenderness of a father. When our hero told him how he had been tempted to run away on the day the shoes fell into the gutter, and how harshly he had been treated, not only on that occasion, but always; and how hard it was for him to observe the rule of duty, which he well knew, when Jem Taylor, the only one who ever showed him any kindness, was always advising him to pursue a course to which the human heart is naturally inclined, but which his conscience told him was wrong.

"That is all very true," said Thomas; "but you must remember that all set out on a race for one stopping-place, to which there are two roads. You have read in your Bible about the wide and the strait gate. 'Enter in,' it says, 'at the strait gate; for wide is the gate and broad is the way that leadeth unto destruction, and many there be that go in thereat. Because strait is the gate and narrow is the way that leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.' Now, my boy, God has taken away your earthly joys, and made the way narrow to you; hedged your path with thorns, and caused you to weep bitter tears every day. We know, too, that no affliction for the present is joyous, but grievous: and as our light afflictions, which, in comparison with eternity, endure but for a moment, work out for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; so God has filled your way with trials, difficulties, and thorns, that, taught so early in life to deny self and fight against sin, you, as you progress, will find the narrow path grow easy and pleasant, and find at the end everlasting life. Now, the temptations of Jem Taylor are easily resisted, if you will read your Bible prayerfully. 'Thy word is a light unto my feet and a lamp unto my path.' 'Through thy commandments I get understanding,' says David; 'therefore I hate every evil way.' And if, when tempted, you strive mightily, and call for help on Him who hath promised to aid in the hour of trial, he will bear you through the whole conflict safely, and at last give you a crown of life."

William drank in the old man's words, and could have listened longer, but it was growing late. The good watchman must be at his post; and even while speaking he was putting on his overcoat, and, taking up his lantern, was soon prepared to traverse his nightly round.

Having promised he would return William safely, he proposed that they should leave together; but not before Mrs. Burton had wrapped up half a dozen nice rolls, which she gave him; and William, looking up in the old man's face, said, "You will not forsake me?"

"No, boy, no, that I won't," was his reply; "but try to do all that conscience tells you is your duty, and then you will have a better Friend, worth more than a whole host of mortal men."



CHAPTER VIII.

GLEAMS OF SUNSHINE.

The night passed by, and although William had not slept during its early hours, he rose as soon as it was light, and after offering an earnest prayer that Heaven would shield him from temptation that day, he wrote a letter to his friend George. We will not detail what the epistle contained, but merely mention that, after stating many circumstances that had occurred, it ended by telling what a kind friend had been raised up for him in the old watchman. He did not conceal the fact of his being very unhappy; but while he told of his comfortless home, he also declared his resolution to try to be contented with his present lot and like his trade. Thomas Burton had told him that his heavenly Father had allotted to every one his proper place, and to murmur would be sinful. He concluded by saying that he would be diligent and faithful, trying in all things to please his master, until his term of apprenticeship should have expired. "Then, dear George, I will go back to M——. I never shall want to stay in a big city; for although there are many fine things here, finer than I ever saw in our little village, there is more wickedness, and it is harder to be good where there is so much bad example."

At this moment his mistress called him to come and make the fire, and hastily directing and sealing his letter, he thrust it into his pocket and proceeded to do her bidding.

Notwithstanding considerable languor hung about his bodily frame, and his bones and muscles still ached from the effects of the boating, he felt a more peaceful frame of mind than he had known for weeks before. The knowledge of having done wrong is always the first step toward amendment. He not only felt that he had been guilty of more sins than lying, but, viewing those minor faults in a different light than formerly, he determined to watch over his heart carefully, and avoid giving any cause of complaint in future. "Watch that you may pray, and pray that you may be safe," were words that floated in his mind all the morning as he sat hammering shoe soles; and he would not laugh at any joke of Jem Taylor's against his master, although for some time past he had enjoyed hearing him ridiculed.

Late in the afternoon Mrs. Walters came in, and, giving him a pair of leather boots, told him to take them to Mrs. Bradley, the wife of a market gardener who lived outside the city. It was fully three hours after his scanty dinner had been eaten, and supper would be over ere he returned. Growing boys are always hungry, and he was about to venture to ask Mrs. Walters for a lunch to serve in place of the evening meal, when he remembered the rolls given him by Mrs. Burton, and which were still in his trunk. He hid the little packet in his bosom, intending to eat its contents on his way home; and after having put his letter in the post-office, he set off to accomplish his errand.

One might have thought the walk, and the variety always met with in the streets of a large city, would have exhilarated him; but, whether owing to the condition of his bodily health, this was not now the case. He passed the picture-shops without noticing the treasures in the windows; the silver-ware and fanciful ornaments of the jewellers' establishments served only to remind him of the vanities of earth, and his own poverty; and as he looked upon the gaily-dressed crowd that was thronging Broadway, among which there was not one whose face was known to him, that painful sense of desolation which comes over one when he feels alone in a crowd, saddened him almost to tears. He recalled the happy days of his early childhood, and even those when, after his father's death, he had been compelled to labour to assist his mother. Ah, how light it all seemed in comparison with the hardship of his present lot! Notwithstanding the comfort he had enjoyed on the previous day, and his renewed determination to do his duty and trust in God, his heart grew sick at the prospect of the long years of wretchedness and bondage yet to be endured before his apprenticeship should end; and he wished to die. "I am the most unhappy being on the face of the earth," he said, as he wiped away the tears with his ragged sleeve; "but still I will try to do right. Ah, if Nicholas Herman knew how unhappy I am, I am sure he would try to get me away!" He had by this time reached the city limits, and the gardener's cottage, with its high enclosing palisades and espaliers hanging with tempting fruit, was visible. The hedge which bordered on the roadside was green, and its verdure attractive to one accustomed to country life. Bounding over the ditch which separated it from the common path, he was about to continue his walk along its margin, when his step was arrested by a sound of distress. He looked round and saw a little boy, barefoot and thinly clad, sitting on the ground and weeping bitterly. A little basket, half filled with chips, told what his occupation had been, while his pale face and meagre form were such as to awaken pity in the heart of the most careless. William was not so absorbed in his own distress that he had no sympathy to bestow on another. He stooped over the boy, and, as he kindly took him by the hand, a tear, which his own circumstances had called forth, fell upon the boy's cheek, and caused him to look up in surprise.

"What are you crying for?" asked William; "are you afraid, or has any one hurt you?"

The little fellow only answered by questioning: "You are crying yourself;" said he; "are you as hungry as I am?"

"Are you really crying for hunger! that is dreadful!" rejoined William. "I know what it is not to have enough to eat, but still I never have been so starved as to cry about it."

"Neither grandmother nor I have had anything to eat since morning, and I am very hungry."

"But what are you doing here?" inquired our hero.

"Just gathering some sticks, to make a fire for grandmother, who is sick, and cannot spin now," answered the boy, still weeping.

"Have you no parents to take care of you?" again asked William. "What is your name, and where do you live?"

The boy answered that his name was Ned Graham, and named a street at no great distance from the place where they were, and which was well known to William. He said that his parents were both dead; that while his father, who was a carpenter, lived, they had been very comfortable; but that now, as his grandmother was very old, and himself too young to do anything to help to make a livelihood, they were often hungry. "Grandmother spun and knit until she became sick, and the neighbours still sent us in something; but they are poor themselves, grandmother says; and this morning, when old Annie Michael, who supports herself and children by washing, sent us some of her breakfast, grandmother said she could not bear to take it."

William had no rejoinder to make, for self-reproach was busy at his heart. But a little while ago he had thought himself "the most unhappy being on the face of the earth," and now he could not help feeling that the condition of poor little Ned was far more wretched than his own. His food, indeed, was coarse and scanty enough; but then he had his regular meals, while this poor child and his infirm grandmother were obliged to subsist on the charity of the poor, which could not be very regularly or liberally administered.

"I am surely very ungrateful to my heavenly Father," said he, half aloud. "Hereafter, when I am disposed to complain of my food, I will think of this poor boy. But stop; I had forgotten the rolls Mrs. Burton gave me. I am not very hungry now;" and taking the packet from his bosom pocket, he gave it to the little starveling.

"I am not to have them all?" said Ned, as he broke one off, and began to eat it. "Do you not want some yourself?"

"No," replied William; "I will get some supper when I go home; so carry half of them to your grandmother, for you are both hungry, and have no supper to expect."

And now, although hungry himself, with what pleasure did he give his rolls to one whose want was far greater than his own! He felt, in this denying of self, how great was the luxury of doing good; for mercy—

"Droppeth as the gentle dew from heaven. Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes."

