There were not many visitors in the next morning; it was too early, as yet, for any but the examining committee, and a few very fond, very anxious mothers. Mr. Burrows' hand was on the bell; in a few moments the algebra class would be in full tide of recitation. Ellis and Howard had their slates in their hands, ready to start at the first sound, when Tip Lewis left his seat and made his way towards the stage. Mr. Burrows looked surprised; this was entirely out of order; but a look at Tip's face made him change his mind about sending him back to his seat, and bend his head to listen to the few words that were hurriedly whispered in his ear. Then he looked more surprised, hesitated a minute, then asked,—
"Hadn't you better wait until noon, and I can detain the scholars a few moments?"
"No," said Tip, shaking his head, and speaking earnestly; "I'm afraid, if I wait till noon, I shan't do it at all."
"Very well," Mr. Burrows answered finally. "Scholars, one of your number tells me that he has something of importance to say to you; we will wait and hear him."
It was well for Tip that he was a bold boy, that every day of his life had been such as to teach him a lesson of boldness, else his courage would surely have failed him, when he felt the many curious eyes resting on him. As it was, his face was scarlet, when he turned it away from the desk and towards the boys. Yet he spoke promptly, as he always did when he spoke at all:
"I want to tell the boys that I am sorry for yesterday. I suppose they all know what I did. I got awful mad, and I—I said a dreadful word. I didn't think I would ever be so wicked again; I feel awful about it. But I don't want the boys to think that I don't love Jesus any more, because I do; and He is going to help me try Such a silence as was in that schoolroom then, the boys had never felt before! Mr. Burrows' face was shaded with his hand; he let the silence rest upon them for a moment, after Tip had taken his seat; then he spoke, low and solemnly,—
"Boys, what God has forgiven, I feel sure that no scholar of mine will be mean enough ever to mention again."
Then the bell sounded, and the business of the day went on. Tip had laid his head down on the desk the minute he took his seat, and he kept it there throughout the recitation. He had been through a fearful struggle; it was hard work for a boy like him to stand up before the school and tell them how he had fallen. But it was over now, and from his very soul he felt that he had done right.
Bob Turner, sitting beside him, was quiet and sober; and when Tip raised his arm with such a sudden jerk that he knocked his arithmetic to the floor, Bob leaned over and quietly picked it up and laid it back in its place; which was a wonderful thing for Bob Turner to do.
At noon the boys gathered around Tip, quiet and kind; no one spoke of what had beentheimportant event of the morning; all were on good behaviour.
Ellis Holbrook came into their midst.
"Tip," he said, speaking gravely, yet very coldly, "perhaps it would be as well for you to know that you made quite a blunder yesterday, when you said I told you wrong; I hadn't the slightest notion of telling you, right or wrong. But I know how you came to think so. I was looking out a word in Mr. Burrows' dictionary, and stood just behind you, when Mr. Bailey leaned over and asked me how many there were in your class when all were present, and I answered him, seven."
Tip looked perfectly astonished.
"Why didn't you say so yesterday?" he asked at last.
"Because you didn't give me a chance," Ellis answered coolly. "I'm not in the habit of cheating, nor of being told that I do, so I was not prepared with an answer."
"That's true," said Tip, after a minute, answering the first part of Ellis's sentence; "that's true, I didn't. I was mad, and I just banged off before anybody could say anything. I might have known you didn't do any such thing; it ain't like you."
And Tip walked away, leaving Ellis to think that the boy who was so far below him had shown much the better spirit of the two.
The busy day was drawing to a close; the last recitation was over, and the boys were in a state of grand excitement, waiting to hear the report of the committee; waiting to know whose names were to stand on the Roll of Honour, having passed through the entire examination without a mistake. Poor Tip was sad; yesterday morning he had felt so sure that his name would have an honourable place, and to him it was so much more exciting, because it would be for the first time. How hard he had worked; and now it was all lost! Stupidly lost, too, he said to himself, over an example that he had done a dozen times; and he drew a heavy sigh, and roused himself to listen to the report. Mr. Burrows had already called for it, and Mr. Holbrook, as chairman of the committee, had arisen; but, instead of reading the report, said,—
"Mr. Burrows, if there is time, I should like to say a few words to the scholars. Boys, you were all listeners to Edward Lewis's examination yesterday, and I presume you know better than I do how hard he has worked. Now, I think any one who watched him yesterday could not have failed to see that, had he not grown excited and nervous, he could have worked that example. Mr. Burrows, may I put a question to vote?"
