"Bah," said Will Bailey, "you're fooling, Howard Minturn!"
"As true as I live, I'm not," answered Howard earnestly; "you can ask Mr. Burrows."
"What's up?" inquired Ellis Holbrook, joining the two.
"Why, Howard is telling the biggest yarn you ever heard: he says Tip Lewis went to prayer-meeting last night and made a prayer."
"Tip Lewis!" and Ellis Holbrook's voice was full, not only of surprise, but scorn; "I should like to hear him."
"Well, it's true," repeated Howard. "My father told us about it this morning, and he said it was a good prayer too; he said, Ellis, that your father couldn't keep the tears out of his eyes when he heard him; and Mr. Burrows walked up town with father, and told him that Tip had changed wonderfully, that he was one of the best boys in school."
"Well," said Will Bailey, "if Tip Lewis has turned saint, I'll give up. Why, he's the meanest scamp in town; my father says he's had enough for anything."
"Oh, well now," answered Ellis, "there's no use in being stupid enough not to see that what Mr. Burrows says is true. I never saw any one change as he has in my life, but I'll be hanged if I like him as well as I did before he was so awful good; he's too nice for anything now-a-days."
"Especially when he tripsyou, the minister's son, up, about twisting the Bible."
Ellis's face glowed, but he was an honest boy. "He was right enough about that," he said promptly; "my father says it's wrong. But, if it will do you any good to know it, I haven't liked Tip so well since."
"Say, Tip," said Will Bailey, hailing him at recess, "come here and give an account of yourself. They say you turned parson last night; did you?"
"No," said Tip, with the greatest good humour, "I didn't."
"Didn't you speak in meeting?"
A quiet gravity spread itself over Tip's face. "I prayed in meeting," he answered soberly.
"Oh, well, what did you pray for? Come, let's know."
"I prayed foryou." Tip spoke with quiet dignity.
"Humph! Now, that's clever, certainly. Much obliged."
And Will said no more.
Certainly the boys had never talked so much about any prayer-meeting in their lives as they did about this one. So that was the way it commenced; such a little fire kindled it. Tip didn't know it; he never found it out; probably he never will, until he takes his crown in heaven. From the humble little prayer which Tip had offered sprang the first buddings of the great revival which God sent down to them.
"Say," said Howard Minturn to Ellis on the next Thursday evening, "let's go over to prayer-meeting to-night. I really am dreadfully anxious to hear Tip speak."
"No," answered Ellis, speaking hastily, more hastily than he often did to Howard. "I'm sure I don't care in the least to hear him, and I have enough to do without going there."
Howard wasdeterminedto go, and to find company.
"Will, let's go to meeting to-night," he said, the next time he came across Will Bailey.
Will looked at him in amazement. "What for?"
"To hear Tip."
"Oh!" said Will; "good! I'll go. Let's get a lot of the boys and go over; just to encourage him, you know."
And they went. Tip and Kitty were there again; and again, with Tip, the struggle had to be gone through; his coward spirit whispered to him that the boys would only make fun of him if he said a word, and it would do more harm than good. His conscience answered, "Whosoever will deny Me on earth, him will I also deny before My Father which is in heaven." The solemn words conquered, and again Tip knelt down and prayed.
"My!" said Mr. Minturn, talking with his wife after they reached home; "when I thought of the bringing up which that boy has had,—no bringing up about it, he has justcomeup, the easiest way he could,—but when I heard him pray to-night, and then thought of our boy, who has been prayed for and watched over every day since he was born, I declare I felt as though I would give all I'm worth to have Howard stand where Tip Lewis does now."
Howard heard this, as he waited in the sitting-room for his father and mother; heard it in great amazement, and at first it made him indignant. The idea of comparinghimwith Tip Lewis! Then it made him sorrowful: his father's tones weresosad; after all that had been done for him, itwashard that he should disappoint his parents.
He listened to his father's prayer that night very closely, and its earnestness brought the tears to his eyes. Altogether, Howard went to school the next morning with a somewhat sober face, and took no part whatever in the boys' fun over the meeting.
Mr. Burrows' heart had been warmed by the voice of prayer from one of his scholars, and he began to pray and long for others of them to work also; and the great God, who knows the beginning and the end, led his first words of anxiety to Howard Minturn. They stood at the desk, teacher and scholar, Howard bending over his slate.
"Can't you get it?" Mr. Burrows asked,
"No, sir."
"Howard, are you working with all your thoughts to-day?"
"No, sir." And a bright flush mounted to his forehead.
"What is it, Howard?"
"I don't know, sir; not much of anything, I guess."
"Are you not quite satisfied with yourself to-day?"
"Satisfied! I—why—I don't know what you mean, sir; I have tried to do the best I could, I believe."
"Do you really think so, Howard?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you think so last evening, in the prayer-meeting? Can a boy, who is as well taught as you have been, feel that he is doing as well as he can, when he knows that he is every day cheating God?"
Howard's face fairly burned.
"I don't understand you, sir."