Having finished his errand to the market-gardener's wife, and received a new order for some children's shoes, he took little Ned by the hand, and, having left him at his home, and looked in on the sick grandmother, he went back to his master's house, which now wore a more comfortable aspect than it had ever done before. So true is it that God accords to none unmitigated misery; and there are few, if any, who, like our hero, are tempted to believe themselves the most wretched beings in the world, who need anything but to look around among their fellow-men, to find that they are not the only or the greatest sufferers. Neither should any allow themselves to think that poverty and misfortune form the chief misery of man. None but the guilty are completely wretched; and trials are but necessary discipline to bring the soul from earth to heaven. "Before I was afflicted I went astray; but now I keep thy law," are the words of David; and how many can be found ready to acknowledge that "it is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth: for the. Lord will not cast off for ever; but though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion, according to the multitude of his mercies."

And so from this time, although the treatment he received at his cheerless home was no better, the change which had come over his spirit since his late humiliation, had urged him to fly to the throne of grace for protection against the weakness of his own heart, and also made the hardships he endured seem less. He grew more mature by the severe discipline which, sanctified by the Spirit of grace, was purifying his soul; and he pursued the homely trade which at first he so disliked, and tried to conquer self by hurrying past the picture-shops, which were so great a source of attraction at first, and now regarded them as forbidden fruit. Not that they were less attractive, but his own heart told him, and so did his friend, Thomas Burton, that God appoints to every one such a sphere of action as is suited to his nature; and although to one has been committed but one talent, while another has five, and another ten, the principle on which each is improved is the same. The great work each one has to do is within his own breast, and he that would gain the crown promised at the end of life's course must run the race in the spirit and temper of the gospel, which are humility and meekness.

In consequence of this subdued spirit and a greater readiness to obey, his harsh guardians relaxed so far as to yield to the persuasions of the good watchman, and suffered him to go on Sunday afternoons to church and Sabbath school, as well as sometimes to spend the evening with himself.

And this, dear reader, proved like a fountain of sweet water in the wilderness; and, as an oasis in the desert, furnished rest and refreshing, which strengthened him to bear up against the hardships and trials of the week. And as, in hearing the Scriptures expounded and learning their soul-comforting lessons, the word, as the Psalmist says, became "hidden in his heart," it proved more precious to him than the "gold of Ophir." It taught him to guard against the deceitfulness of his own heart; to discern temptation, however speciously veiled; pointed out the way to escape when sorely beset; and showed him where, when "weary and heavy laden," to seek for rest. Duty was made plain; and, taught to understand his own errors, he also understood by what means to guard against them. He now walked according to the scriptural rule, and found his reward in the peace promised unto those "whose mind is stayed on God, and trust him."



CHAPTER IX.

SUNSHINE AND SHADOW.

Mrs. Bradley, the wife of the market gardener, was a kind-hearted woman, and William having often been sent to her house with shoes, an acquaintanceship grew up between them, which, our hero found, turned out most unexpectedly to his advantage.

As she stood or sat in her place at the corner, surrounded by her fresh vegetables, for which she had always plenty of customers, she often found herself in want of some one whom she could trust to carry a bunch of asparagus or a basket of spinach to some purchaser's house. From what she had seen of William, she was assured he would do an errand faithfully; and although he could not come regularly, she often waited for his appearing rather than trust another. For these little services she always paid him liberally, and had he been less conscientious than he was, he might have turned this kindness to considerable advantage; but his conscience told him he must not neglect his master's business.

He mentioned this to the good woman, who, seeing its propriety, was careful only to give him such commissions as he could fulfil without wasting the time belonging to his employer; her good opinion being only increased by his scrupulous fear of doing wrong.

Very happy indeed he was to have some money of his own. Mr. Walters, being somewhat ashamed of his conduct as exhibited before Jem Taylor and the watchman, had never since asked him what he got from the customers; but Mrs. Walters often borrowed our hero's change, as she said,—but which loans were never repaid. William, however, true to his resolution of adhering to the truth, never denied having money when she asked him; but, we must confess, he gave it with a pang, for he wanted his scanty means for a more important purpose, namely, to feed the hungry. The rule of life to which he was now adhering forbade him to do evil that good might follow, and knowing that if he received the money it would not be long in his possession, he would only take a portion of these earnings, and begged Mrs. Bradley to give the rest to little Ned Graham, whom he would send to her house.

She inquired who Ned Graham was, and having heard, declared that "nobody should starve in her neighbourhood; she would not only give the little boy the pennies, but see after the old woman."

It was only when sent on some errand to the neighbourhood he could look in on old Mrs. Graham and her grandson; but when he did, his heart was filled with such joy as made him forget that he had ever suffered or been sad. The "cup of cold water," given in the spirit of Him who went about doing good, insures its own reward; he had extended the sympathy and kindness due by the bond of human brotherhood to those more destitute than himself, and he found himself blessed. The cold looks and cheerless meal that awaited him on his return home, had now no power to dim the cheerful light of his soul; and when he lay down on his hard pallet, and slept as only childhood can sleep, dreams, born of the holy duty which had that day been performed, hovered around his pillow, shedding an influence not less bright than had been his waking joy.

Although, the prevailing temper of his mind was peace, its rule was by no means steady; many a cloud alternated with his sunshine, many a trial awoke the natural spirit, and many a temptation enticed him to sin. But in his Bible, now never neglected, he found not only a buckler that made him proof against every besetment, but experienced that each promise there will be found a staff to lean upon, able to bear our whole weight of sin, of sorrow, and of trial. By the glorious example of sinless purity, yet of lowly meekness and complete submission to a Father's will, as exhibited by our blessed Saviour, he learned to practise the "charity" which "suffereth long," and "beareth all things;" so that even Mrs. Walters was obliged to acknowledge that really "Bill was not a bad kind of a boy."

None are, however, free from sin, and the boy had many struggles against the natural inclination to do evil; he was also often sorely tempted; but sufficient grace was given by Him who hath promised that none shall be tempted above what he is able to bear, to make a way of escape.

The summer of the second year had passed away, and the advance of autumn had somewhat shortened the days, not, however, yet so much so as to make it necessary to light up the shop. Jem Taylor always went away at the close of working hours, and as William was the only one who boarded with the Walters, he was constantly left alone.

One evening Mr. and Mrs. Walters went out together to a place of public amusement, and having great confidence in "Bill," although they treated him most unkindly, they left him in charge of the house.

Taking a seat in the unlighted shop, the lad looked through the open door on the passers-by, and his heart grew sad at the thought, that among them all there was no one who cared for him. Naturally of a gentle and loving spirit, he longed for suitable companionship on which he might lavish his wealth; but, except the Burtons, with whom he could spend but little time, there was no one from whose influence gleams of sunshine could steal in upon his heart and cheer its desolation. "I have always heard it said," was his musing thought, "that if one were kind and affectionate, he would be sure to receive love in return. I do all I can to please Mr. and Mrs. Walters, but I am certain I shall never be able to win their love, and I am so lonesome."

By this time the twilight had deepened almost into night, rendering objects nearly indistinct. The passing crowd had gradually grown less, but our hero neither noticed the increasing gloom nor the comparative quiet of the street, until aroused by the sound of music. Some German street musicians still abroad were playing the sweet and touching air, "Why, O why, my heart, this sadness?" and the sounds awoke a different train of meditation. How often had he heard that strain at home, and now, how vividly the happy scenes of the once happy times enjoyed there came up before him! The poverty, privation, toil, and sorrow borne there, lost half their magnitude; every joy was reflected back ten-fold. He felt as does some sailor on a stormy sea, and looked back to its shelter from the jealousies, trials, and turmoils of the world, as the storm-tossed mariner would have regarded the quiet haven he had left for ever; the recollection of all that had once been his within those humble walls was too much for his lately acquired heroism; the long-sealed fountain was opened, and he wept as he had not done for many months.

It was not until the music died faintly down the long street that he recovered his calmness. The tears, however, had proved salutary; and when he wiped them away he felt but the more resolute in his determination to do right, let the sacrifice cost what it might, than ever. "I will be contented," was his mental resolve, "I will endeavour to grow up good and useful, trying to fulfil worthily the duties required by my heavenly Father. I have murmured much; a good, faithful servant does his master's will cheerfully, but I have not done so."

Something rubbing against his feet disturbed his train of thought. What could it be? He looked down to discover, and in the dim and uncertain light saw a small object moving about on the floor. Again it came near: first a gentle mewing, then a low purring sound was heard; and next, something, which he knew at once was a kitten, jumped up into his lap, and, as if glad to have found a resting-place, nestled down to take a comfortable nap.

