But as there was no knowing how long the survey might last, he at length advanced, and touching our little shoemaker on the shoulder, said, in a playful tone, "Why, boy, you must love pictures as well as does a painter; have you not been dreaming long enough? Tell me, now, what brought you here?"

Fully aroused, William turned to answer and apologize; but when he looked into the face of the gentleman before him the words died on his lips. Mr. Stewart himself was not without astonishment, as, when William pulled off his cap, he recognised the features of the orphan boy in whose grief he had long ago sympathized so deeply, and he once more spoke.

"I believe we have seen each other before," said he; "are you not the boy I met in the grave-yard at M——?"

"Yes, sir," answered William; "and I have got the little picture which you coloured for me still."

"You are, then, really the same boy?" said Mr. Stewart; "but tell me, how did you get here? and what are you doing in this room?"

"Oh, sir," he replied, as he blushed deeply, "please forgive me; my master sent me with the shoes, and when I saw the door open and the picture, I could not help it. Indeed I did not mean any harm."

"I believe you," rejoined Mr. Stewart; "and now tell me how you got to New York, and what you are doing."

Our little shoemaker did so with his usual openness and candour; and, accustomed never to swerve from, the straightforward and direct line of truth, the stamp of that virtue was so apparent in all he said, that the kindly sympathies of Mr. Stewart were once more awakened in his behalf. He was, however, too prudent to excite any hope which he might afterward be obliged to crush; so telling our hero where to go in order to deliver his errand, he took up his pallet and began to paint.

"Stop one minute," he called, as William was leaving the room. "Have you any friends in the city? and where do you live?"

William replied that he had no real friends but old Thomas Burton the watchman, and his wife. Mrs. Bradley, the market-woman, had been very kind to him too, but it was the old watchman who took him to church, and when he was troubled about the purse, had taken it to the right owner. The sounds of swift footsteps were now heard, and a bright-looking boy of fourteen came bustling in at the door. "Father," he said, "grandfather wants me to take a drive with him; can I go?"

"Stay a moment first, George," answered Mr. Stewart. "I believe you lost your purse on Christmas eve, at least I heard you lamenting something of the kind. You recovered it, and you said you wished to reward the finder; did you ever do so?"

"No, father," replied George, "I did not. An old watchman who brought it told grandfather that a shoemaker's boy had found it, but was then so ill that it was most likely he would never recover, and so—"

"And so, George, you never inquired whether he lived or died," said Mr. Stewart. "That is the true spirit of the world, to care only for self. George, I believe this is the boy who found it; thank him, at least, if you do not reward him."

"I do not want any reward for giving to another that which was his own," said the little shoemaker; "but if Master George chooses, he can give something to little Ned Graham, who needs it very much."

"And who is little Ned Graham?" inquired Mr. Stewart, smiling.

Our hero explained in as few words as possible; at the close of which narration Mr. Stewart, making no remark, turned once more to his easel, and George conducted the little shoemaker to the room where he was to leave the shoes. The old lady was pleased, and William, having received the money for them, ran swiftly homeward, never once dreaming of the good that was in store for him.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE DAWN OF BETTER DAYS.

Mr. Stewart, kind and benevolent as he was, never suffered himself to be carried away by any impulse, however generous it might be. On the day which we have named as the second time of meeting with our hero, when he resumed his pallet-board and began to work on his picture, he did so with an attention which seemed to rest only on the creation before him, as if he were forgetful of all lower subjects, or that there was such a being as a shoemaker's boy in the world.