"Don't you?" and Mr. Burrows' voice was very kind. "I wish that God's own Spirit might help you to understand it. Didn't your father and mother promise God, when you were born, to try to train you up for Him, because you belonged to Him, and they knew it? Now, haven't they done their duty? is it their fault that you are not a Christian?"
"No, sir."
"Then it comes back to you. You belong to God, body and soul: He made you; He has kept you; He would save you, only you will not let Him. You can't help the fact that you belong to Him; all you can do is to refuse to give Him your love, and let Him lead you to heaven, and this you are doing. Is it right?"
Howard was growing haughty.
"I don't feel the need of any such things, Mr. Burrows," he answered coldly.
"Suppose you don't, does that help the matter any? Does it change the fact that you belong to God; that you are cheating Him out of His own property? The question I ask is, Are you doing right?"
Howard stood, with eyes fixed on his slate, saying nothing.
"Won't you answer me, Howard?" Mr. Burrows asked gently; "is it right?"
And, after a long, long silence, the boy's honest, earnest eyes were raised to his teacher's face, and he spoke steadily:
"No, sir."
"Are you willing to go on doing wrong?"
"No, sir."
"Will you turnnow, Howard, and start right?"
Now came another long silence. Howard Minturn, the honest, faithful boy, always getting a little nearer right than any of the others, had been condemned by his own words, and knew not what to say. At last he spoke:
"I can't promise, Mr. Burrows."
"Howard! such an answer fromyou, to whom I have only needed to point out what was right, in order to have it done!"
"But I can't trust myself, sir; I shall not feel to-morrow as I do now."
"That is, you feel like doing your duty today, but you expect, if you wait until to-morrow, that you will feel less like it; so you mean to wait. Is that right?"
The silence was much longer this time,—so long, that the boys began to look curiously at the two figures over by the desk, and wonder why the bell was not rung. But at last he raised those clear, truthful eyes once more:
"Mr. Burrows, I'll try."
And the next Thursday evening, when in the house of prayer it was very still, because Mr. Holbrook had just said, "Is there notonehere to-night who wants us to pray for him, and if there is, will he not let us know itnow?" suddenly there was a row of astonished faces in the seat where the schoolboys were sitting, because from among them arose Howard Minturn, and his face was pale and grave, and his voice was steady; they all heard his words:
"I want to be a Christian: will you pray for me?"
Oh, wouldn't they! Was there ever such another prayer as that which Mr. Minturn offered for his son? Did any one who heard it wonder that such prayer was answered, and that in the next meeting, Howard, speaking with a little ring of joy in his voice, said, "I love Jesus to-night. I want every one to love Him. I am very happy"?
From this the work went on. The little lecture-room grew full and overflowed, and the crowd now filled the church; and every night Some new voice was heard, asking for prayer.
Will Bailey seemed filled with the spirit of torment; teased the boys unmercifully; went to the meeting every evening, and made fun of it all day: but the boys were praying for him, and God's pitying eye was on him.
One evening there were two who arose to ask the prayers of Christians: one was Will Bailey, the most hopeless, so the boys thought, of all the boys in town; the other was Will Bailey's grey-haired father, the most hopeless, so the good men feared, of all the strong, self-satisfied men in town.
Yet there were two for whom daily earnest prayer was offered, who, in this blessed time, held themselves aloof,—two boys so far separated, that it seems strange and sad that their names should be coupled just here. Bob Turner and Ellis Holbrook, the lowest and the highest; the worst boy in school and the best! Yet they were united in this one thing, that they would have nothing to do with Christ. Tip had prayed for both, worked for both; but this was his success one afternoon.
"Say, Bob, won't you go to meeting to-night, just to please me?"
"Couldn't, Tip, no way in the world. I'd do most anything to please you, too, for the sake of old times when we used to steal apples together; but I've promised to go with Nick Hunt tonight, and tie old Barlow's cat fast to his frontdoor knob, and that's got to be done while the old man is at meeting, you know. 'Tain't no matter, either, about my going; you just do the praying for you and me too; then it will be all right."
Tip turned away with a sigh and a shudder. Could it be possible thatthatboy had ever been his only companion? Ellis was round by the ball-ground, and he went thither.
"Ellis, won't you go down to-night with the boys? it's almost the last meeting, you know."
Ellis wheeled around, and spoke in his coldest tone:
"Tip Lewis, you seem to take a wonderful interest in me, and I'm sure I'm much obliged to you; but I'll be a great deal more so if you'll attend to your own affairs after this, and let mine alone."
Poor Tip! how discouraged he felt! Yet that very evening, going home from school, he met Mr. Holbrook; the minister turned and walked up town with him.
"Edward," he said, "are you praying for my boy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you never stop praying for him while you live, until he comes to Christ?"
"I neverwill, sir," answered Tip, with energy.