This movement, however, was not at once permitted; for gently removing the little intruder, he lighted the gas in order to see what kind of feline specimen had thus come voluntarily to seek his acquaintance. The little animal's appearance was greatly in its favour; there were many cats in the neighbourhood, some of them frightened-looking and half-starved creatures, but this was a beautiful little grey and white kitten, which had evidently been some one's favourite, for it was very tame, and had a blue ribbon tied round its neck. But what was he to do with it? Mrs. Walters, he knew, was a sworn enemy to cats and dogs, and, had opportunity been allowed, would have waged a war of extermination against both races. He dared not keep it, and yet how could he resolve to drive it out into the street, where it would be sure to be killed? "The poor thing has strayed from home," said he to himself; "I wish I knew what I ought to do; stay—if I keep and feed it with the milk I get every day for Mrs. Walters, that will be no better than stealing; and if I tell her it is here, she will drown it. I wonder if Mrs. Burton would like to have it; but, indeed, I would like to keep it myself, I am often so lonesome. But I will get Thomas to try and find out who it belongs to, and tell them—"

He could not finish the sentence, for he was still hesitating as to what was the line of duty. The little creature, however, pleaded its own cause. As he took it up and petted it, it nestled up close to his cheek, and mewed gently, as if uttering a petition for mercy. William could not resist the appeal. Right or wrong he must keep it; so he carried it up to his garret, and covered it up in his bed, after which he returned to the shop to resume his watch, and think how his kitten was to be cared for—and, far more important, how he was to coax Mrs. Walters into a cessation of hostilities against the feline tribe, at least so far as to tolerate the little wanderer.

His uncle and aunt arrived in due time,—the lady in high good humour, which our hero thought it a pity to disturb by mentioning the presence of an unwelcome guest. He would tell her in the morning; but when the morning came, she was in such an angry mood that, as he was well aware, no benevolence was to be expected from her then. However, the kitten must be fed, and to do this he was prepared. He found an old bowl, which had been put in the garret with some cracked crockery. This he took along when sent on his daily errand for milk for the family, and, having a penny or two in his pocket, he told Mrs. Burton about his kitten, and asked if she would not sell him some every day. Pleased with the conscientiousness which prompted the boy to buy food for his favourite rather than take a crumb from his employers without their permission, she told him he might keep his pennies, for she would give him a little milk every day for his cat. "But, Billy dear," she added, "you had better tell Mrs. Walters all about it. Do everything open and above-board. Don't be ashamed or afraid of anything but sin. She must find it out at last, and will be more angry with you for hiding the matter. Always come straight out with the truth; you will find it the right way in the end."

The old watchman promised to try to find the owner of the kitten, at the same time advising our hero either to tell Mrs. Walters the truth, or bring the little animal to his house, as his wife, he said, "had quite a fancy for four-footed pets."

William, however, could not at once decide to part with his new acquaintance, since he felt certain that in either case parting must be the consequence. His indecision, however, was attended with a more speedy result than he anticipated, and not less painful than sudden. He had kept the kitten a few days, but in those few days he had learned to love the little thing dearly. Its graceful gambols amused him; and whatever might have been the kind of home from which it had strayed, it certainly showed itself as happy in the boy's rude garret-room as it could have been anywhere. As every day increased his attachment for the playful creature, so every day made the duty of telling Mrs. Walters of its presence or giving it to Mrs. Burton the harder. He had at length nearly resolved to do the latter, when an incident occurred which showed him how necessary it was always to be prompt in the discharge of duty.

One day Mrs. Walters had occasion to search for something in an old chest which stood in William's room; and the poor kitten, never dreaming what an enemy was near, crept forth from its hiding-place in the bed, and began fearlessly to gambol around one who had no kindly sympathies to awaken. As she looked round to see if she could discover from whence the intruder came, she espied, in a corner, the old bowl still half full of milk, and a few crumbs of bread beside it, and was at once assured that William had brought the cat from some place—thus outraging her authority and braving her prejudices.

There was but one course for a nature like hers to pursue. She saw no beauty in the graceful limbs, neither had she any respect for the mysterious principle of life—that gift which none but the great Creator can bestow, and cared not how recklessly she destroyed it. Burning with anger against our hero, she snatched up the unconscious kitten and descended to the shop, where, finding no one but Taylor and the object of her present wrath, she poured out a volley of reproaches with a rapidity which excluded all possibility of being answered.

Both were too much startled to attempt to speak; indeed there was but little time allowed, for, even during the first ebullition of fury, she advanced to the open door and flung the unhappy kitten as far as she could into the street. This seemed to satisfy her, for she at once left the shop, and very soon after was seen going down the street.

William, by this sudden movement, was thrown completely off his guard, and anger, fierce and violent anger at such an outrage, took possession of his soul. Well was it for him that time was not allowed him to speak, for he would have uttered words afterwards greatly to be regretted. A few moments, however, were sufficient to quell the tempest. "Doest thou well to be angry?" were the words that arose first to his mind; and with them came also thoughts of One who taught, "Resist not evil," nor render railing for railing. But why should such cruelty have been shown to the poor kitten? and the thought that perhaps he had done wrong in keeping it without Mrs. Walters' permission gave him great pain. If so, he was content to bear any outpouring of her wrath without endeavouring to excuse himself; but still, he was determined to tell her how he had procured the milk for his kitten, lest she should think him a thief.

As he sat bending over his work, one tear after another fell upon the leather he was hammering, and his evident distress awoke the compassion of Jem Taylor, who, as we have already said, was not hard-hearted, and was always ready to pity the poor boy, who suffered daily under the iron rule of those who cared not for the happiness or misery which were in their keeping. We cannot follow the journeyman very far through life, but let us hope that the mercy which is extended unto all reached unto him, and taught him how evil were his ways. The time, however, was not now. The law of God had not been impressed on his heart in childhood; he looked upon lying as a venial offence, and had never learned that "no one who worketh abomination or maketh a lie shall dwell in the city of which God is the glory and the light." Happy was it for our poor hero that the good seed had been sown early and prayerfully by his humble but pious parents; but for this he must have fallen before the tempter.

Mr. Walters had gone out to purchase leather, and the time was favourable for the thoughtless journeyman to pour in the poison so well calculated to destroy the soul. "That's a terrible tempered woman, Bill," said he, "and if I was in your place I would run away. How she did pitch your poor cat into the street! If it had been mine, I tell you, I would teach her better in future: instead of sitting there and crying like a great baby, I would plan how I could help myself. Why could not you have told her you did not know anything about the cat? Cats run about everywhere; and where people are so hard as old Walters and his wife, a little lying is no harm. It is very silly in you always to tell the truth. The old man, indeed, does not ask you for your money now; but when she wants to borrow it, you never tell her you have none, although any one can see you do not like to give it. Now, quit being such a fool, and take care of number one. I can tell you of a variety of ways in which you can cheat her."

William sat opposite to the tempter, but did not once raise his eyes to meet those he felt were resting upon him. He trembled. It was almost beyond the power of childish resolution to resist the dark power that was ready to impose a bond which would have sealed his ruin; but he had learned too much of the true wisdom taught in the Bible to surrender willingly to the influence of evil. He felt the weakness of his own heart, but knew also from whence only help could come. He continued to work in silence at the shoe he was making, but at the same time he lifted up his heart in prayer: "Heavenly Father, suffer me not to be led into temptation," was the fervent petition which issued from the secret chamber of the inner shrine; and He who seeth in secret heard and answered.

Jem Taylor, mistaking his silence for assent, went on: "You have it harder than any 'prentice boy I ever saw. Not a chap in all New York would put up with such victuals as you get; and then to be rated and called a thief because you stole a drop of milk for the poor kitten, was too outrageous! Such people as these deserve nothing better than to have lies told them every hour in the day; and, besides, I would help myself to whatever I could find in the cupboard,—pay yourself, boy, for the money the old woman borrows."

"O my dear mother!" thought William, "when you so often told me of the temptations I should meet with in the world, I could hardly believe it; but now I know what it is to be tempted, and that if left to myself I must fall."

Finding he still did not answer, Jem, nowise discouraged, went on: "A day or two since, when the old woman went to market, she forgot the key of the cupboard and left it in the lock, and the door swung most invitingly open. There was a cut pie and a plate of cakes. I told you to go quickly and help yourself, for no one would see you, and I would not tell. It was but fair you should take the worth of your money; but you were too great a blockhead. You looked at the good things there, and came away empty-handed. Strange, you would steal milk for the cat, and scruple to take a cake (which, I am sure, you earn hardly enough) for yourself."

William now raised his eyes, and as he looked straight into the face of Jem Taylor, the latter could not bear the bright and radiant holy expression lent them by the influence of truth, with which his soul was filled. It was now his turn to look down and work in silence, while the boy was speaking.