But the beautiful images that rose from under his hand did not shut out the figure of the orphan boy as he had twice seen him,—once beside the grave of his parents, and again in his study. He was not so absorbed by the love of his art that there was no room in his mind for the reception of those higher subjects which relate to man's ultimate destiny. He felt that every one is sent into the world for a great purpose,—that no man must live wholly for himself, but, partaking of the spirit of the Saviour, labour for the good of others. The counsel given long before to the shoemaker's boy, when he met him in the church-yard at M——, has already proved that he was one who had admitted the truth into his heart, and the root it had taken there had only been deepened by the passage of time. And now, as he sat bringing form after form into beauty from the lifeless canvas, his mind was no less busy than his hand. How could he serve the interests of true religion by interesting himself in the fortunes of the orphan boy? And little Ned Graham,—he, too, was a desolate child. Would William always remain firm in his integrity, when, growing to manhood and left unrestrained, he should have full liberty to do as he pleased? He had acknowledged how easy it was to become used to sin; that, but for the influence exerted by the pious old watchman, he might at this time have been far advanced in the road to ruin. Thomas Burton was old; many things might occur to separate William from that Christian companionship, and then, could he continue pure in such an atmosphere as he should be exposed to? And little Ned, was he not rapidly learning the manners and habits of a street boy? Such were his thoughts; and with that charity which is expansive in its exercise, and never faileth in the heart in which it hath taken root, but always delights in doing good, he resolved to be the helper of these two orphan boys. But, with the prudence which ought ever to characterize every Christian effort, he began his task with caution, lest the endeavour to do good might only be productive of harm.

Little Ned and his good old grandmother were at once cared for; a commodious dwelling was provided, a physician called in, and the suffering invalid restored to comfortable health. Mrs. Stewart gave her suitable employment; and honest Mrs. Bradley, now that she was within a more convenient distance, did also a Christian's part, ministering to her constantly in some good deed. Ned was no longer suffered to run in the streets gathering chips, or asking pennies from strangers, but placed at school, where, we are happy to say, he made such progress as to give great satisfaction to his generous guardian.

It was not quite so easy for the Stewarts to dispose of William; and many were the consultations between Professor Stewart and his son as to how he could best be served. Believing that Mr. Walters was a most unsuitable person to have the rule of a boy like William, and pitying the ignorance in which he was being brought up, he yet hesitated whether it was his duty to interfere, as he had been given into Walters' care by his mother. He feared, too, that in exciting wishes toward other pursuits, he might create a new disgust toward the humble but respectable trade, the "gentle craft," as shoemaking has been termed, and which has furnished so many remarkable men; for our readers are not ignorant that many distinguished as patriots, men of letters, and useful members of society, have come from the shoemaker's bench.

While William, therefore, continued more contentedly than ever to hammer the soles of the new shoes and patch up the old, Mr. Stewart was taking silent but effective measures for bettering his condition. He first went to the old watchman, from whom he heard much in behalf of our hero, and which served to strengthen him in his benevolent project. He found out from the old man, too, that Mr. Walters might be induced to give up the boy; the physician who had attended him in his severe sickness had declared the stooping posture and confinement of the shop very injurious to him,—that his constitution was by no means strong, and that he would never be of robust health. Thomas, delighted that our hero had found a friend like Mr. Stewart, spoke fully on the merits of his character, and the discomforts of his situation, and the great danger he was in from evil companionship. This last feature of the case had more weight with Mr. Stewart than all the rest. He knew that perseverance under untoward difficulties often accomplished great things in bringing out strong points of character; that no position in life, however humble, is an actual bar to intellectual and moral improvement; and that where there is a will, there is always a way. And he knew, too, that the "eye of the Lord is upon them that fear him, that his ears are open to their cry, and that he is able to succour them, being tempted;" and, therefore, he pondered the matter well in his own heart, and consulted often with his father on the expediency of removing William from the guardianship of Mr. Walters.

A conversation with that worthy at last decided the matter. "Bill will never make much of a shoemaker," said he; "the doctor is of opinion that stooping will bring on consumption, and I see he gets very pale if he works steadily. He'll never be of much use to me, now that he is getting too old to be an errand boy; and as just at this time I have a chance of getting a stouter boy for a ''prentice,' you can make what you please of him, if you pay me something for his time."

The bargain was soon concluded; and William, who, kept in happy ignorance of what was going forward, had suffered no anxiety, was amazed beyond the power of language to describe when he was told that he must give up shoemaking for the present, and be the protege of Mr. Stewart, and take time to recruit his health.