How did Mr. Holbrook know so well what Kitty needed to help her? His words had given her such new thoughts; some way it was all new to her, the idea that she had any duty to perform towards her mother. She stood thinking of it that bright winter day,—stood before the little fire, and wondered how it was that she ought to commence. She was to be alone all day. Mrs. Stebbens, their next neighbour, had fallen down and sprained her ankle, and sent to know if Mrs. Lewis could do her promised day's work in the village. Kitty was left in charge of the house and her sick father. She looked around the room: what an ugly, dreary little room it was!—dust, dirt, and cobwebs everywhere; her hood and shawl lying in one corner; her mother's apron on the floor in the middle of the room; the breakfast dishes not yet washed; the stove all spattered with grease from the pork gravy; the hearth thickly covered with ashes; the paper window-curtain hanging by one tack; and on the mantelpiece, behind the stove, such an array of half-eaten apples, matches, forks, sticky spoons, broken teacups, and dirty candlesticks, as would have frightened any one less used to it than was Kitty. As she looked around her, a forlorn smile came over her face, for she thought of Mr. Holbrook's words: "When you brush up the floor, or brighten the fire to please your mother"—
"He don't know," she said to herself, "that mother don't care for sweeping and such things; he don't know how we live. I wonder if motherwouldnotice now if things were different. What if we did live like other folks,—had nice tilings, and kept them put up, and the room swept. Suppose I try it. What could I do? I might sweep and wash off the stove, and—and clean off the mantelpiece. I'll just do it, and see if anybody in this house will care."
No sooner thought than commenced. Kitty went to work. The dishes were washed until they shone; those clean dishes shouldn't go in such a disorderly cupboard. There was no help for it, the shelves must be washed; down came the bottles and bundles, papers of this and boxes of that, which had been gathering, Kitty didn't know how long, and the astonished shelves felt soap and water once more. How they were scrubbed!
"Kitty," called her father from his bedroom, hearing the racket, "what are you doing?"
"I'm cleaning house," answered Kitty promptly.
And her father, because he did not know what else to do, let her work. From the cupboard she went to the mantelpiece, bundled the things all off in a heap, washed it thoroughly, and put everything in order. What a day it was to Kitty! One improvement led to another, and as things began to grow clean in her hands, she grew wonderfully interested, and only stopped at noon to warm her father's gruel.
It was Saturday, and Tip had gone to pile wood for Mr. Bailey. He was to get his dinner and a grammar for his pay. He had wanted a grammar all winter, so he worked with a will; and Kitty saw neither him nor her mother through all the busy day. The early sun had set long before. Kitty thought he certainly would not know that room the next morning, it was all so changed. The paper curtain was mended and tacked up in its place; the old lounge cover was mended and fastened on smoothly; the mantelpiece shone and glowed in the firelight; the two shiny candlesticks, and beside them the little box of matches, were all that remained there of the rubbish of the morning; the floor was just as smooth and clean as soap and ashes, with plenty of hot water and an old broom, could make it; hoods and shawls and aprons and old shoes had all disappeared,—nothing was lying around: the table was drawn out, the clean, smooth plates arranged so as to hide the soiled spots on the tablecloth, the pudding was bubbling away in the astonished kettle, and Kitty's joy had been complete, when, only a few minutes before, after a great deal of stamping and pounding, she had opened the door to Howard Minturn, who said,—
"Mother sent you some milk for your supper.—Where's Tip?—Isn'tit cold, though?—There'll be prime skating to-night.—Give me the pitcher right away, please." All this in one breath.
Now they would have beautiful fresh milk for supper; and if there was anything which Tip liked, it was pudding and milk.
So Kitty set the old arm-chair in the warmest corner for her mother, fastened her father's door wide open, so that he could see the new room, then stirred her pudding, and watched and waited. Her mother came first. Kitty's heart had never beat more anxiously than when she heard the slow, tired step on the hard snow. Would she notice anything different? In she came, tired, cross, and cold, expecting to find disorder, discomfort, and cold inside. Could anybody, having eyes, fail to notice the changes which had been wrought in that little room since she went out from it in the early morning? She shut the door with a little slam, and then the flush of the firelight seemed to blind her a little; she brushed her hand over her face, and looked around her with a bewildered air. Kitty went over to her; some way she felt a great kindness in her heart for her mother, a great longing to do something for her.
"Is it cold, mother?" she asked brightly. "Take that chair," pointing to the seat in the warm corner. "Supper's all ready, and I've made a cup of tea for you."
Mrs. Lewis took off her hood and shawl in silence, untied her wet shoes, and placed her cold feet on the clean, warm stove-hearth; took in the brightness of the room, the shiny candlesticks, the neatly-spread tea-table; took whiffs of the steaming tea,—all in utter silence; only, when Kitty's father, looking out, said, "There's been business done here since you went away," something in her mother's voice, as she answered, "I should think there had," made the blood rush warmly into Kitty's cheeks, and made her whisper to herself, as she stooped to place the wet shoes under the stove to dry, "Mr. Holbrook told me true, I do believe. I guess I have pleased Jesus to-day; I feel so."
While she was taking up the pudding, there was a merry whistle outside, a brisk, crushing step on the snow, and Tip whizzed into the room.