"Jem," said he, "I did not steal the milk; I told Mrs. Burton about the kitten, and she gave it to me. And when you wanted me to take the cakes, you did say that no one would see me, and that you would not tell. I steal, Jem! No, I could not steal if I were starving; for although assured that no man saw me, where could I go to escape the searching eye of God? I saw the closet open, and the way clear, but I felt no wish to take what was not my own; I was hungry, and the pie tempting, but my conscience, like a strong man, held me back. No, Jem, my mother told me that our heavenly Father numbers every hair of our heads, and I will never run away, lie, nor steal; and no distress shall make me willingly wander from the right path; living or dying, I will try to keep all his commandments, and leave all my affairs to Him who cannot do wrong."

Oh, glorious and holy majesty of truth! who can resist its power? and now the journeyman, although ashamed to meet the glance of a child whose principles were based upon the law of Him who is the Truth, recognised its beauty and its force. He was addicted to low and base pursuits and pleasures, but the signature impressed originally on the heart of man, although half effaced, was not entirely obliterated, and he shrank back as from a superior power; for he felt as if a child had been commissioned to judge and condemn him.

A certain eloquent writer has said, "Every one is a missionary for good or evil, whether he designs it or not; he may be a blot, radiating a dark influence over the society to which he belongs; or he may be a blessing, spreading light and benediction over his own circle,—but a blank no one can be!" And the two we have been describing belonged to these classes; one was the leaven that sours or corrupts, the other the salt that silently operates; each was performing a mission for eternity. Which one, dear young reader, was to meet approval or endure judgment in that great day when all shall stand before the judgment-seat? How long the better emotion which had been created in the heart of Jem Taylor lasted, we cannot tell; he began to talk on other matters, and for a long time there was no more temptation from that quarter.

Mr. Walters came in soon afterward, and having heard of the affair, was ready to renew the strife with our poor hero; but as Thomas Burton, making a most opportune visit, bore testimony to the truth of our hero's story, no further punishment than the loss of the cat was deemed necessary.



CHAPTER X.

MAKING OTHERS HAPPY.

William had always been a delicate boy, although, while in the country, his health was good; but now the confined air of the shop, and the odour of the leather, and the stooping posture consequent on his trade, began to tell painfully upon him. He wondered what was the matter that he did not now ever feel bright and hopeful. He went about his work mechanically, was listless and silent. His features assumed a cast of anxiety unnatural in a child, and painful to notice. Still, no duty was neglected, nor did the Walters notice the change in his looks, since all allotted services were duly rendered. The young spirit was gradually yielding to the oppressive yoke, although patiently borne. But although cast down and perplexed, it was not in despair. The light commanded by "God to shine out of darkness" still illumined his heart and gave him comfort, and at the source ever open to the broken-hearted he could still appeal. Without the support of that "arm" which is never "shortened that it cannot save," he could not have borne up under the hardships of his present lot.

He was not sent quite so much into the street as at first; for he could now make shoes, and his work was valuable to his master. He did not often see little Ned Graham, as it was only on Saturday evenings that he carried home the week's work; but he always saw Mrs. Bradley at her place in the market, and through her sent the pennies he was able from time to time to gather.

One day Mr. Walters came in from the upper shop with a pair of shoes in his hand, which he told our hero to carry to Professor Stewart's, No. 200 —— street. He obeyed at once, for he was glad to breathe the open air; but the walk was not productive of the same pleasure as formerly. His mood was sad and his step feeble; although the air was only clear and bracing, it sent a chill through his weakened frame, turning what had once been his favourite recreation into positive pain. The variety met with in the streets had no power to attract his attention; the pictures in the windows had lost their charms; the flashing waters of the noble bay covered with vessels, from whose mast-heads floated the flags of many nations, failed to awaken his admiration; it requires lightness of heart to enjoy the beauty spread around us.

Thus, depressed in body and spirit, he wandered on, mechanically, noticing nothing until he had nearly reached No. 200. Some one called him. It was little Ned Graham, who, as usual, was getting pieces of boards and chips at a new building which was going up. Very thin indeed was his clothing, and far from healthy were his looks; but the natural buoyancy, which even the hard hand of poverty could not entirely crush, remained, and his whole countenance lighted up at the sight of his friend William.

"What now, Ned?" said the latter as a ray of cheerfulness shot over his sad heart, on seeing the happiness meeting with himself gave to the boy; "where are you going so far from home, bare-footed and half bare-legged, on such a cold day as this?"

"My feet are a little red," said Ned, looking down at his red-hued supporters; "but I don't mind it much, when I can get such heaps of wood for the carrying. There was a fire up our way not long ago, and I got ever so much. We have a great pile now, and grandmother can keep the fire going. I want to carry all I can before the snow comes, for I don't expect to have any shoes. But why have you stayed away so long? Mrs. Bradley gave us the pennies you sent, but grandmother said she 'wanted to see yourself to thank you.'"

"I have done nothing worth thanks, Ned," said William. "I only wish I could."

"Grandmother said you had been a good friend to us, although you are but a boy, and only a shoemaker's ''prentice,'" rejoined Ned; "for you did not only send us the pennies, but Mrs. Bradley too. She has been so good to us; and when we thank her, she says we ought rather to thank you. She gave me these trousers; and although they are too short, I do not care for that, or that the street boys call me 'duck legs.'"

"It is our heavenly Father whom you ought to thank, rather than either of us," added William, not noticing the last part of the speech; "but here is No. 200; stay; let me see. I do believe it is the very house in front of which I dropped the shoes; that is certainly the window where the old gentleman stood."

He rung the bell at the basement door as he spoke. A voice from within bade him enter. He did so, and found himself in a neat room, furnished with many books. A middle-aged gentleman sat at a table writing, but laid down his pen in order to see what the intruder wanted. William stated his errand.

"Ah, yes; shoes," said the gentleman; "I do not know anything about them; my wife is not at home, but you can come again to-morrow, and see what she says. You look tired; there is a shilling for you."

William took the money, but as he did so blushed deeply, and seemed about to return it.

"Why, what is the matter, boy?" asked the gentleman; "do not you think it enough?"

"O no, sir; indeed not that; indeed it is more than enough; but—"

"But what?" inquired the gentleman.

"I do not want to take it now, so I will send somebody—a little boy—for it to-morrow."

The gentleman, who now began to suspect that all was not right, looked very grave, as he repeated the words, "You will send for it to-morrow. Boy, tell me what this means. It is certainly very strange behaviour. Nay, you cannot go until you tell me."

William saw it was best to tell the truth, and he did so in as straightforward a way as possible; and stating at the close that as he believed he should be questioned whether or not he had received money, he preferred the gentleman should give it to a boy whom he would send, so that he might be able to say with truth he had not received any money.

"Your motive is a good one," said the gentleman; "but you must be very careful, lest, while you are serving your fellow-creatures, you offend God. Truth in all things, my boy; let the truth always be spoken, and leave the issue to One who is himself the Truth. No matter under how amiable a pretext any one violates the divine law; it is no less a violation of that pure and holy law; and although there are many who consider that only the falsely spoken word which passes over the lips is a lie, there are many other ways of outraging the truth. The acted lie, perhaps more common than the spoken, is not less hateful in the sight of Him who is of purer eyes than to behold sin without abhorrence; and all deception, however skilfully veiled from human perception, is falsehood in his sight."

"I am sorry, sir," said William; "but I did not know how else to do; I did not know that would be lying."

"It would be a shifting of the truth, an evasion," said Mr. Stewart. "If you hope to run your earthly career with safety or success, let truth be the foundation on which you build it. Falsehood must have an end, but truth will triumph. Then why distort, or seek to disguise it, since the Scriptures tell us that 'obeying the truth purifies the soul?' 'Who shall abide in God's holy hill? who shall dwell in his tabernacle? He that walketh uprightly, and worketh righteousness, and speaketh the truth in his heart.' Here is your money, to do with as you please: you can send the boy, however, to me; if he is as poor as you say, he must be looked after."

"He was at the door just now," said William, as he looked up and down the street; "but he must have gone home with his chips, as I do not see him."

"Very well," was the answer, "send him to-morrow."

A person entering now interrupted the conversation, and our hero departed on his way. As he turned the corner he found little Ned, who, not yet tired of gathering sticks, was adding to the weight of his basket by some spoils from a lumber-yard. He delivered the message from Professor Stewart, and having given him the shilling just received, he bade him buy bread for his grandmother, and once more set off at a round pace for home.

