Watch—Work—Wait / Or, The Orphan's Victory

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX.

SUNSHINE AND SHADOW.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X.

MAKING OTHERS HAPPY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But what?" inquired the gentleman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI.

A LABOUR OF LOVE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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