Oh, there was no mistaking the look of delight on his face, nor the glad ring in his voice, as he said, "Oh, Kitty! why, Kitty Lewis! whathaveyou been doing? Why, it looks almost as nice here as it does at Howard Minturn's."
All that evening there seemed a spell upon the Lewis family. Mrs. Lewis didn't say one cross or fretful word; indeed, she had no cause, for in Kitty's heart there was a strange, new feeling of love for her mother, of longing to please and give her comfort; and never was mother waited on with a more quiet care than Mrs. Lewis received that night.
This was the first coming of home-comfort to the family. Tip had apples in his pocket, which Howard Minturn had given him; he roasted them before the fire, and his father ate very little pieces of them; and his mother darned stockings by the light of the candle in the clean little candlestick set on the clean little stand; and they were happy.
By and by Tip brought out his grammar, and, finding Kitty very much interested in examining it, said,—
"What if you should begin and study grammar with me?"
"What if I should?" answered Kitty. So that evening she commenced her education, and, though grammar was a queer study tobeginwith, still it was a beginning.
The pleasant evening wore away; the town clock had struck nine; Kitty's father had gone quietly to sleep, and the bedroom door was shut to keep all sounds from disturbing him. Tip had taken his candle and gone. Mrs. Lewis sat toasting her feet before the dying fire. Yet still Kitty lingered. She wanted to take Tip's advice, and tell her mother about her dear, new Friend, and this evening, of such wonderful peace, seemed the good time for doing so; but she didn't know how. If her mother would only say something to help her! and presently she did.
"Kitty, what fit came over you, to go to work and clear up at such rate?"
"I wanted to pleaseyou, I guess."
Kitty knew that this answer would surprise her mother, and it did, into utter silence; but, after what seemed to Kitty a long,longtime, she spoke again:
"What did you want to do that for?"
Now for it! This was the best chance she could ever hope to have, and her voice trembled a little:
"I wanted to please Jesus too, mother, and Mr. Holbrook said if I did things to help you, and that you would like,Hewould be glad—-Jesus would, you know." A little silence, and then: "I want to please Jesus all the time now, because I love Him, and I'm going to try to do right."
It was all out now, and her heart was beating so that it almost stopped her voice. Her mother shaded her face with her hand, and neither spoke nor moved. Kitty waited a little, then moved slowly towards the door of her bit of a bedroom; it was moonlight, so she needed no candle.
"Good-night, mother," she found courage to say at last.
"Good-night;" and her mother's voice sounded strangely, coming from behind the closely-held hand.
There was something like a great sob in Kitty's throat as she went to her room that night; in her heart was a great longing for mother-love. She would have liked to kiss her mother good-night, but she felt how queerly that would look; even tosaygood-night was something very unusual. So she knelt down beside her bed, and prayed for her mother.
I don't think Mr. Holbrook knew that the few kind words which he spoke to Kitty Lewis, on her way home from prayer-meeting, were seeds which were going to spring up and bear fruit unto everlasting life.
"Father," said Tip, as, after having carefully measured out and given him some cough-drops, he sat down for a chat with him before school,—"father, didn't you and Mr. Bailey go to school together when you were boys?"
"Yes," said Mr. Lewis. "Our fathers lived side by side, and we used to walk more than a mile to school together every morning; we were in the same class, too, and the best scholars in school. My! times are changed since that day. My father was considerably better off than his was, and now he's a rich man, and I'm nobody."
"Was he such a boy as Will Bailey is—or, I mean, as Will used to be?"
"I don't know much about Will; but I know his father was a sorry scamp, and many's the scrape he got me into. He took a notion to me. We lived near by, and were always together, and then I was as full of pranks as he was, I suppose. But he was a regular tyrant over the rest of the boys; they were more than half afraid of him; I don't know but what I was myself. Anyhow, I know I've thought I'd have been different, maybe, if I hadn't followed him so close in all his scrapes."
"Father, did you know Mr. Bailey was different now?"
"Different—how? What do you mean?"
"Why, he comes to prayer-meeting, and speaks and prays, and seems to love to."
"The mischief he does!" said Mr. Lewis, surprised out of his usual quiet tone. "I should think hewasdifferent. Why, he used to make great fun of all such things."
"Yes, that's what he says; but I tell you he don't make fun now."
"When did all that happen?"
"A few weeks ago, when the revival was, you know. He got up one night and asked them to pray for him, and now he almost always speaks or prays in the meetings."
"Well," said Mr. Lewis, after a pause, and with a little sigh, "I'm sure I ain't sorry. I only hope it will last; he needed it as bad as any one I know of."
"It will last," Tip said, speaking positively. "God will look out for that."
Then he waited a little before he spoke again—but he had been praying for his father long enough and earnestly enough to feel bold:
"I thought, last night, that you must have been pretty good friends once," he said presently, "for he most broke down when he was praying for you, and the tears just blinded him."