His steps were, however, not so rapid as to banish thought, and although he dreaded the reproach he would meet, when, if questioned, he should tell how he had disposed of the money, he never for a moment swerved from his determination to tell the whole truth, let the consequences be what they might. He was not, however, so much taken up with his own affairs that he had no sympathy for others. The figure of little Ned Graham, in his thin clothing, thankful for the slight warmth afforded by the worn linen trousers which left his meager limbs bare more than half way from the knee, came still between him and the dark shadows which his own trials cast upon his naturally bright and hoping spirit. "I am wrong to be so depressed," he said to himself; "we may see blessings in every lot, if we are willing to do so; and poor little Ned is as bright as a lark because he can get wood for the carrying, although he was shivering with cold, and his face looked pinched as if he were only half fed. Stay; let me see; I wonder if I cannot make some sort of shoes for him! There is a pile of old boots and shoes in the back shop, which Mr. Walters said were not worth mending, and he would have carted away. I will ask him about them, and if he has no use for the things, I will make a pair out of the best of them."

There is no better cure for our selfish sorrow than to plan or execute something to alleviate the sufferings of others, and now the impulsive and naturally energetic spirit of our little shoemaker experienced a sudden rebound at the prospect of what he could do, which beguiled him back to at least comparative happiness, and lightened for a time his bondage of depression.

Smile not, dear young reader, that the task was so easily accomplished. It costs but little to bestow happiness or comfort on another; but small as is the outlay, nothing brings better interest, as our poor hero experienced in the sunshine poured in so suddenly on his lately clouded spirit.

He returned to his home with a lighter heart and more buoyant step than had accompanied his going forth; and felt not only resolute, but fully armed to bear whatever reproach or violence he might meet, when he should be questioned about the money, and declare the truth. His fears on this occasion were without foundation. Mr. Walters was satisfied with his reasons for having left the shoes, and asked no further questions; and Mrs. Walters, not wanting "change," said nothing about borrowing; so William, truly thankful that all had passed over so quietly, retired to rest, wearied indeed in body, but happier in mind than he had been for many days, dreaming not only of the pleasure he should have in making the shoes, but in seeing little Ned's black eyes dance for joy in receiving them.



CHAPTER XI.

A LABOUR OF LOVE.

In the morning, William did not wait for Mrs. Walters' usual shrill call of "Bill, get up and make the fire;" for, filled with the project of pursuing a labour of love, he was up with the dawn, and having performed all his allotted tasks, he had time to turn over the whole heap of worn-out shoes, which lay piled up in readiness for the scavengers. Was it not a little surprising that one who so cordially disliked shoemaking should voluntarily undertake a task so repugnant as this! Was it not a proof that he was achieving that moral heroism so beautifully lauded in the Scripture? "He that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city," does not only apply to the restraining of the temper; other discipline is included in its meaning. Does the "charity which, seeking not her own," but denying self, and sacrificing inclination at the shrine of duty, or in the endeavour to bestow comfort upon the needy, require no effort in its practice? It does indeed; perhaps stronger than to rule the tongue and temper; and although we must admire the moral hero who sets himself firm as a rock to bear reproach in silence, there is more calm grandeur in steady sacrifice of self when performing a repugnant task from a true spirit of benevolence.

It was not, indeed, without some effort, or many temptations to turn away and leave his project unaccomplished, that William persisted in his search. Sad to tell, he could not find what he sought, and he was turning away discouraged, when Jem Taylor came in.

He inquired what Bill had in hand now; and our little shoemaker having told him, he burst into a loud laugh, and declared he could do better for him than that. "I have a pair of shoes," said he, "of which the upper leather is pretty good, but the soles are all gone; you may have them to cut up for your bare-legged friend. But what are you to do for soles?"

"I never once thought of that!" replied William, and his countenance expressed how great was his disappointment.

"Don't look so down in the mouth, Bill," said Jem, good-naturedly. "I suppose. I need not tell you to slice a piece off from old Walters' leather, for you would consider it stealing, which I don't; but your cake shall not be all dough, for all that. I'll buy you a piece of sole, and bring all together to-morrow."

William thanked the journeyman again and again, and was more than ever grieved that one who knew so well how to be kind should be so resolute in his practice of evil, and pursue a path which he had often confessed he knew to be a wrong one.

There was an unusual press of work, so that for several days he could not go for the shoes left at Professor Stewart's. No message concerning them having been sent, William was a second time despatched to No. 200 —— street.

Once more he rang the bell at the basement door; the same voice bade him enter; and, seated behind a pile of books, with a pair of gold spectacles on his nose, was the same gentleman who had given him the shilling and the lecture on falsehood. He was writing so busily that our hero was obliged to stand for a moment or two unquestioned; but at last he looked up, and in seeming amazement at the presence of a stranger. "How long have you been here, and what do you want?" was the abrupt salutation.

"I brought a pair of shoes here some days ago," was the reply; "Mr. Walters sent me to-day to see if they would suit, as he did not receive any message from the lady."

"Shoes, shoes," said the gentleman, musingly; "I have some recollection about them; yes, and your face too; you told me about the little boy to whom you gave the shilling. Well, the little ragamuffin came, and I believe he is not unworthy. But whether he is or not, he is very poor; and if we try to serve none but the worthy, I am afraid a great many would suffer. He is too young to do much, so I told him to come here once every week, and we will give him something."

"The shoes, sir," asked William; "what answer am I to take about the shoes?"

"They were for a lady, I have some indistinct recollection," rejoined the gentleman smiling. "They are lying just where you put them down; only see what a memory I have; I have not once thought of them since. Pull that bell, if you please; somebody will come and tell you all about it."

Our little shoemaker did as he was desired, and an elderly serving-woman almost immediately answered the summons.

"Is Mrs. Stewart at home, Katie?" asked the gentleman, dipping his pen in the ink in order to resume his writing.

"No, sir; she has gone up to your son's. One of the children is sick, and she said it was likely she would have to stay all night," was the reply.

"I think, boy, your best plan will be to go there with the shoes," said the professor; "it is not far: just keep on up this street until you find yourself almost to the country; you will there see a house built in cottage style, standing back from the street in an enclosure: my son, Mr. Stewart, lives there; ask for Mrs. Stewart and tell her of the shoes; she will decide whether or not to keep them."

He turned once more to his writing and William was obliged to depart. Although the day was dark and gloomy, he was too glad to have an excuse for extending his walk; and caring neither for the cold wind that rushed by at intervals, and sent the few leaves that until now had clung to the lindens whirling in the air, nor that the short day was approaching to its close, he walked on rapidly, and was soon at the point of destination.

The description of the house had been too accurately given for its features to be mistaken; plain but elegant, its exterior bespoke the pure taste of its possessors.

There were several steps leading up to the entrance door, which, retreating into a kind of recess, occupied the middle of the building, and opened into a hall with parlours on each side.

William ascended the steps and rung the bell. More than one summons was necessary, and while he waited for somebody to come he had time to look round; and he did gaze into one of the basement rooms, in which were several children. It seemed to be used partly for school purposes, and partly for play; it was not certainly the regular study hours, for there was too much inattention, although a governess was present and giving directions. A girl of twelve years old was practising a music lesson; and a younger one, seated at a table, was writing—all three of the inmates too much occupied to observe the young intruder, who was now so near the window that he could hear part of what was said.

"You play too fast, Clara," said the teacher; "if you do not count your time, you will never excel in music."

"Agnes, do not sit so crooked at your writing; it is ruinous to your health. Be careful to spell every word properly; for those who do not learn to spell well while they are young, can never acquire a correct knowledge of it."

Our little shoemaker stood looking through the window with a pleasure nearly allied to that which had once enchained him before the picture-shops. What was it that so fettered his attention that he did not remark the presence of the servant, who had at last answered the summons of the door-bell? Was it the quiet and beautiful specimen of home instruction he was witnessing? Was it the neat and tasteful furnishing of the apartment,—the handsome but now unoccupied writing-desk, which was provided with every thing necessary, from a pen-knife down to a pen-wiper? Or did something in the shape of an old-fashioned sofa in the corner, on which sat three large dolls, claim the observation which was so intense as to amount to absolute rudeness? Yes, it was one of the leathern ladies that awakened such an extraordinary interest in the boy; for on its feet were the red morocco boots, bound and tied with light blue ribbon—very untasteful was the contrast—which he had made out of gratitude for the kindness shown him on the day in which he dropped the shoes in the gutter.

"What are you staring in there for, boy?" said a broad-faced Irish girl, giving him a pull. "Sure don't you know it's not civil to do the likes of that? tell us what it is ye want, and then take yourself off."

William stated his errand, and the ruddy damsel, satisfied that he meant no harm, said she "did not know whether ould Mistress Stewart was in the place, but she would go and see."