And Mr. Burrows giving a hearty consent, he continued, "Very well. Now I want every boy here, who is willing to allow Edward Lewis to go to the boardnowand try that example, and, if he succeeds, give him the place which would have been his yesterday, to stand up."
Ellis Holbrook was the first to spring to his feet, and every single boy in the room followed his example; Tip alone sitting still, with burning cheeks.
"Well done," said Mr. Holbrook "Now it only remains to get your teacher's consent to our plan."
Which Mr. Burrows gave by wheeling his table from before the blackboard and picking up an arithmetic. "You may come forward, Edward. I will dictate the example; which one is it?"
"The thirty-ninth, sir; fifty-first page."
By this time Tip was at the board. How they watched him! how fearful his teacher was for him! how he longed to have him succeed! Tip worked fast and boldly; his hand did not tremble; chalk and fingers and brain did their duty; the terrible "nine in thirty-one, how many times," as a test for the larger number, was reached, and an unusually large and bold figurethreewas placed in the quotient; a few more rapid dashes, and, with a grand flourish after the "seventeen remainder," Tip threw down the chalk, pushed back the hair from his hot temples, and walked to his seat. The boys could not keep quiet any longer: a very soft tapping was heard at first, then, finding they were not silenced, it rose to a loud, decided stamping of many feet. But Mr. Holbrook was onhisfeet again, and they were quiet directly, for the report was finally to be read.
"My son," said Mr. Holbrook, not long after, laying his hand kindly on Ellis's shoulder, as he was hurrying from the room, "what do you think of Edward's religion to-night?"
"I think it is honest, sir," Ellis answered quickly. "Excuse me, father, if you please; I must see Howard a minute before he goes;" and so he ran away from his father's longing look.
As for Tip, he borrowed from Howard Minturn a copy of the village paper, which came out a few days after, and read the report of the examination; read this sentence: "And, among all the pupils, perhaps no one of them has made more rapid or astonishing progress than has Edward Lewis."
Then, while the twilight deepened, he turned eagerly to the next column, which read in this way:—
"ROLL OF HONOUR;"Being an alphabetically arranged List of thosewho passed the entire Examination withoutmaking an error:WILLARD BAILEY.ELLIS HOLBROOK.HARVEY JENNINGS.EDWARD LEWIS."
"See here, Tip," called Mr. Minturn, appearing in his store door one morning not long after the examination; "I want to talk to you."
Tip swung his basket off his shoulder, and went into the store. He was at work for Mr. Dewey, and every piece of meat which he carried home took the form, in his eyes, of a Latin grammar and a dictionary; for these two books were what he was at present aiming after.
"I'm in a great hurry, Mr. Minturn," he said; "I've got a piece of meat for your folks in my basket, and I expect they want it."
"They'll have to wait till they get it," answered Mr. Minturn; "but I never hinder folks long. What are you going to do with yourself, now school's out?"
"Oh, work; anything I can find to do while vacation lasts."
"So you're going to keep on at school, are you? I thought likely, since your father was laid up, you'd he hunting for steady work, so you could help the family along. There's a hard winter coming, you know."
There was no mistaking Mr. Minturn's tone. It said, as plainly as words could have done, "That's what I think you ought to do, anyhow."
Tip looked troubled. "There's nothing for me to do," he said at last; "I don't know of a place in this town where I could get steady work that I could do; and besides, if there was, I'm after an education now."
"My brother is here from Albany," Mr. Minturn made answer to this. "He is a merchant, has a large store there, and keeps a great many clerks. He's been plagued to death lately with one of his boys,—when he sent him home with bundles, he'd open them and help himself; and my brother told me last night, if I could warrant him a boy who was perfectly honest, he'd take him home with him, pay his fare down, and do well by him. I thought of you right away, and I told my brother that you were just the boy for him,—you'd be as true as steel; but then, if you're going to keep on at school, it's all up."
Mr. Minium did not add, that he had kept his brother until eleven o'clock the night before, telling him Tip's history,—what a boy he had been, how he had changed, how he was struggling upward; and, finally, the whole story of the examination,—the failure, the downfall, the public confession; nor how his brother had listened eagerly, and had said, with energy, after the story was finished,—
"Such a boy as that ought to be helped; and I'm ready to help him."
None of this did Tip hear, but he stooped down for his basket when Mr. Minturn had finished speaking, with a bright blush on his cheek. It was something for a boy like him to be called "as true as steel."
"Yes," he said decidedly; "I'm going to keep on at school, that's certain. Thank you all the same."