Mr. Lewis turned himself on his pillow, and looked steadily at his son. "Did Mr. Bailey pray forme?" he asked at last.
"Yes, he did; and he prayed as if he meant it."
"How came he to?"
"Why, I asked 'em to—all the folks in meeting, you know. I wanted you to be a Christian, and prayed for you, and then I asked them if they'd pray, and Mr. Bailey got right up. You don't mind that, do you, father? All the folks down there ask us to pray for their friends."
"No," answered Mr. Lewis at last, speaking slowly, "I don't know that I do. I need praying for, I suppose, if anybody does. I'm going where I can't be prayed for, pretty fast, I guess."
Tip had no answer to make to that.
"So you prayed for me too, did you?" his father asked presently.
"Yes, and I do every day, father; Idowant you to know Jesus."
A long silence followed, and then the sick man spoke again:
"Well, Tip, I'm glad that you've got right, gladder than I can tell you. My father was a good man, and tried to make me do what was right; but I went all wrong, wasted my whole life, and brought up my children to do so too; but you're getting on without my help, and I'm glad you'll grow up to be a good man, and be a comfort to your mother when I'm gone. But I don't know that you need ask folks to pray for me; it's too late,—I've gone too far to get back."
Tip's bold, prompt manner did not forsake him now; he answered quickly,—
"Father, I don't believe any such thing. God doesn't say anything about it's being too late; and He says if we want anything very much, and pray for it, and it's good to have, He'll give it to us; and I'm bound to believe Him. Once I prayed for Kitty, and prayed and prayed, and it didn't do a bit of good, until at last Mr. Holbrook told me that maybe it was because I didn't really believe any of the time that God was going to do what I wanted Him to; and I found out that was it. Just as soon as I began to think He would hear me, it all came out straight; and now I'm bound to believe Him every time. I've asked Him to make you a Christian, and I'm going to keep on asking, andHe'll do it. Father,"—Tip's voice took a softer tone, for he knew there was one very tender spot in his father's heart,—"don't you want to see little Johnny up in heaven?"
The muscles around Mr. Lewis's mouth began to twitch nervously, and a tear rolled down his cheek.
"I'm pretty near it," he said at last; "and I think sometimes I'd give the world, if I had it, to be ready to go; but it's all too late. I've known the right way all my life, and I've gone the other way; now I must just take my pay."
The very Spirit of Christ must have shown Tip what to say next. He spoke the words earnestly and solemnly; he meant no disrespect:
"Father, do you know more about it than God? Because, you see, it don't say any such thing anywhere in the Bible; I know it don't, for we talked about it in Sunday school once, and Mr. Holbrook said, 'No matter how old a man was, nor what he had done, he could be a Christian.'"
"I always thought it looked mean and sneaking in a man to have nothing to do with such things all his life, and then turn around just because he was going to die, and pretend to be very good. God can't be pleased with any such thing asthat. I've always said that I'd never do it."
Tip couldn't answer this: it didn't sound true; he felt sure it was not true; but he had no wisdom with which to meet it. He went to school with those last words of his father's ringing in his heart, and his thoughts took shape, and spoke in the very first sentence that he addressed to Mr. Holbrook, whom he overtook as he came out of the post office:
"Mr. Holbrook, can I ask you a question?"
And the minister, always ready to help any one out of trouble, smiled and bowed, and walked on by the side of the troubled boy.
"If a man should tell you he thought it would be mean in him to turn around and go to serving God, after he had found out he had but a little while to live, when he had cheated Him out of all the rest of his life, what would you say?"
"I think," said Mr. Holbrook, "I would be very likely to ask him whether he supposed he would feel any less mean for cheating God out of the last year of his life, simply because he had been doing so all the other years. Because a man has been doing wrong for forty years, I don't know why he should add another year of wrong; I should think he might much better turn around, and make all the amends he could."
"Oh!" said Tip, drawing a long breath; "why couldn't I have thought of that? I knew it was wrong,—I saw it plain enough; but I couldn't think of a word to say."
Mr. Holbrook looked earnestly at the eager boy. "Edward," he said at last, "do you think your father would see me this morning?"
"Yes," said Tip decidedly, "I know he would. If you would only go and see him, Mr. Holbrook, and explain that to him, I would besoglad."
And, looking back soon after, he had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Holbrook walk quickly down town in the direction of his home. And now Tip felt hopeful for his father: he had prayed for him, he had worked for him, and now Mr. Holbrook had gone to him; surely he could leave the rest in God's hands.
"Here Tip!" said Howard Minturn; "hold this frame steady while I try that nail. Will, don't put that one up so high, it ain't even with the others. Hold on, Ellis,—catch hold of this stool, it's tipping. There, now, it's all nice and in order,—isn't it, Mr. Burrows?" And he sprang from his stool, as their teacher entered the schoolroom door.
"Very likely," answered Mr. Burrows, smiling; "only I didn't hear what you said."
"I say we're ready for examination, room and all."
"The room is, certainly; and I hope your brains are. Ellis, I'd move that chair a little to the left; it will be in the way of the classes as it stands now. Do you feel brave to-day, Edward?"