Mr. Stewart said not a word about his becoming a painter; he knew too well how often taste is mistaken for genius, and how many fail of reaching the high standard proposed by themselves at first setting out. Nor, much interested as he was, that interest increasing every day, in our hero, did he at once take him into his own family, as, if we were writing a romance, we might imagine him to have done; no, he resolved to try and test his capacities for some time before he would decide for what post to fit him.

He boarded him with old Mrs. Graham, and sent him to school, where the orphan boy soon became a favourite, maintaining the same pious humility which marked the little shoemaker. Great was the satisfaction of Mr. Stewart as he looked in on the little circle which clustered round old Mrs. Graham's now cheerful hearth. How much is promised to him who giveth only a cup of cold water in the spirit of Him who went about doing good! And the benevolent painter felt the reward of his good deed fall, like the dew from heaven, refreshingly on his own spirit. True, his proteges were very lowly; but God is no respecter of persons, and in radiating this light around the humble dwelling from which sincere petitions for blessings upon him were daily invoked, Mr. Stewart proved himself possessed of the true spirit of Christ.

As time rolled on, he became more satisfied that he had done a good work in removing William from Mr. Walters. He was often invited to join the family circle; and as he remained not only unspoiled, but showed that the intercourse was profitable for the growth of his true character, a closer intimacy at last took place between the little shoemaker and George Stewart, which merged into a friendship that lasted through life. George possessed much of his father's talent, but weak health prevented his making any great advance in the art, and his early death was the first cloud which overshadowed the brightness of the family circle.

While the prospects of our little shoemaker were thus improved, he was by no means so dazzled by his comparative prosperity as to forget his old friends. Thomas Burton and his good old wife were visited as regularly and loved as well as ever; and, too happy and full of gratitude to Heaven for the changed circumstances so kindly vouchsafed, he sometimes went to see his old master; and, far from hating the lowly trade as he had once done, he would on such occasions occupy his old bench and sew a shoe. Jem Taylor was truly glad at witnessing his improved appearance, and, finding that prosperity, instead of puffing up his vanity, had only made him more humble, began really to believe that virtue is its own reward. May we not hope, since none are beyond the reach of mercy, and since, although the crimes of the sinner may be as scarlet, we are told that, washed in the blood of the atoning sacrifice, they can all be cleansed away, that the influence shed by William's resolution to suffer wrong rather than sin, brought him at last to recognise the beauty of holiness, and induced him to seek for pardon where it may be found?

But William's old friends in M——, were they forgotten? No; he had written constantly to George Herman, telling of his troubles, and now he wrote to assure him how happy he was. Would our readers like to know the contents of his letter. We can give them an extract from it. Here it is:—

Dear George,

I know you will be glad to hear how happy I am, and I know you will wonder when I tell you of all that has happened. You know I told you of a gentleman whom I met in the grave-yard the day before I left M——, and who coloured the little picture I had drawn. Well, he is a great painter, and as my health was bad, he persuaded Mr. Walters to give me up to him, for a while at least, or until I get strong. He gives me drawing lessons with his own son, who is a very good boy, and very kind to me; but he does not encourage my giving up my trade altogether, for he says that many shoemakers have become great men, and that it is the trade which, of all others, has produced most remarkable men. He told us about Crispin, who lived long ago, and about Holcroft, and Gifford, and Sherman, and John Pounds—the last named being only a cobbler, and yet he spent most of his life in teaching the poor. He says that I must draw every day, and by the time the hot weather is over, he will be able to tell whether or not I have any real talent, and whether it will be worth while to continue my drawing lessons. Ah, George, if he says I will make a painter, then I shall give up shoemaking; but if the contrary, I will "stick to my last," and continue a shoemaker contentedly so the end of my life, because I shall believe it my proper place. I go to school now, and for the present board with old Mrs. Graham, and feel more like being at home than I have done since I left M——. I would like so to see you and your good father; and as soon as I have money enough of my own, I will go to M—— and see you all. Good-bye, dear George, and do not forget your friend,

William



CHAPTER XIV.