Thus left, there was time to renew his observations; and just then the door of the basement room opened, and a delicate but bright-looking boy of fourteen, with a gun in his hand and a game-bag over his shoulder, entered. "O Clara! such a pleasant day Harry Clinton and I have had! I have shot a round dozen of birds, and he has more! But tell me, is little Frank any better?"

"O yes, a great deal better," answered Clara, "so that grandmother—"

Biddy now interrupted the speech by her presence, and telling our hero that she had been "hunting the ould lady up stairs and down stairs, in my lady's chamber, and everywhere, without finding her, she went till young Mistress Stewart, and she tould her she was not in it, but was away an hour ago."

It was now growing late, and our little shoemaker thought his wisest plan was to carry the shoes home for the present; he felt that he had already wasted too much time, and that he would most probably find the Walters displeased at the delay. He turned most reluctantly away from the window, unwilling to depart from a place where such a new and strong interest had been created, but there was no help for it; and he pursued his way with a feeling of regret, as he contrasted the circumstances of those happy children with his own. This mood could not continue long; he felt that it was wrong; he would not murmur, but submit.

With his usual openness he explained to Mr. Walters the cause of his delay; for which he received the usual amount of grumbling, with a threat for the future he should be made to stick to his last, and learn how to use time—a threat which was at once put into execution, for the next day he carried the shoes to Professor Stewart's himself, and the affair was ended to his satisfaction. He was, as he had been threatened, kept closely to work; but although his work was even more joyless than ever, he was not without a gleam of sunshine in his heart, lent him by the prospect of being able to prepare happiness for others.

Time passes on rapidly, but with equal pace, unheeding whether, as a "swift-winged and beautiful angel," he opens flowers on the way for some, or, as a "relentless, unsparing destroyer," he nips the budding hopes and scatters the blight of disappointment on others; but still bearing the record of each minute to eternity, the gliding hours are silently working for all. Their passage had seemingly, as yet, brought no change in the circumstances of our little shoemaker; unloved and unloving, as at first, the days had rolled away with dull and leaden weight, until they approached the second winter since he had left his home at M——.

The shortened days and lengthening nights brought with them anticipations of Christmas festivals; and when the snow began to fall the winter pleasures began, and preparations were made for the amusements always got up for the holidays. What kind of enjoyment had William to expect, further than to stroll through the streets and survey the treasures in shop windows, none of which would find their way to him? and yet, strange to tell, he too looked forward to the coming festival with hopeful anticipation.

No preparation was made at Mr. Walters'; for no child of the house or young relative of the family gladdened the dull atmosphere of that sombre home; but William had been silently at work, getting ready that which was to give happiness to others, and the pleasure arising from such labour always brings its own reward.

As the time of rejoicing drew near, his memory carried him back to his once happy home in M——; and as it is natural for childhood to love to dwell only on life's brightest spots, so he recalled mostly the period before his father's death, when all had to him as yet been sunshine. The mysterious preparation—the Christmas-tree hung with glancing lights and fairy gifts so bewitching to children—the trembling joy with which each packet or article was examined,—all this, although the child of poor parents, had been his to enjoy; but on this Christmas-day he had nothing to expect.

As he was going along the street one day, when sent on an errand, he passed by a church which was being adorned with evergreens, as is the custom with many of the Episcopalians. The work had been finished, and the sexton was sweeping the refuse branches into the street. An idea struck him; he would have a Christmas-tree—a very small one, indeed, but then even a green branch of spruce would make things look more Christmas-like. He picked one up, and carrying it home, concealed it in his attic; for he feared if he showed it to Mrs. Walters, she would serve it as she had done his cat.

The twenty-fourth of December came, and our hero's heart beat high, half with joy, half with apprehension. He had his plan, but there was another will than his own to determine its being effected. Jem Taylor had gone up the river a few days before, to spend the holidays with his mother, and the other journeymen had given up work early on the day already mentioned.

Jem, however, who really liked our hero, had given him a shilling as a Christmas gift; this, with some pennies from his friend the market-woman, made him feel rich, and he resolved to spend it in Christmas gifts. Yes, Christmas gifts, dear reader; but there are different kinds of such. He would not spend his little store in bonbons and cakes, which do no good; tea, sugar, and other like necessary articles, could be put up in horn-shaped papers, and be hung on his branch of evergreen; and then, if he only dared go out on Christmas day, how nice it would be to set it up in old Mrs. Graham's room!

Most children, in giving Christmas presents, expect to receive in return. Not so our little shoemaker. But he, too, had his equivalent; yes, more—the approbation of his own heart, which is always the reward of a disinterested action. Mrs. Burton, too, gave him a small mince-pie, when he went in the morning for the milk; this, too, was saved for the great occasion.

The afternoon came, and with it two pairs of children's shoes, which one of the journeymen had tarried to finish, were brought in. William's heart beat almost audibly; they were for his friend, Mrs. Bradley. Should he be the errand-boy on this occasion? A petition to be permitted to spend Christmas eve from home had been trembling on his lips all day, but each time, when about to speak, his resolution failed. But now the words. "Bill, run off with these shoes to Mrs. Bradley, the market-woman," filled him with delight, and emboldened him to beg for the remainder of the evening. Seeing there was no one left to work, Mr. Walters assented, and with great joy of heart the little shoemaker prepared to enjoy his long-anticipated festival.

He had ornamented his little tree to the best of his ability, by tying to the branches bits of coloured leather which he had cut into stars and other shapes, with some ends of ribbon picked from the odds and ends of binding used in the upper shop. He had also bought a candle or two, which he cut in pieces, and fastened them on by bits of wire. The other articles, together with some matches, he placed in a little basket of his own, and then putting his green branch under his coat, thrusting the shoes he had made for little Ned in his pocket, and carrying those intended for Mrs. Bradley in his hand, he set forth up Broadway, not envying one individual of the splendidly dressed crowd that was thronging the great thoroughfare.

He found Mrs. Bradley in the kitchen, fully occupied in all the mysteries of boiling, baking, and stewing, preliminary to the setting down of a country Christmas supper. A large plate of mince-pies, flanked by smaller ones filled with cakes of various shapes and sizes, stood temptingly conspicuous on the table. Sausages were frying in a pan on the store, and a large coffee-pot sent forth its steam, at once savoury and inviting. "I am glad you have brought the shoes, Bill," said the good woman, continuing to bustle about; "your master is certainly very punctual, and his shoes last as long again as those you buy. I suppose you do not have much Christmas doings at your house—I am so busy just now; a whole tribe of country cousins have come down the river to spend the holidays, and I am bustling to get the supper over. But what have you there under your coat?"

"Well, now, Bill," said she, when William told her, "if you ain't a good boy there is no such thing in the world. Open your basket, and I will give you something for the old woman and your young ones too."

A sausage or two, a pie, some tarts, and sundry other good things, were speedily transferred to William's basket, and with such unsparing hand, that it was filled to overflowing—in that respect resembling the heart of our little shoemaker, which was now filled with delight. He forgot that he was suffering from bodily ailment, that the past had been dark and comfortless, that on the morrow no new cheering was to be expected, but his sole enjoyment would be the remembrance of the transient gleam of sunshine now falling on his gloomy path. He tried to speak his thanks, but she would not listen. "It is nothing," she said; "we have to work hard, but still we have plenty, and why should we not give to others who have so little, and are not able to earn? Now do go along about your business, Bill, and let me take up the supper, for the chicken is stewing to rags;" and, quite as happy herself as she had made the orphan boy, she proceeded to finish her culinary work.

A few minutes' walk brought William to the room occupied by old Mrs. Graham. It was a poor place, in a basement half under ground. Cold and damp, it was altogether unsuitable for an invalid; but she said she liked it, for the other dwellers in the house, mostly washer-women, were decently-behaved people, and as kind to her as their means would allow them to be. Suffering so much from rheumatism that she was confined to her bed, she was, however, not idle, but propped up and busy knitting, when William entered.

"Ah, ah! William Raymond, is that you?" said she; "come in and tell us why you have stayed away so long."

This was soon explained, and the treasures exhibited. The miniature Christmas tree was lighted up, and made to stand, by some process of childish ingenuity, on the table; the shoes which William had made out of Jem Taylor's "upper leather" were displayed, and, on being tried on, were found to fit; and, last of all, the treasures of the basket were spread forth. It was long since such a meal had been eaten in that lowly room, or since its inmates had been so cheerful; and, dear reader, what was the cost of the whole? Happiness can be bestowed at small expense, and there are none so poor that they cannot give it. True charity, which some call "the first-born of religion," makes others' wants their own, and—

"Amid life's quests There seems that worthiest one, to do men good."