"Yes, sir," answered Tip promptly; "pretty brave."
And he did, besides feeling eager and excited. The long winter term was over; to-day and tomorrow were to be days of examination. The boys had been working hard for it,—none harder than had Tip. It was the first examination which had ever come to him in this exciting way. Always before he had been among the few inevitable dunces, running away from examination altogether, or else laughing good-naturedly over his own blundering ignorance. But to-day it was different: he stood there on the stage among the workers, proudly answering his teacher's questions, and looking proudly over at the group of idlers,—Bob Turner at their head,—who loitered near the windows, wondering that he could ever have been of their number. This was going to be a great day for Tip; it is true he was far behind some others of his age, so far that not a single class of Howard Minturn's and Ellis Holbrook's were to be examined that day,—the advance classes being put for the next day,—while all of his came that morning; but then Tip knew there was change enough in him to call the attention of every one present. He felt the change in himself; his mother felt it, when she that morning brushed his hair for him, and fastened a clean collar on his jacket; the boys in school felt it. He had taken his place among the workers.
The bell rang at last, and the scholars filed in and took their places. There were visitors, even in the early morning; the people liked to attend Mr. Burrows' examinations. Tip's class in reading came first on the list, and never had his eyes been so bright or his face so eager. Tip had learned to read. Patiently, earnestly, he had plodded on through the long winter; now his sad blunderings in that line were over for ever; not a boy in school read more slowly, distinctly, and correctly than Tip Lewis. The selections were to be made by the committee, immediately after class, of those who were considered ready to enter the history class on the following term. This was the highest reading class in the school: and Tip's eyes fairly danced when Mr. Holbrook, who was chairman of the committee, out of a class of thirteen read but two names,—"Thomas Jones" and "Edward Lewis."
"Hallo, Tip!" Howard Minturn had said to him at recess; "let's shake hands. Welcome to history; it's awfully hard and interesting."
And Tip did shake hands, and laughed; and looked over at the other clique—the dunces—with a half-patronizing nod to Bob Turner; and wondered how hecould, have borne it to have been numbered with them that day; then he felt that he was climbing into the first set, and climbingfast.
In spelling, too, he came off conqueror; spelled down the class, spelled until Mr. Burrows closed his book with the words, "I presume you are tired of this, gentlemen, and, as our examinations are confined to the lessons, I think it will hardly pay to go further, for Edward has not missed since the second week in the term."
So again, flushed and excited, Tip went to his seat victorious. Only arithmetic now, and he would be through with the working part of the day. It was the last recitation in the morning, and he was so eager and anxious to do well, that he began to grow nervous.
The class was called at last. They had gone slowly and carefully through long division, and would be ready for fractions next term. The recitation passed off finely. Tip had not studied day and night during the winter for nothing. He was at the board, working an example in long division; it was almost finished. The hand of the clock pointed to ten minutes of twelve. In ten minutes he would be through, and his name would stand on that honoured list, among those who had not missed one word or made one mistake during the examination. His hand began to tremble. What was the matter with that example? Oh, whatwasthe matter? The remainder was too large; no—it was too small; no—it was—he didn't know what! Everybody was watching him; he heard a boy laugh softly. He had made a mistake, then; what was it? where was it? Mr. Burrows' voice came to him, calm and kind:
"Edward, don't get excited. Look at your remainder closely; take the first figures of divisor and remainder—nine in thirty-one, how many times? That will help you."
Ellis Holbrook stood but a step from the blackboard, just behind him. Tip heard his low whisper, "Seven," and, without waiting to think,—indeed, he was too nervous to think,—he caught at the number.
"Seven times!" he said hurriedly.
Then he heard bursts of laughter from the boys, and dashed down his chalk in an agony of shame and pain. And the clock struck twelve!
The honour was lost.
The boys gathered around him after school was closed.
"It was too bad, Tip," Howard Minturn said, in a tone of honest sympathy. "You'd have had it in a minute more."
"I'd have had it if it had not been for Ellis Holbrook, and he's a mean scamp!" Tip answered, in a rage.
"Whew!" said Will Bailey; "what did Ellis do?" and Ellis turned, and proudly confronted the angry boy.
"He told me wrong just on purpose; that's what he did, and he knows it."
And Tip broke away from them, and dashed out of the room.
Howard Minturn stood aghast! That Ellis Holbrook, his best friend, and the very pink of honour among the boys, should do so mean a thing, he could not think, and yet it was hard to think that Tip had not told the truth.
"What does he mean, Ellis?" he asked at last.
"You'll have to ask him if you want to find out," said Ellis haughtily. "He knows better than anybody else what he means, I guess."
The boys started homeward presently in a body. Bob Turner and his friends surrounded Tip, and Bob, who never lost a good opportunity for teasing, commenced at once:
"Poor little fellow, missed his lesson, so he did. Don't him cry; him shall have a penny to buy a multiplication-table with."