WILLIAM'S SUCCESS.

About ten years after the date of William Raymond's letter to George Herman, a young man with a knapsack on his back and a stout staff in his hand, was seen approaching the village of M——, on that side on which lay the church-yard we have already described as the resting-place of the little shoemaker's parents. The young man was robust, and seemingly a mechanic, for his hands were rough, as though accustomed to labour, and his face gave plain evidence of acquaintance with the summer sun. He could not have been altogether a stranger to the place, for after he passed the few houses in the suburbs of the village, he turned towards the church-yard, the gate of which stood open, and entered the "silent city" where the dead were reposing.

The day was bright and clear, and, being the early part of June, the trees and flowers were in their freshest and fairest bloom; but they attracted no particular attention from the stranger. The grave-yard lay upon a hill which overlooked the town, and the traveller, passing by one flower-adorned grave after another, walked hastily on until he reached the highest point, from whence he looked down earnestly, as if his eyes sought to single out some particular object among the wilderness of roofs. At first his countenance was sad, but at last the melancholy look changed to an expression of cheerful surprise, for his eye had found what it was seeking among those once familiar objects. He knew the old house, for memory keeps the record of early days most faithfully, although its appearance was much changed. The old black roof of oak shingles was now replaced by a new one of slate; and instead of the dull yellow colour which had for many years distinguished it, it was now painted and modernized, to harmonize with the rest. He did not linger long to conjecture the cause of the change, but with hasty steps prepared to ascertain in person the reason. As he retraced the path trodden only a moment before, he bestowed rather more attention on the surrounding objects; and as his eye glanced over the graves once so familiar to it, he saw that change had been busy there too.

The slate roof had not less surprised him than what he now saw: the spot where two lowly graves, adorned only by flowers, had appeared for years without any monumental record, was now adorned with all that can be rendered by the living to the dead. A very high and handsome iron railing, on which climbing plants were trained, enclosed the little mounds, and a simple white marble pillar bore the names of George and Margaret Raymond. The flowers planted before William had left M—— had long ago vanished, and the spot, left to neglect, was overgrown with weeds; but now some kind hand had rescued it from wildness and planted it anew with rare flowers, which were beginning now to bloom in place of those dead. The sexton's wife with her watering-pot now came near. Many graves adorned in a similar way required the care of some one, and she received a regular salary for her attention to the flowers. The young man waited until she came quite close to where he stood, and then inquired, "Who has had these graves so carefully done up?"

"Who do you think would do so but the son of the good couple that are buried here?" answered the sexton's wife. "Little Bill Raymond, that went to New York to be a shoemaker, came back last spring and had this all done. Folks say he is well to do in the world, and better than all, he is as good a man as his father was."

A deep blush passing over the young man's face rendered its sun-burned hue yet deeper, but his eyes lightened with a joyful expression as he inquired with some anxiety, "Is he still in M——?"

"Yes, indeed," replied the woman; "he is staying with our old baker, Nicholas Herman; there, that is the house with the slate roof. Old Nicholas was very kind to his mother in her sickness and poverty, and when she died he took the poor child home. He used always to say if he lived to be a man he would remember him for it; and he has done so. There was a dreadful fire in the village last year, and old Nicholas Herman's house was nearly burned down. The roof was clear gone, but that was little in comparison to the damage done inside. Besides this, the old man had met with many losses; his son was away nobody knew where, and the baker lost heart, so that he could not get up spirit enough to set things to rights; and when he did he could not sell his bread as he used to, for other bakers had set up, and people always like to run to new places. Will Raymond, it seems, is a painter; and when he came here last summer, and found the old man in such trouble, he set to and painted him such a sign that there ain't the like of it far nor near. Why, the people stand in front of the house to admire it; and folks sometimes say that signs are of no use, but I know the sign brought the customers back. About two weeks ago the young painter returned, for old Nicholas expects his son George, who went west four or five years ago, and he and Bill Raymond were great friends, and he came on purpose to meet him. George knew nothing of his father's troubles, and old Nicholas said he could not do him any good, and it was of no use to make him unhappy. But won't he be happy when he comes home and finds all right?"