And out he went; yet all the way up and down the streets his thoughts were busy over what he had just heard. It wastime, certainly, as poor as they were, that he began to work; his mother's sewing supported the family now, and hard and late into the nights she had to work to keep them from hunger. Tip had thought of this question before, but had always comforted himself with the thought that work was not by any means an easy thing to get in the village; the odd jobs which he could find, out of school hours, being really the only things he could get to do. But no such comfort came to him to-day: here was a chance, and a splendid one, for getting steady work, and by and by good wages probably; why wasn't he glad?
Oh, ever since he gave himself to Christ, there had been in his heart a longing to get an education, and not only that, but to become a minister. Very small, faint hopes he had, and even those were frightened sometimes at their own boldness; but every day the desire grew stronger, and it did not seem as though he could possibly give up school now. It was out of the question, he told himself, just as he was beginning to enjoy his books so much, and was doing well. Mr. Burrows would be disappointed in him; he had encouraged him to study. No, it couldn't be done. He would consider the matter settled. And yet there was his mother, working day and night, and he, her only son, not helping. There was his father, growing weaker every day, coughing harder every night; long ago they had given up the hope that the cough would ever leave him. There was Kitty, who ought to be in school, but could not because her mothermusthave the little help which she could give. Tip was half distracted with thinking about it; he felt provoked at Mr. Minturn, and Mr. Minturn's brother, and the store in Albany, and the boy who helped himself out of other people's bundles; they were all trying to cheat him out of his education. A dozen times he said it was settled, and as many times began at the beginning to think it all over again. He went home finally, after the meat was carried around; but this didn't help him any. Home hadn't gone back to its old state of dirt and disorder: Kitty's first attempt had been too successful, and she had liked the looks of things too well to give up; so there was a great change for the better in the housekeeping, which both Kitty and her mother enjoyed. Still, there was no denying that, though a clean, it was a very forlorn little room, with very few things for comfort or convenience. Tip had never seen this with such wide-open eyes as he did today; so coming home did not quiet the vexing thoughts.
He split wood and pumped water without whistling a note, growing more sober every minute. At last, after supper, when the work was all done that he could do, he drew a sigh of relief; it was so nice to have time for thought. He could go up to his attic, and he would not come down, no, not if it wasn't in three days, until this thing was decided finally and for ever.
Kitty sewed steadily on the seam which her mother had fixed for her, and wondered why Tip didn't come down and hear her lesson, which had been ready for him this hour. It was another hour before he came; then his mother said,—
"Tip, if you've a cent in the world, do take it, and go and get your father some of that cough-candy. I do believe he hasn't stopped coughing since supper."
Tip took his hat and started for the store; as he went he whistled a little. The cough-candy was found at a store away up town, and, getting a paper of it, Tip dashed on around the corner and opened Mr. Minturn's store door.
"When is your brother going home?" he asked, without ceremony, seeing Mr. Minturn behind the counter.
"Next Monday."
"Well, I'm going to talk to father, and I think likely I'll want to go along with him."
"All right."
So Tip slammed to the door and ran away and Mr. Minturn never knew what a downfall that decision had been to the boy's dear hopes and plans.
It was all settled in the course of a day or two. Mr. Minturn from Albany was very kind. Tip was to have wages that seemed a small fortune to him, and enough had been advanced to get him a new suit of clothes, which his mother made.
One would have supposed that the future would look bright to him; yet it was with a very sad heart that he took his seat in prayer-meeting that Thursday evening, the last time he expected to be in that room for—he didn't know how long. He had a feeling that he ought to be very glad and thankful, and wasn't at all.
Through the opening hymns and prayers his heart kept growing heavier every moment, and it was not until Mr. Holbrook arose, and repeated the text which he had chosen for the evening, that Tip could arouse himself to listen. It was a queer text, so he thought,—"Who shall roll away the stone?" What could Mr. Holbrook be going to say on that? He found out, and had reason to remember it for ever after. As he went out from that meeting, his thoughts, had he spoken them, would have been like these:
"That's true,—I don't believe any man but Mr. Holbrook would ever have thought of it: they worried at a great rate about that stone, how they would get it rolled away, and when they got there it was gone. I'll remember that. I'll do just as he said: when I see a stone ahead of me, I won't stop and fret about it; I'll walk straight up to it, and when I get there maybe it will roll out of my way."
Behold Tip, now in Albany, far away from home and friends, from every one that he had ever seen before, save Mr. Howard Minturn, young Howard's uncle. But he had been there some time, and was growing into a settled-at-home feeling. It had been a wonderful change to him. Mr. Minturn did not board his clerks; but for some reason, best known to himself, he had taken Tip home with him. For a few days the boy felt as though the roses on the carpets were made of glass, and would smash if he stepped on them. But he was getting used to it all; he could sit squarely on his chair at the table instead of on the edge, spread his napkin over his lap as the others did, and eat his pie with a silver fork under the light of the sparkling gas.