"Hold your tongue!" answered Tip, too angry to see how foolish it was to let such words, coming from a boy who didn't know a single line of the multiplication-table, provoke him.
"Sucha pity!" began Bob again; "when it had spelled its lesson all so nice, and had its face washed and its hair combed so pretty. Mustn't cry now, to spoil its face. Poor little fellow!"
Tip turned to his tormentor a face perfectly white with rage, and the boys hardly knew his voice:
"Bob Turner, if you say another word, I'll knock you down and thrash you within an inch of your life. I will"—
Oh, Tip Lewis! God forgive you for the way in which you in your blind rage have finished that sentence,—for the use which you have made of that great Name, which above all others you profess to reverence and fear! The awful word, once spoken, recalled him to himself: he clapped both hands over his face and ran wildly up the hill, then down out of sight.
The boys had all heard it. Howard, Ellis, Will Bailey, and a half-dozen others, were just behind him.
Ellis Holbrook's pride rose high.
"There's your wonderful boy," he said, "who was so changed, and has taken it upon himself to preach so many sermons tome. I'm sure I never finished any of my angry speeches with an oath, if Iamso far below him."
What an afternoon that was to Tip! he willneverforget it. He went no farther than the great tree, which was budding out in spring green. Down he sat on a stone, and once more covered his face with his hands, and such a storm of rage and pain swept over him as he had never known before.
How could he, howcouldhe have said that word?
Ever since he had learned to pray, he had been afraid of that sin,—afraid he might forget, and go back to his old habits, and he had watched and guarded his lips with such care and prayer. But lately he had given up all fear; it had been such a long time, and he had never once fallen, he felt sure that he never would again.
He had felt so sure and proud and strong, that he had asked no help from God that day; he had been so eager to spend every moment on his arithmetic, that he had found no time to go to his Bible for strength. No wonder—oh, no wonder that he fell! He had been standing too firmly, feeling no need of help. Now, what should he do? How low he felt, how mean! Could God forgive him? Yes, Hecould.
Tip felt in his soul that there was nothing which God couldnotdo, and yet he felt too mean and fallen to dare to ask Him for anything more; he forgot for the moment that Jesus Christ died to savesinners.
The sun went on over his head, and commenced his afternoon work; then there came up the hill the sound of the school-bell, but Tip took no notice of that; he didn't want tothinkof school, much less evengo. He began to fumble presently for his Bible,—hemusthave some help. It opened of itself at the Psalms, and he read the first line which he saw: "Unto Thee, O God, do we give thanks "—No, not that, and he turned back a couple of leaves. "Make a joyful noise "—No, no! he didn't want to hear anything about joy; his heart was as heavy as lead. So he turned over several leaves at once: hemustfind something that would read as if it meant him. "O Lord, rebuke me not in Thy wrath, neither chasten me in Thy sore displeasure." Oh, that was it! God was very angry with him,—-had a right to be,—this was just what he ought to say. He read on through the psalm; almost every verse seemed for him, and when he read the one next to the last,—"Forsake me not, O Lord; O my God, be not far from me,"—he said it over and over, and finally, in a great burst of tears, got down and said it on his knees.
The short spring day was over, and the chilly night was setting in. Tip had reached home finally, had split the wood for the next day, done whatever he could find to do about the house, and then carried the vests which his mother had just finished to the clothing-store,—going away around behind the mill so as to avoid passing the schoolhouse, lest he might chance to see some of the boys. Then he came home, ate his supper in silence, and went up to his attic. He felt better than he had at noon, but his heart was still heavy, and he dreaded the next day, not knowing what he ought to do, or how to do it. This was Thursday evening, but he didn't mean to go to prayer-meeting. Kitty had asked him, had even coaxed a little, but he said, "No, not to-night." He felt stiff and sore from his long sitting under the great tree in the early spring dampness. He told himself that this was the reason why he was not going to prayer-meeting; but the real one was, he felt as if he could not possibly face Mr. Burrows that evening, andcertainlynot Mr. Holbrook,—of course, Ellis had told him all about it. He felt very tired, and his head and limbs ached; he was going to read a chapter in his Bible and go to bed. He chose the same psalm which had come to him with so much power that afternoon, read it slowly and carefully, then knelt down to pray, and as he did so a new trouble loomed up before him. What should he do? He had prayed for Ellis Holbrook and Bob Turner ever since he began to pray for himself, but he felt as though he could not possibly pray for either of them to-night. Both had tried to injure him; both had succeeded. He wished them no harm: he didn't want to choke or drown them, as he had felt like doing at noon, but clearly he didn't want to pray for them. He had arisen from his knees, and was sitting on the edge of the box which was his table and chair, with a very troubled face. The more he thought about it, the more he felt that he could not pray for those boys just then. At last he thought he had found a way out of the difficulty. He said to himself that he was very tired, almost sick; he would just repeat the Lord's Prayer and go to bed. In the morning, very likely, he should feel differently; he almost knew he should. So he knelt down once more.