The sun-burned youth had listened attentively, not interrupting the speaker by word or motion; but tears, in spite of his efforts to restrain them, forced themselves from his eyes. Not daring to trust his voice, he shook hands with his kind informant, and leaving the place of graves, once more took the path leading toward the open gate at the foot of the hill. He had nearly reached it when, turning from the dusty street road, a young man entered the enclosure, and advanced up the narrow path until he came quite close to the traveller. They knew each other at once.

"William!"—"George!" issued at one moment from the lips of each; and with an embrace of sincere affection, the friendship of their boyish days was renewed, and now, in their budding manhood, to be more closely cemented.

William was indeed an artist. Mr. Stewart had found him possessed of genuine talent, and it was the delight of his generous heart to aid in the unfolding of his genius by every means within his power. Through his instruction, as well as recommendation, William had received better prices for his early efforts than are usually paid to young artists; but the first sum of any importance that he could call his own was applied to ornament the graves where his parents lay.

George Herman's return was a source of great comfort to his father, although he could not assist him in his business. He had chosen the carpenter's trade as a means of livelihood, and from at first working diligently with his own hands, he rose at length to the rank of an architect, and became a wealthy man.

One year after this William went to Italy with George Stewart, whose health required change of climate. There, in that beautiful country, so rich in treasures of art, he had full opportunity for improvement; and, indeed, he used his time to great purpose. It was, however, some drawback to his happiness that his young friend did not materially benefit by his sojourn in that land of genial sunshine. He rallied at first; but at the end of two years they were obliged to return, and George only reached his native land to breathe his last.

William's attention to his sick friend, and the ample testimony borne by that dying friend to his merits, rivetted the chain of affection, ever borne him by Mr. Stewart, more closely; and most truly did that good man often declare, that the "bread" he had "cast upon the waters" had been gathered, "after many days," most abundantly.

Dear reader, would you wish to know what has become of the "Little Shoemaker?" Ours is, substantially, a true story; and now that we have brought him to blooming manhood, and the attainment of his early wishes, we will follow him through his successful career. He is still living, and industrious, careful, and pious. He has never relaxed that watchfulness enjoined by the blessed Saviour, and alike so necessary to the consistent walk of a professor of religion and the perfection of the Christian character. Finding it harder to endure the glare of great prosperity than to dwell within the shadow of the cloud of poverty and sore affliction, he has ever cherished the same talisman which brought him through the deep waters. Girded with the armour of truth, praying with all prayer and supplication in the Spirit, and watching thereunto with all perseverance, he has preserved a consistent course, maintaining his integrity in all things, and extending a helping hand to all who need his aid. His motto is still, "Watch that you may pray, and pray that you may be safe;" and practising upon this teaching, he feels that dependence upon God alone is mighty to conquer.

And now, dear reader, has not his history fully proved, and his experience shown, that they that trust in the Lord "shall not be ashamed in the evil time;" for "the salvation of the righteous is of the Lord; he is their strength in the time of trouble?" He who raised the shepherd boy to the throne of Israel, and fed his faithful servant Elijah by the brook Cherith, will never leave nor forsake those who trust in him, and serve him truly. He is the hearer of prayer, and will feed and care for all that call upon him aright. "The young lions do lack, and suffer hunger; but they that seek the Lord shall not want any good thing." "Watch and pray," is the injunction of our blessed Lord to all who would be his followers. To each one he has given his proper work; and those who would be approved as true believers must honour the Lord in whatever duty they are called to perform; and this can only be done through assisting grace, which is found sufficient for all. Wait, then, dear young reader, upon God; commit all thy ways to him, and thou shalt delight in the abundance of peace.

"In patience ever wait and weep, Though mercy long delay; Firm hold upon His footstool keep, And trust him, though he slay.

In these thy words, Thy will be done; So strengthen'd by his might, Thou, by his Spirit, through his Son, Shalt pray, and pray aright."

THE END