The old grandmother looked with great interest on the sports of the children, and joined in the praises Ned bestowed on his semi-new shoes. It seemed surprising to the latter that his friend Bill could accomplish a task so wonderful as to make a pair of shoes; and while he danced round the room in perfect delight, he begged his grandmother to put him at once to a shoemaker, so that he, too, might do men's work.

William stood by the bedside of the aged invalid, and watched her faded lips as they moved in grateful prayer. His whole soul, filled with the secret pleasure of a generous act, was yet more moved by the blessings invoked on him by one so old, and, there was no doubt, truly sincere. It seemed as if nothing could increase his present happiness.

"Where did you get all these nice things?" asked the old woman; "this is an unexpected feast for me."

William, taking no more credit than truth demanded, explained how he had proceeded,—some, the smallest portion, was purchased, the other was from the kindness of others.

"Say rather the kindness of Providence," replied the old woman. "The One who provides for the sparrow put it into their hearts, so let us thank him first of all; and for you, my good boy, may the blessing of God, which alone maketh rich and addeth no sorrow, rest upon you for ever."

There is a world of meaning in that simple petition; and if the prayer of the righteous will from the lowliest hovel climb to heaven's height and bring a blessing down, he was certain to receive in answer a greater and more precious treasure than the gold of Ophir.

Greatly did our little shoemaker enjoy his childish liberty on this evening, which passed away too rapidly for him. All enjoyment must have an end, and although by no means wearied of it, he was at once ready to go home when Mrs. Graham reminded him of the hour. He ran off at full speed, trusting to be at home before the usual time for shutting up the house, and had proceeded more than half way, when the city clocks striking ten changed his late happy mood to one of apprehension. Mr. Walters, he knew, would not wait a moment, even on Christmas eve, for anybody, and he trembled at the thought of what the morning might bring.

His fears were not groundless, for he found the front door locked, and he feared to be obliged to pass the night in the open air. Great was his embarrassment; what was he to do? who would aid him? He thought of his friend Thomas Burton, the watchman; he might have a key which would open the dead latch, but he was already on his round, which, although in the same district, was at a distant point.

The moon was shining brightly, making objects appear almost as distinct as by daylight The crowd had gradually fallen away, until the streets were almost empty; and as he sat in lonely self-communion on the door-step, the increasing cold warned him that he could not remain there until morning. Exercise was better than inaction; he thought he would walk up the street, and meet, perhaps, Thomas, or else some other guardian of the night, who would advise him what to do. But the watchmen seemed all to have left this part of the city, for none appeared. As he was still turning over plan after plan for effecting an entrance, it occurred to him that from a shed in the rear of the building, which could be gained from a narrow street or alley running parallel with it, he could enter by an unshuttered window, provided the sash was not fastened down. He resolved upon trying, and turning into one of the public streets, which would bring him sooner to the place desired than that by which he had come, he walked swiftly onward. He had not gone far before some object glancing brightly in the moonlight attracted his observation.

He took it up, and found it to be a small steel-clasped purse; and from some indications about it, he concluded it had been dropped by a child. The next movement was to open it. Two little gold dollars first glittered before his eyes, then some small silver coin, and last of all a five-dollar gold piece carefully wrapped in paper.

His first feeling was rapture: if what he had done for the Grahams had brought so much happiness, both to them and himself, would it not be increased ten-fold now when owner of such wealth? But then the thought occurred, "It is not mine; somebody must have lost it; somebody maybe that was poor; yes, I will give it back again; to-morrow I will ask Thomas Burton to inquire in the neighbourhood and find out the owner." This seemed the only proper course, and putting the purse in his pocket, he went on the way proposed to himself, and succeeded in gaining entrance to his room without disturbing the family. Notwithstanding the severe exertions and excitement of the day, he found himself unable to sleep; racking pains shot through his limbs, and feverish oppression prevented rest until near morning, when he fell into the unrefreshing stupor, rather than sleep, produced by exhaustion.

From this he was aroused by the usual call to get up and make the fire. He obeyed, although his aching head and prostrated strength scarcely permitted a movement. Serious sickness, long threatening, had at length seized him; and having with the utmost effort dragged himself down to the kitchen, he was barely able to kindle the fire, before he fell fainting on the floor, where Mrs. Walters found him.

Virago and shrew as she was, she could not look at him as he lay there so death-like, without a feeling of compassion. She had him carried to his room in the attic, where she attended him with perhaps as much sympathy as was compatible with her rude nature. For many days he lay in a dreaming kind of stupor; yet the images which forced themselves on his mind, although vague and fitful, were by no means painful; sickness had overtaken him in the midst of right doing, and the impression left by the high and holy duty in which he had last been engaged remained, to shed an influence stronger than the pressure caused by bodily pain. "Fear not, I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God. I will strengthen thee; I will help and uphold thee," were words which floated continually in his mind, although seemingly insensible to all outward objects.

For many days little hope of recovery was given by the physician, called in at the pressing instance of Thomas Burton, who declared he would pay the expense himself; and Mr. Walters, dreading the consequences to his own reputation should the boy die without medical aid, had consented. Skilful treatment, youth, and a good constitution, effected a change which, with good nursing, would have rapidly restored him to health; the latter, however, was entirely wanting, Mrs. Walters believing that if she kept from scolding, and brought him warm drinks, she laid "Bill" under life-long obligation to her for good nursing.

On the day before New-Year's he was altogether better; he could think of previous occurrences, and spoke with Thomas Burton of many things, but not until the evening of that day, when Jem Taylor got up to see him, had he thought of the purse, which was still in the pocket of his vest.

The presence of Jem, as if associated with money, somehow recalled the recollection of his finding the treasure; and he could not, weak and unable to consider consequences as he was, refrain from telling him all about it, and begged him to inquire in the neighbourhood who had lost it.

"You are green as ever, Bill," said Jem, who, nevertheless, was full of his own kind of sympathy for our hero; "you might as well look for a needle in a hay-stack as for the owner of a purse in New York. The only way is to advertise it, and make whoever answers describe it. But if I were in your place I would keep it. Finders are keepers; but if you don't like to spend it all yourself or change it, just give it to me. The one who has lost it may be rich, and by this time has forgotten it. You are now recovering from sickness, and will want oranges and such things; I can get all that you ought to have, and nobody be any the wiser."

Poor William, weak and sick; the tempter was again there—a messenger of Satan ready to overthrow the faith which until now had sustained him. "Finding is not stealing," was the specious whisper; "and many keep what they find."

For a moment only he swerved. He spoke no word; and while Jem watched his pale countenance, as it changed with the varied emotions which were struggling in his heart, he could scarcely understand the feelings which swayed his own. The conflict was severe, but short, as it always is where strict integrity has been the ruling principle, and truth the bulwark. The flush faded from the brow; leaving it deadly pale, as he firmly said,—

"No, Jem, no; I will not do it. Let me die, but I will not sin against God."

Exhausted by the effort he had made, he burst into a violent fit of weeping, alarming Jem greatly, who feared for the results. But tears were soothing to the sick boy; for tears are said to make the depth of grief seem less, and prove a balm to the soul. None are wholly evil, and some touch of nature now smote the heart of the reckless journeyman for a moment, as he once more recognised the holy majesty of virtue exhibited in a child. But how many thoughts can flash upon the soul in an instant! In that short space a picture of his own life was placed before his mental vision; and as he contrasted his own course with that of the sufferer before him, he felt, for the moment, willing to change places with him. He waited until the strong burst of feeling had passed over, and his intended victim once more lay still and death-like before him. He dared venture no further, and his eyes were something moist, and his voice assumed a softer tone, as he rose to take leave for the night.

"Billy," said he, "you are a good boy; I wish I was half as good, but I know I need not try. But I still am of the mind that if I had found that money I would have a right to spend it; but I won't say any more, for I see you are very weak. Can I do anything for you before I go?"

"You can," replied William; "ask Thomas—no, he is not at home—tell Mrs. Burton to send him in the morning."

"I believe the old man is your spiritual adviser," returned Jem; "but I will do as you wish, and come again in the morning; so good-night."

Left to himself, the sick boy almost immediately fell asleep, or rather into the heavy stupor produced by exhaustion, and which does not shut out the sense of painful realities which surround. Feverish startings and tossings proved that the soul was not sharing the body's rest, and dreams, which are said to be of real events the forms and shadows, disturbed him with dark and monstrous images, the fitful phases of which, as they changed, grew yet more fearful and torturing. His mother, pale and anxious as she looked before her death,—purses, money, prisons, and judgment-halls,—all came up in disjointed medley together. Beads of sweat standing upon his brow showed how great was the suffering, which still increased until, with a start, he awoke.