"Mother," said little Alice Minturn, "why does father have Edward board here, and sit at the table with us?"
"Because, Alice, your father wants to help him in every way; your uncle Minturn thinks he is an unusually good, smart boy."
"I think so too," said Alice, and was satisfied.
And Tip Lewis was Tip no longer; no one knew him by that name; every one there said "Edward," save the store clerks, and they called him "Ed."
He had a queer feeling sometimes that he was somebody else, and that Tip Lewis, whom he used to know so well, would be very much astonished if he could see him now.
He went into Sabbath school, and became a member of Mr. Minturn's Bible class; but teachers were scarce, and before he had been there three weeks Mr. Minturn sent him to take charge of a class of very little boys, who called him "Mr. Lewis," and made him feel strange and tall. He began to realize that he was almost sixteen years old, and growing very fast.
He was leading a very busy life now-a-days; at work all day, in and for the store, and in the evening doing all he could with his books. Those books and his love for them were a great safeguard to him, kept him away from many a temptation to go astray; and yet it was hard work to accomplish much in the little time he had, and with no helper. Sometimes he sighed wearily, and felt as though the road was full of stones.
"I pity you, old fellow," one of the younger clerks said to him one evening, as they were leaving the store.
"I don't know for what," was the good-natured answer.
"Why, Mr. Minturn's pink of a perfect and wonderful and altogether amazing son Ray has just got home from the University; saw him pass the store not an hour ago, leaning back in the carriage like a prince."
"What's he?" asked Edward.
"He's a prig; that's what he is."
"What's a prig?"
"Ho! you're a greeney, if you don't know what a prig is. Wait till he snubs you and lords it over you awhile; then I guess you'll know. He'll have a good chance, seeing you're right there at the house all the while. I wouldn't be in your shoes for a penny."
Spite of its making him a great greeney, Edward did not know what a prig was; but, judging from his companion's tone, he decided that it must be something very disagreeable. He went home feeling cross and uncomfortable, wishing that Ray were anybody in the world rather than Mr. Minturn's son, or anywhere else rather than at home. He was beginning to have such a nice time there; they were all so kind to him, and really seemed to like him. It was too bad to have it all spoiled.
"I know what kind of a fellow he is," he muttered to himself; "he's like that Mr. Symonds who comes to the store twice a week or so after kid gloves, and acts as if he thought he was a great deal too good to ask me a decent question. My! I wish he was in Texas."
The dining-room was a blaze of light when he peeped in, soon after the family were gathered waiting for Mr. Minturn. The newcomer sat on the sofa, one arm a-round little Alice, and the other resting gently on his mother's lap. Edward guessed, by his mother's face, that she didnotwish he was in Texas. Mr. Minturn came in presently, and Edward stole into the room just behind him; but Alice called him eagerly:
"Edward, Ray has come! Come over here and see him."
"Go ahead," said Mr. Minturn, as Edward stood still, with very red cheeks; and Ray sat up and held out his hand.
"How do you do, Edward? Alice has been making me acquainted with you this afternoon, so you're not a stranger."
How very clear and kind his tones were! Edward was astonished. That same evening he was more astonished. He was in the library, at work over his books; Mr. Minturn had to go to a committee meeting, expecting to be detained late; as he arose from the dinner-table, he said,—
"How am I to get in to-night? Here's my night-key in two pieces."
"I'll be night-key, sir," said Edward promptly.
"Well, you may; you can take your books to the library, and have a long evening to pore over them."
So he was there, poring over them with all his might, when the door opened gently, and Ray Minturn came in.
"Are you hard at work?" he asked kindly.
"Yes, sir," said Edward, wishing he would go out again. But he didn't seem in a hurry to do so; he took a book from the case, and glanced over it a moment, then came towards Edward.
"What are you studying?"
"Fractions," answered Edward briefly.
"Do you have any trouble?"
"Yes, lots," speaking a little crossly, for he wanted to go on with his work; "I can't get this one I'm at, to save my head."
"Suppose I see what is the matter." And Bay drew a chair to the table and sat down, glancing his eye over the slate.
"Rather, suppose you see for yourself," he said in a few moments. "Just run over that multiplication at the top of the slate."
"Oh, bother!" Edward said, after he had obeyed orders; "that figure three has made me all this trouble."
"Smaller things than figure threes make trouble. Have you been to school lately?"
"Always, till I came here; but I might just as well have been out until last winter."