"Our Father which art in heaven," slowly reverently, through the sweet petition, until he came to "forgive us our debts as we"—There he stopped. He understood that prayer; they had been taking it up in Sunday school, a sentence at a time, and talking about it, and only the Sunday before last that sentence had been explained. To-night Tip could not finish it; there was no getting around the fact that he had not forgiven either Ellis or Bob. Once more he got up, and took a seat on the edge of his bed to think. He was never so perplexed in his life. What ought he to do? Couldn't he pray at all? Mr. Holbrook had said he must never mock God by asking for what he did not mean, and to say those words, "as we forgive our debtors," feeling as he did to-night, would be mocking God. He ought not to feel so, but how could he help it? Suddenly, with a little sigh of relief, he went down on his knees again: he had thought of something which he could say. "Oh, Jesus, make me feel like praying for Bob and Ellis; make me want them to be Christians as hard as I did last night; make me feel like forgiving them." Then there was silence in the lonely attic, while Tip, still on his knees, struggled with the evil spirit within him, and came off conqueror, for presently he added, "Oh, dear Jesus, I'll forgive them both!" and then he finished the prayer—"forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors." While he went around after that, making ready for rest and sleep, the "peace of God which passeth understanding" came down and settled in his heart. Presently he seemed to come to another difficulty, for he sat down with one boot in his hand and one still on his foot. This question, however, was settled promptly: he pulled the boot on again in a hurry, then picked up his jacket and put that on, seized his hat, and ran down-stairs.
"Kitty," he said, putting his head in at the kitchen door, "I'm going, after all; come on."
And Kitty joyfully ran for her hood and shawl.
But Tip did not open his lips in prayer-meeting that evening; he felt bowed down to the very ground with shame; he did not once raise his eyes to the seat where Howard Minturn, Will Bailey, and others of the schoolboys were sitting; and, when the short hour was gone, he made haste to get out from Mr. Holbrook's sight and the sound of his voice. But he had much reason, after that, to thank God that he did not succeed. He had just got from under the gaze of the hall-lamp, and stood a minute in the darkness waiting for Kitty, when he felt Mr. Holbrook's hand on his arm, and heard his kind, quiet voice:
"Edward, Mrs. Holbrook has some little business to transact' with Kitty to-night; shall I walk with you?" And, as Tip saw there was no help for it, and walked by his side, he said, "I didn't see you at school this afternoon: how was that?"
"Mr. Holbrook, didn't Ellis tell you about it this noon?"
"Ellis has told me nothing. I heard, from one of the smaller boys, a very sad story. Have you anything to tell me?"
"No, sir, I have not; it's all true. I got awful mad, and I said mad things. I—I did worse than that."
Tip's voice sank to a solemn whisper. Mr. Holbrook, too, was silent and sad; at last he said,—
"What, Edward! do you mean to give up, and go back to the old life?"
And he remembered, years after, just how painfully his heart throbbed while he waited for Tip's answer; it was prompt and plain: "No, sir; God wouldn't even let me do that."
And then for a minute Mr. Holbrook did not speak for very thankfulness, that, through all this maze of sin, God was leading Tip into the light again.
"Do you feel that you have God's forgiveness?" he asked, speaking gently.
"Yes, sir." Tip could not give very long answers that evening.
"Why were you so quiet to-night in prayer-meeting?"
"Because," said Tip, speaking low, "I was ashamed to say anything before you or Mr. Burrows or the boys, after what happened today."
"More ashamed with us than you were with God?"
"Yes, sir, I was; because God knows all about it,—just how sorry I am, and how He has forgiven me, and is going to help me; and you didn't know that."
Again Mr. Holbrook was thankful.
"How about to-morrow, Edward?" he asked at last.
And this time Tip's answer was very low: I don't know; I don't know what to do."
"If you knew what was right to do, would youdoit?"
"I'm pretty sure I'dtryto, sir."
"Well, did you honour or dishonour Christ to-day?"
Tip's answer was in a more timid tone than he often spoke:
"I dishonoured Him."
"Do the boys know that you are very sorry, and have asked God to forgive you?"
"No, sir; they don't know anything about it."
"Don't you think, for the honour of Christ, they ought to?"
"I suppose so."
"Who ought to tell them?"
No immediate answer came to this; then, after a little,—
"Mr. Holbrook, how could I tell them—to each one—about it?"
"See if you cannot answer your own question. Will not all the boys be likely to hear about it?"
"Yes, sir; they'll be sure to."
"And would they all be likely to hear what you have to say, unless you spoke to all at once?"
"But, Mr. Holbrook, if I did that, it would have to be in school."
"Well?"
"But to-morrow is the last day, and it's examination."
"Well?"
That short word seemed to have a good deal of power over Tip, for he only answered it by saying, after a long silence,—
"Mr. Holbrook, I wonder if you can think how very hard that would be?"
"Edward, I wonder if you can think how very hard it was for your Saviour to listen to your words this noon?"
And Mr. Holbrook heard no more from Tip, save, when they reached the corner, a very low, very grave "Good-night."