Oh, what a relief it was to find all only a dream! The piece of candle left by Mrs. Walters had long since burned out; but the room was not dark, for the bright moon poured in her soft rays, and through the little window he saw the stars, looking calm, as though they were the eyes of angels keeping watch over the slumbering earth. He knew not the hour, but, dreading to fall asleep again, endeavoured to keep himself awake by recalling those events which his sickness had made him partially forget. The purse, the temptation to keep the money, the resolution to do right, and the dread of being obliged to yield to Jem Taylor's persuasions, were the agitating subjects that occupied him.

The city clock chimed twelve, the watchman called out the last hour of the year 1830, and the interruption was grateful and salutary. With that mysterious quickness of which mind only is capable, he was dwelling on some long-closed pages of the past, painfully but profitably associated with the close of the old year and beginning of the new. Their pleasant cottage at M——; the sad event which, on the last New-Year spent there, had impressed his soul too vividly ever to be forgotten; all that his mother had told him of that pious father, of whom he would have remembered but little, but that his lifeless image was so strongly associated with New-Year's day; her impressive admonition on the last anniversary of his death, before her own, when she had entreated him to depart not from the God of his father, but to walk so as to be able to claim the promise vouchsafed to the children of the righteous,—now came up before him, and the memory brought both comfort and strength, admonishing, too, where help, in such weakness as he felt his to be, was only surely to be found.

Our little shoemaker well knew where to apply for such strength as he needed. He knew that the Saviour said, "Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in my name, he will give it to you; ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full;" and he prayed that he might be able to resist the power of the tempter; and, in the assurance that the prayer would be heard, his soul grew calm, and he at length sunk into a quiet slumber, from which he did not awake until the morning was somewhat advanced.

It was with a feeling of terror that he beheld Jem Taylor standing by his bed. The temptation to retain the spoils of the purse for his own use was again urged; but, spiritually resolute, this time William did not waver. He was not only altogether determinate in declining to use the money for himself, or share it with Jem, in order to secure his silence, but refused to show him the purse, although he offered to advertise it. Finding him strong in his purpose, Jem left him; and as Thomas Burton came in in the course of the day, he gave the purse to him, to do as he thought best with it. Having done this, his heart felt much lightened.



CHAPTER XII.

RAYS OF HOPE.

From this time our poor hero began to recover; and, although hope is said to be the best physician in the world, and he had nothing now to hope for, it was surprising how rapidly he improved. The return from a sick-bed to the active duties of life, the change from the close and darkened chamber to the pure air of heaven and the glorious sunlight, has a wonderful effect in restoring health. He was soon able to make his appearance in the shop; and, to aid his entire recovery, he was permitted to be much at Thomas Burton's, where he was really happy. It was not long before he was able to go to church and to Sabbath school. Greater than ever seemed the privileges; none are truly valued until deprived of them. His heart was full of joyful praise on the day when he first was able to serve the Lord by worshipping in his holy temple. More contented than he had been since leaving his home at M——, he found himself at times almost happy. And why, dear reader, was it so? His outward circumstances were the same; the sun, which shines in equal brightness upon the just and unjust, had received no additional lustre since he had wandered, sad and desponding, unheeding its glory and uncheered by its beams. But now what made the difference? The sunshine within, the sure possession of a heart at peace with God, which warms and cheers with its own light, even when the creature's way is rugged and dark. That made the poor boy's spirit so peaceful.

And, now the poor child, whose path had indeed been through the deep waters, was soon to be lifted up above the lowly and distasteful station, so repugnant at first to his feelings and taste, with which it had been his trial to struggle, and his triumph to conquer; and "according to the days in which he had been afflicted was he now to be made glad." Comparative prosperity was soon to be enjoyed; but would he endure the trial of its deceitful ray as well as he had that of the obscuring cloud? We shall see.

Months passed away with little change. Mrs. Walters resumed her scolding and commanding, while Mr. Walters grumbled and found fault to his heart's content. But Jem Taylor, kinder than ever to our hero, no longer assailed him with temptation to do wrong, for he felt that "Bill's" integrity was not to be moved.

Thomas Burton had found, from a newspaper, the owner of the purse, who was a boy and the son of a distinguished artist living in the suburbs. As he described the low-storeyed house, with its wealth of natural beauty without and tasteful embellishment within, William's heart beat loudly; surely that boy was one of the happy children whom he had seen on the day he peeped into the school-room; and a feeling of disappointment stole over him that he had not been able to deliver the purse himself. This, however, soon subsided, when Thomas told him that the family were all from home, and that he had left it with an old gentleman, who was the only person he saw.

The gloomy days of winter had long passed by, and spring, with its green grass and many-hued blossoms, had cheered the country with its beauty; but now its task was ended, and the glowing summer was at hand. The weary dwellers of the pent-up city were leaving in search of pure air and variety; the dust-covered marble steps in front of many a shut-up house proclaimed it deserted for the season, and business, much to Mr. Walters' dissatisfaction, was very dull. Shoes, however, had to be worn, and as he still continued to furnish the needed article, he was often called upon, although not quite so frequently as in the winter.

One day he came in with a pair of prunella boots in his hand, which he told Bill to carry to the house of Mr. Stewart, a painter who lived in the outskirts of the city. "They are for Mrs. Stewart, to whom you took a pair of shoes last autumn," said he. "Go straight to Number 200 ——Street, and then keep on to the end of the street. The family, it seems, have gone there for fresh air, as if they could not breathe that of the city as well as others."

Never had he received a more welcome commission. He even felt as if he could have embraced his stern master for such an indulgence. The day was so fine, he had longed to get out into the sunshine, and now the prospect of a long walk to the beautiful cottage of Mr. Stewart filled him with the liveliest joy.

He was quite busy putting strings into a pair of boots for a lady, but joy lent him speed, and in a few moments his task was finished, and, stringing up the shoes and putting on his cap, he was soon on the road to —— Street.

His steps were light, and so was his heart. He wondered if he should again be able to look into the school-room and see those happy children; and so great was his haste to be at the end of his journey, that the gay pictures in the shop-windows had not power to tempt him to linger a moment. He passed Number 200, where all was closed, and keeping on to the end of the street, soon came in sight of the cottage, which looked far more lovely now, robed in the rich garniture of summer, than when he last had seen it. The branches of the climbing plants, then bare and leafless from the breath of frost, were now hiding the walls with a more beautiful tapestry than that woven by the hand of man; twining their flexile vines together, they mounted even to the roof, or, covered with many-hued flowers, hung loosely down in long reaches, giving out sweet odours as they waved in the summer breeze. It was a fitting abode for one who was a lover of the beautiful, as all painters are supposed to be.

He opened the gate, walked up the gravelled path, and ascended the high steps. He did not, however, at once ring the bell; he thought he would first take a look at the school-room. The windows were closed, as if the room were unoccupied, and a feeling of disappointment crept over his heart, which was again exchanged for a more hopeful mood, when, continuing to survey the other parts of the building, he found the door of a room on the opposite side open, and filled with objects more attractive to his eye than even those he had seen in the school-room.

It was evidently a painter's studio, for it was fitted up with everything requisite for the study of the glorious art. The walls were hung with pictures, several busts and statues were ranged round on brackets, detached models of portions of the human frame cast in plaster were on the table; but the easel, standing near the door with a picture more than half finished, interested him more than all the rest. Several tubes of colour lay on a chair, and a prepared pallet-board, with some brushes beside it, seeming to have been just now in use, gave reason to conjecture that the occupant of the room was not far off.

William, forgetting that he had not rung the bell, wondered why no one came to the door, and half attracted by the view of a painter's room, and half urged by the wish to find some one to whom he could deliver his message, he cleared the steps at a bound, and stood before the open door. He looked within; no one was there; and as he stood he could plainly see the picture, which was a Scripture subject. Was it wrong that he ventured, the shoemaker's boy with a painter's heart, step by step quite within the precincts of that chamber? So lost in pleasant observation was he, so perfectly guileless, he never once thought that, however innocent, his motive for intruding might be mistaken. He stood rapt and immovable before the picture, forgetful of everything but his present enjoyment, so that he did not hear the opening of a door behind him, nor that a footstep was approaching.

It was Mr. Stewart himself, who, having left his studio but a few minutes before, was now returning to his work; and as his eyes fell upon this unexpected guest, he at first was disposed to believe him some young vagabond who had come in to pilfer. But the statue-like attitude of the boy, the fixed look with which he surveyed the picture, and the gaiter boots which dangled by their connecting string from his arm, his whole appearance making him a fit subject for study, soon banished suspicion, and with all the sympathies of a most benevolent nature aroused, he stood silent for a moment, for he hesitated to disturb so visible an enjoyment.