"What happened last winter?"
"Lots of things," answered Edward, with brightening eyes. But he didn't seem disposed to state any of them; so, after waiting a little, Ray asked,—
"Wouldn't you get on faster with your books if you had a teacher?"
"Think likely I should; but I haven't got any, so I'll have to get on as fast as I can."
"How would it do if I should play teacher while I am at home, and give you the hour from nine till ten?"
Edward laid down his pencil, turned his eyes for the first time full upon Kay, and looked at him in silent astonishment.
"Do you mean it?" he asked at last.
"Certainly I do; I shouldn't say so if I didn't. Don't you think you would like it?"
"Like it! I guess I would. But I don't know—What do you do it for?"
"Because I am glad to help a boy who seems to be trying to help himself. We will consider it settled, then. It is ten o'clock; will you come out to prayers now?"
And at this the astonished look on Edward's face deepened.
"Is Mr. Minturn here?" he asked.
"No; but his son is. Are you so surprised that I should have prayers in my father's absence?"
"Yes," said Edward; "I didn't know—I mean I didn't think"—
"You didn't think I had learned to pray, perhaps. Thank God, I have." Then he laid his hand kindly on Edward's shoulder. "Haveyoulearned that precious lesson yet, my friend?"
"Yes," said Edward softly; "a good while ago."
"I am very glad; you will never learn anything else that is quite so important. What is all the study for, by the way? Have you any plans.'"
"Yes," said Edward, astonished at what he was about to tell to a stranger; "I want to get an education, and then, if I possiblycando that, I want to be a minister."
Ray's hand fell from his shoulder, and when he answered this, his voice was low and a little sad:
"God bless you, and help you. I hope you will never have to give it up."
Edward made up his mind that night that a prig meant the best and kindest,—yes, and the wisest young man in the world.
The long, bright summer days and the glowing autumn days were gone; mid-winter was upon them. During all this time Edward was hard at work; there was plenty of business to be done at the store. He had been promoted; very rarely, now-a-days, was he called on to carry home purchases, or to do errands. He had his counter and his favourite customers. There had been another change, too, which Edward felt sure Ray had had a hand in; Ray had a hand in everything that was good and thoughtful. He had long evenings for study now; he came up to dinner with Mr. Minturn at six o'clock, and had no further work to do until the next day. Oh, those long evenings! What rapid progress he made! what a teacher Ray was! Could a boy help getting on who was so carefully and kindly led?
What wasnotRay to him?—teacher, friend, brother; constant, unfailing, loving guide. Edward was learning to love him with an almost worship.
Meantime, every one saw better than did Edward himself how he had changed. He had not been in constant intercourse with a Christian family, who lived their religion every day and every hour, for nothing; his improvement had been constant and rapid.
He came home from the post office one evening with his hands full of letters, among them a very queer-looking one for himself. He carried the others to the library, and his own to his room. Such an odd letter as it was! He was glad it was his business to get the mail, and that none of the other clerks had seen this, with his name written at the very top of the envelope, and written "Tip" at that. How oddly it looked, and how queerly it sounded when he said it over! It was so long since he heard that name, he never wanted to again. He was glad that Ray Minturn had never called him Tip, nor heard him called so.
Who could it be from? Nobody wrote to him except Kitty, and once in a long while his mother; but this was no home-letter. At last he broke the seal, and read:—
"DEER TIP,—Mother's dead, I feel bad, you kno that, so what's the use? I've got to go to work. I like you better than any of the other felows, always did. Can't I com out there to your store and work, I'll behave myself reel wel; Iwill, honour bright, if you'll git me a place. I've got money enuff to get there. I dug potatoes for old Williams and earned it. Rite to me rite off that's a good fellow. I want to com awful. BOB TURNER."
Edward was thunderstruck! he dropped the letter on the floor in disgust. What was to be done now? The idea of having Bob Turner there was perfectly dreadful; besides, thank fortune! it was impossible. They wanted more help, to be sure, had been looking out for a boy that very day, but not such a one as Bob,—that was out of the question; and yet—Bob's mother was dead! In his rude, careless way, Bob had loved his mother rather better than he had any one else, and Edward did not doubt that he felt badly. He was without friends now; surely he needed one if he ever did. But it wassodisagreeable to think of having him there,—he was so different from any of the others, and he would callhimTip, and be always around in his way; would seem to lead him back to the old life from which he thought he had escaped altogether. It was not to be thought of for a moment. But then—and now came a startling thought. How long he had been praying for Bob! Perhaps this was the way in which God meant to answer, by giving him a chance to work as well as pray. Perhaps he ought to bewillingto have him come. No matter how much the clerks might make fun of him for having such a friend; no matter how much pain and annoyance it might cause him; if this was God speaking to him to help his brother, how dreadful it would be to make no answer!
He sat down to think about it; his algebra lay open before him; he was not quite ready for Kay, but he could not attend to algebra now.
"Let me see," he said; "if thereshouldbe such a thing as that Bob could come, what would I do for him? One of two things is certain, either he'll lead me or I shall him; we always did when we were together much. Which will it be? If he leads me, he'll lead me into mischief, just as sure as the world; if I leadhim, I'll try to keep him out of mischief. It's clear that I ought to be the leader. Now, how would I do it, I wonder? Bob ought to be a Christian; he won't be safe two minutes at a time until he is. If God says anything, He says He'll hear prayer. If I believe that, why don't I pray for Bob, so that he'll be converted? Idopray for him always, but it's kind of half-way praying—kind of as if I thought it was a pretty hard thing for God to do after all. That's wrong. God wants him safe, and He knows he isn't safe now, and He's willing to help him; it must be my fault that He don't. My business and lessons, and all that sort of thing, are putting Bob and Ellis, and even father, pretty much out of my thoughts. That's wrong too, and must be stopped. Mr. Minturn says a thing is never half done that hasn't a corner in the day belonging to itself. I'll try that rule. After this, every evening at half-past eight, I'll come up here to my room and lock the door, and I'll pray for Bob; I'll pray as though I expected an answer, and was going to be on the look-out for it. I won't let anything hinder me from coming at just that time, unless it's something that I can't help. Meantime, I'll get him a place if I can."
Edward was as straightforward as Tip had been; this point decided, he went down-stairs to the library door, and knocked.
Mr. Minturn was alone, and busy; but he looked up as Edward entered in answer to his "Come in."
"Well, sir, what is it?"
"Have you time for a little piece of business?"
"Always time for business; sit down. What is it about?"
"Have you found a boy yet?"
"No. Have you?"
"Yes, sir; there's a boy out home who wants to come; I've just had a letter from him. His name is Turner—Bob Turner."
"Is he a good boy?"
"No, sir."
"Well, that's plain! What are you talking about, then?"
"I want you to make him a good boy, sir."
"Humph! that's an idea. I can't make boys over new. Is he honest?"
"No, sir, I don't think he is very,—not what you mean by honest; but his mother is dead, and he hasn't any friends; he goes with a miserable set of fellows, and he'll get worse than he is in no time if he stays there."
"And the whole of it is, you think it's my duty to let him come, and try to save, him! Suppose I should, what would you do for your share?"
"I'd try, too."
"How?"
"Why, I'd try to get him to do right."
"Suppose he should try to get you to do wrong?"
"He couldn't!" said Edward positively.
"How did you find that out?"
"Because I should pray for myself every day, and for Bob too; and God hears prayer."
"Yes, but God's people sometimes get very far away from Him; if this Bob should leadyouastray, I'd be sorry I ever heard of him."
"I don't feel much afraid," Edward said, speaking this time in a more quiet, less positive tone, "for I never go wrong when I pray often; pray about everything that comes up, you know, and mean what I pray for."
"Humph!" said Mr. Minturn; "that's a good idea; I guess you're pretty safe underthatrule."
"Besides," said Edward, reserving one of his best arguments till the last, "I know somebody who would help Bob ever so much,—Mr. Ray would find him out."
Mr. Minturn's eyes grew bright, and he smiled a half sad smile.
"Yes," he said, "that's true enough; Ray can't come near anybody without helping him. Well, write to the boy to come on; we'll try him. Has he anything to come with?"
"Yes, sir, he says he has money enough to get here." And Edward went away glad, for he had begun to be very willing to have Bob there.
Edward got up one morning feeling years older than he had only the morning before,—older and graver, feeling a great responsibility resting on his shoulders; for he was The weary frame, racked with so many pains, was at last at rest. Kitty had written just a line, telling the sad story, but it did not reach him until nearly a week after; and with it came Mr. Holbrook's,—a long letter, full of tender sympathy, telling all about how, in the afternoon of an early spring day, they had laid his father by Johnny's side.
Edward read on eagerly, until he came to this sentence: "My dear boy, I have a most precious message for you. I was with him only an hour before he died, and at that time he said to me, 'I want you to tell Tip that God has heard his prayer, and saved his father; and that I shall watch for him to come to heaven, and bring all the rest.' And, Edward, I haven't a shade of doubt but that your father is with his Redeemer; you must let me quote again a verse which I once gave you: 'I love the Lord, because He has heard my voice and my supplications.'"
And at this point the letter dropped from his hand, and Edward shed his first tears for his father.
It was curious, the different ways that Mr. Minturn and his son had of expressing sympathy.
"Oh," Mr. Minturn said, when he was told, "why in the world didn't they send for you?"
"Because, sir, my father died very suddenly, and my mother thought I could not afford to come so far for the funeral."
"Afford! as if that would have made any difference. Did they think I would let it costyouanything?"
Edward showed Mr. Holbrook's letter to Ray after that; and when it had been read, expressed the feeling which had been much in his heart ever since the news came, and which had been strengthened by Mr. Monturn's words:
"I shall always be sorry that I could not have gone to the funeral."
And Bay answered, resting his arm, as he spoke, lightly on Edward's shoulder, to express the tenderness which he felt, "No you won't, my dear fellow; when you get up there, in the glory of the Redeemer's presence, and meet your father face to face, you will not remember to be sorry that you did not see himburied."
Meantime Bob had come, and been set at work. He did not board at Mr. Minturn's. Edward had heard that matter arranged with a little sigh of relief; his precious hour with Ray, then, would be undisturbed.
Bob was doing very much better than anybody who knew him would have imagined hecoulddo; he seemed to have made up his mind to behave himself, sure enough. Yet his being there was a trial to Edward in several ways: he had a great horror of being called "Tip;" that name belonged to the miserable, ragged, friendless, hopeless boy who used to wander around the streets in search of mischief, not to the young man who was a faithful clerk in one of the finest stores in Albany, besides being a teacher in Sabbath school, and a very fair scholar in Latin and algebra. But Bob Turner could not be made to understand all this; and though he stared at the neat black suit which Edward wore, and opened his eyes wide when Mr. Minturn went and came in company with his old companion, and honoured him in many ways, he still called him "Tip," in clear, round tones, that rang through the store a dozen times a day. But there was nothing which Ray could not smooth over, so Edward thought, when one evening he flounced into the library with a very much disturbed face.
"I wish that fellow knew anything," he said angrily.
"What is the matter now?" Bay asked, meeting the bright, angry eyes with a quiet smile.
Edward laughed a little. "Well, I can't help feeling vexed; Bob screeches that hateful little name after me wherever I go. I despise that name, and I wish he could be made to understand it."
"How did you happen to be called Tip at first?"
"Why," said Edward, turning over the leaves of his dictionary, "my little sister Kitty made it up before she could talk plain. How she ever got that name out of Edward, I don't know; I'm sure I wish she had been asleep when she did it; but that's what she called me, and that's what I've been ever since."
"And did Johnny, the little boy that died, ever call you so?"
Edward's eyes began to grow soft.
"Often," he said gently; "and it was about the only name he could speak; he was a little fellow."
"Well, Edward, I should not think it would be such a very disagreeable name to you, when your father, who is gone, always used it, and always in kindness, you told me; and it is the only name by which little Johnny can remember you. There are two things to be thought of in this matter," Ray continued, after a moment, finding Edward not disposed to speak: "one is, if you hope to do anything with this old companion of yours, you must be ready to take worse things from him than a quiet, inoffensive little name like that; he will learn your right name, perhaps, in time. And the other is—What is Bob Turner's right name, my friend?"
Edward's face flushed, his lips quivered into a little smile, then he laughed outright.
"It would be ridiculous to callhimRobert!" he said, still laughing. "Ray, here's my exercise, if you want it now."
And Ray heard no more complaints about the offending little name.
"Say, Tip, just go home with me to-night," Bob coaxed one evening, as Edward, having been detained late at the store, was leaving just as Bob was closing the shutters. "Mr. Ray's head is so bad you won't have any plaguy lessons to-night to hinder you. Every single fellow in the store but me is going to the theatre, and I am awful lonesome up there alone."
"It is a wonder you are not going too," said Edward.
"No, it ain't. I can keep a promise once in a while, I reckon. That Ray Minturn can do anything with a fellow, and I was fool enough to promise him that I wouldn't go. Come, go up home with me; do, that's a good fellow!"
"No," said Edward decidedly, "I can't."
"Now, Tip Lewis, I think you're real mean; you don't never come to see me no more than if I was in Guinea. You act as if you were ashamed of me, and I keep my word and behave myself, too; and you're a mean, chicken-hearted fellow, if you're ashamed to notice me now-a-days, just because you board in a big house and dress like a dandy."
"Poh!" said Edward; "what nonsense that is! I'd look well being ashamed of any one that Minturn talked with. But, Bob, I can't go to-night, nor any other night just about this time; because I made a promise that I'd do something else, at exactly half-past eight, and that nothing in the world should hinder me if I could help it; and it can't be far from half-past eight now."
Bob eyed him curiously. "Tip, you're the oddest fellow born, I do believe," he said at last "Is it lessons?"
"No, it's nothing about lessons."
"Couldn't Ihelpyou to do it?"
"Yes," said Edward, after a thoughtful silence; "youcouldhelp me better than any one else, only you won't."
"Well, now," Bob answered earnestly, "as sure as I'm alive, I will, if you'll tell me what it is; I'll help you this very night."
"Do you promise?" asked Edward.
"Yes, I do, out and out; and when I promise a thing through and through, why,youknow, Tip Lewis, that I do it."
"Well," said Edward, as he tried the door to see that all was safe before leaving, "then I'll tell you. Every night, at exactly half-past eight, I go to my room and ask God over and over again to make you want to be a Christian."
Not a single word did Bob answer to this; he took long strides up the street by the side of Edward in the direction of Mr. Mintern's, never once speaking until they had reached the door, and stood waiting to be let in; then he said, "Tip, that's mean."
"What is?"
"To get a fellow to promise what he can't do."
"I have not. Don't you want to be a Christian?"
"No; I can't say that I'm particular about it."
"But that's too silly to believe. You need a friend to help you about as badly as any one I know of, and when you can have one for the asking, why shouldn't you want Him? Besides, I didn't saymakeyou a Christian, anyhow; I said make youwantto be one. You can pray, thatI'msure; any way, you promised, and I trusted you."
Bob followed him through the hall, up the stairs, to his neat little room, and whistled "Hail, Columbia," while he lighted a match and turned on the gas.
"My! you have things in style here, don't you?" he said, looking around, while the bright light gleamed over the pretty carpet and shining furniture.
"Yes," said Edward; "everything in this house is in style. Bob, it's half-past eight."
"Well," Bob said good-naturedly, "I'd like to know what I'm to do; this is new business to me, you see."
"I'm going to kneel down here and pray for you, and you promised to do the same."
Edward knelt at his bedside, and Bob, half laughing, followed his example. But Christ must have been praying too, and putting words into Edward's heart to say. By and by, in spite of himself, Bob had to put up his hand and dash away a tear or two. He had never heard himself prayed for before.
That evening was one to be remembered by Bob Turner, for more than one reason. Bay sent for both of the boys to come to his room; he was sick, but not too sick to see and talk with Bob whenever he could get a chance. He made the half-hour spent with him so pleasant, that Bob gave an eager assent to the request that he would come often. More than that, he kept his word; and as often as he passed Edward's door, towards nine o'clock, he stepped lightly, for he knew that he was being prayed for, and there began to come into his heart a strange longing to pray for himself. One evening he discovered that Ray, too, prayed every night for him, and the vague notion grew into a certainty, that what they two were so anxious about for him, he ought to desire for himself.
"Ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you."
Edward had taken this promise into his heart; he was trying to live up to the condition to abide in Christ, and in due season God made His promise sure.
"I wish," Bob said to Ray one evening when the weary head was full of pain,—"Idowish I could do something for you."
"You can," Ray answered quickly,—"something that I would like better than almost anything else in the world."
"What is it?" Bob's question was sincere and eager.
"Give yourself to Christ."
Bob heard this in grave, earnest silence.
"I would," he said after a minute, "if I knew how."
"Do you mean that?"
"Yes, I do; I'm sick of waiting, and I'm sick of myself."
"If I should tell you how, would you do it?"
"Yes, I would," spoken evidently with honest meaning.
"Kneel down, then, here beside me, and say to God that you want to be a Christian; that you are willing to give yourself up to Him now and for ever, to do just as He tells you."
Bob hesitated, struggling a little, and at last knelt down. There was silence in the room, while three sincere hearts were lifted up in prayer; and surely Christ bent low to listen. When Bob would have risen, Bay laid one hand on his arm, and, steadying his throbbing head with the other, said solemnly,—
"Blessed Redeemer, here is a soul given up to Thee. Do Thou take it, and wash it in Thy precious blood, and make it fit for heaven. We ask boldly, because Thou hast promised, and we know that Thy promises are sure."
"Edward," Ray said the next evening, as they sat alone, and were silent for a little, after Bob had left them, and gone home rejoicing in the hope of sins washed away, "what was that verse that your minister at home quoted for you in his letter?"
"I love the Lord, because He has heard my voice and my supplication," Edward repeated it with brightening eyes.