Brown promptly obeyed both orders, and Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper, hastily prepared a room for the unexpected guest. The doctor soon responded to the summons, but all his efforts failed to restore the boy to consciousness that day. The bishop watched the child as anxiously as if it had been one of his own flesh and blood. He had neither wife nor child, but perhaps all the more for that, his great heart held love enough and to spare for every child that came in his way.

  It was near the close of the following day when Tode’s eyes slowly opened and he came back to consciousness, but his eyes wandered about the strange room and he still lay silent and motionless. The doctor and the bishop were both beside him at the moment and he glanced from one face to the other in a vague, doubtful fashion. He asked no question, however, and soon his eyes again closed wearily, but this time in sleep, healthful and refreshing, instead of the stupor that had preceded it, and the doctor turned away with an expression of satisfaction.

  “He’ll pull through now,” he said in a low tone. “He’s young and full of vitality—he’ll soon be all right.”

  The bishop rubbed his hands with satisfaction. “That’s well! That’s well!” he exclaimed, heartily.

  The doctor looked at him curiously. “Did you ever see the lad before you picked him up yesterday?” he asked.

  “No, never,” answered the bishop, who naturally had not recognised in Tode the boy whom he had taken into church that Sunday, weeks before.

  The doctor shook his head as he drove off and muttered to himself,

  “Whoever saw such a man! Who but our bishop would ever think of taking a little street urchin like that right into his home and treating him as if he were his own flesh and blood! Well, well, he himself gets taken in often no doubt in another fashion, but all the same the world would be the better if there were more like him!”

  And if the doctor’s pronouns were a little mixed he himself understood what he meant, and nobody else had anything to do with the matter.

  The next morning Tode awoke again and this time to a full and lively consciousness of his surroundings. It was still early and the nurse was dozing in an easy-chair beside the bed. The boy looked at her curiously, then he raised himself on his elbow and gazed about him, but as he did so he became conscious of a dull throbbing pain in one side of his head and a sick faintness swept over him. It was his first experience of weakness, and it startled him into a faint groan as his head fell back on the pillow.

  The sound awoke the nurse, who held a spoonful of medicine to his lips, saying,

  “Lie still. The doctor says you must not talk at all until he comes.”

  “So,” thought the boy. “I’ve got a doctor. Wonder where I am an’ what ails me, anyhow.”

  But that strange weakness made it easy to obey orders and lie still while the nurse bathed his face and hands and freshened up the bed and the room. Then she brought him a bowl of chicken broth with which she fed him. It tasted delicious, and he swallowed it hungrily and wished there had been more. Then as he lay back on the pillows he remembered all that had happened—the horses running down the street, his attempt to stop them, and the awful blow on his head as it struck the curbstone.

  “Wonder where I am? Tain’t a hospital, anyhow,” he thought. “My! But I feel nice an’ clean an’ so—so light, somehow! If only my head wasn’t so sore!”

  No wonder he felt “nice and clean and light somehow,” when, for the first time in his life his body and garments as well as his bed, were as sweet and fresh as hands could make them. Tode never had minded dirt. Why should he, when he had been born in it and had grown up knowing nothing better? Yet, none the less, was this new experience most delightful to him—so delightful that he didn’t care to talk. It was happiness enough for him, just then, to lie still and enjoy these new conditions, and so presently he floated off again into sleep—a sleep full of beautiful dreams from which the low murmur of voices aroused him, and he opened his eyes to see the nurse and the doctor looking down at him.

  “Well, my boy,” said the doctor, with his fingers on the wrist near him, “you look better. Feel better too, don’t you?”

  Tode gazed at him, wondering who he was and paying no attention to his question.

  “Doctor,” exclaimed the nurse, suddenly, “he hasn’t spoken a single word. Do you suppose he can be deaf and dumb?”

  The bishop entered the room just in time to catch the last words.

  “Deaf and dumb!” he repeated, in a tone of dismay. “Dear me! If the poor child is deaf and dumb, I shall certainly keep him here until I can find a better home for him.”

  As his eyes rested on the bishop Tode started and uttered a little inarticulate cry of joy; then, as he understood what the bishop was saying, a singular expression passed over his face. The doctor, watching him closely could make nothing of it.

  “He looks as if he knew you, bishop,” the doctor said.

  The bishop had taken the boy’s rough little hand in his own large, kindly grasp.

  “No, doctor,” he answered, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before yesterday, but we’re friends all the same, aren’t we, my lad?” and he smiled down into the grey eyes looking up to him so earnestly and happily.

  Tode opened his lips to speak, then suddenly remembering, slightly shook his head while the colour mounted in his pale cheeks.

  “He acts like a deaf mute, certainly,” muttered the doctor, and stepping to the head of the bed he pulled out his watch and held it first to one and then the other of Tode’s ears, but out of his sight.

  Tode’s ears were as sharp as a ferret’s and his brain was as quick as his ears. He knew well enough what the doctor was doing but he made no sign. Were not the bishop’s words ringing in his ears? “If the poor child is deaf and dumb I shall certainly keep him here until I can find a better home for him.”

  There were few things at which the boy would have hesitated to ensure his staying there. He understood now that he was in the house of the bishop—“my bishop” he called him in his thought.

  So, naturally enough, it was taken for granted that the boy was deaf and dumb, for no one imagined the possibility of his pretending to be so. Tode thought it would be easy to keep up the deception, but at first he found it very hard. As his strength returned there were so many questions that he wanted to ask, but he fully believed that if it were known that he could hear and speak he would be sent away, and more and more as the days went by he longed to remain where he was.

  As he grew stronger and able to sit up, books and games and pictures were provided for his amusement, yet still the hours sometimes dragged somewhat heavily, but it was better when he was well enough to walk about the house.

  Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper, had first admired the boy’s bravery, then pitied him for his suffering, and had ended by loving him, because she, too, had a big, kindly heart that was ready to love anybody who needed her love and service. So, it was with great satisfaction that she obeyed the bishop’s orders, and bought for the boy a good, serviceable outfit as soon as he was able to walk about his room.

  She combed out and trimmed his rough, thick hair, and then helped him dress himself in one of his new suits. As she tied his necktie for him she looked at him with the greatest satisfaction, saying to herself,

  “Whoever would believe that it was the same boy? If only he could hear and speak now like other boys, I’d have nothing more to ask for him.”

  Then she stooped and kissed him. Tode wriggled uneasily under the unwonted caress, not quite certain whether or not he liked it—from a woman. The housekeeper took his hand and led him down the stairs to the bishop’s study. It was a long room containing many books and easy-chairs and two large desks. At one of these the bishop sat writing, and over the other bent a short, dark-faced man who wore glasses.

  “Come in, Mrs. Martin, come in,” called the bishop, as he saw her standing at the open door. “And who is this?” he added, holding out his hand to the boy.

  “You don’t recognize him?” Mrs. Martin asked smiling down on Tode’s smooth head.

  The bishop looked keenly at the boy, then he smiled contentedly and drew the little fellow to his side.

  “Well, well!” he said, “the clothes we wear do make a great difference, don’t they, Mrs. Martin? He’s a fine looking lad. Gibson, this is the boy I was telling you about.”

  The little dark man turned and looked at Tode as the bishop spoke. It was not a friendly look, and Tode felt it.

  “Ah,” replied Mr. Gibson, slowly. “So this is the boy, is it? He was fortunate to fall into your hands;” and with a sharp, sidelong glance over his shoulder, Mr. Gibson turned again to his work.

  The bishop drew a great armchair close to his table and gently pushed Tode into it. Then he brought a big book full of pictures and put it into the boy’s hands.

  “Let him stay here for a while, Mrs. Martin,” he said. “I always work better when there is a child near me—if it’s the right sort of a child,” he added, with a smile.

  Mrs. Martin went out, and Tode, with a long, happy breath, leaned back in the big chair and looked about him at the many books, at the dark head bent over the desk in the alcove, finally at the noble face of the bishop intent on his writing.

  This was the beginning of many happy hours for Tode. Perhaps it was the weakness and languor resulting from his accident that made him willing to sit quietly a whole morning or afternoon in the study beside the bishop’s table, when, before this, to sit still for half an hour would have been an almost unendurable penance to him; but there was another and a far stronger reason in the deep reverential love for the bishop, that day by day was growing and strengthening into a passion in his young heart. The boy’s heart was like a garden-spot in which the rich, strong soil lay ready to receive any seed that might fall upon it. Better seed could not be than that which all unconsciously this man of God—the bishop—was sowing therein, as day after day he gave his Master’s message to the sick and sinful and sorrowful souls that came to him for help and comfort.

  It goes without saying that the bishop had small leisure, for many and heavy were the demands upon his time and thought, but nevertheless he kept two hours a day sacredly free from all other claims, that he might give them to any of God’s poor or troubled ones who desired to see him, and believing that Tode could hear nothing that was said, he often kept the boy with him during these hours.

  Strange and wonderful lessons were those that the little street boy learned from the consecrated lips of the good bishop—lessons of God’s love to man, and of the loving service that man owes not only to his God, but to his brother man. Strange, sad lessons too, of sin and sorrow, and their far-reaching influence on human lives. Tode had not lived in the streets for nearly fourteen years without learning a great deal about the sin that is in the world, but never until now, had he understood and realised the evil of it and the cure for it. Many a time he longed to ask the bishop some of the questions that filled his mind, but that he dared not do.

  Among these visitors there came one morning to the study a plainly dressed lady with a face that Tode liked at the first glance. As she talked with the bishop, the boy kept his eyes on the book open in his lap, but he heard all that was said—heard it at first with a startled surprise that changed into a sick feeling of shame and misery—for the story to which he listened was this:

  The lady was a Mrs. Russell. The bishop had formerly been her pastor and she still came to him for help and counsel. She had been much interested in a boy of sixteen who had been in her class in the mission school, a boy who was entirely alone in the world. He had picked up a living in the streets, much as Tode himself had done, and finally had fallen into bad company and into trouble.

  Mrs. Russell had interested herself in his behalf, and upon her promise to be responsible for him, he had been delivered over to her instead of being sent to a reform school. She went to a number of the smaller dry goods stores and secured promises of employment for the boy as parcel deliverer. To do this work he must have a tricycle, and the energetic little lady having found a secondhand one that could be had for thirty dollars, set herself to secure this sum from several of her friends. This she had done, and was on her way to buy the tricycle when she lost her pocketbook. The owner of the tricycle, being anxious to sell, and having another offer, would not hold it for her, but sold it to the other customer. The boy, bitterly disappointed, lost hope and heart, and that night left the place where Mrs. Russell had put him. Since then she had sought in vain for him, and now, unwilling to give him up, she had come to ask the bishop’s help in the search.

  To all this Tode listened with flushed cheeks and fast-beating heart, while before his mind flashed a picture of himself, wet, dirty and ragged, gliding under the feet of the horses on the muddy street, the missing pocketbook clutched tightly in his hand. Then a second picture rose before him, and he saw himself crowding the emptied book into that box on the chapel door of St. Mark’s.

  The bishop pulled open a drawer in his desk and took from it a pocketbook, broken and stained with mud. He handed it to Mrs. Russell, who looked at him in silent wonder as she saw her own name on the inside.

  “How did it get into your hands?” she questioned, at last.

  “You would never guess how,” the bishop answered. “It was found in the pastor’s box at St. Mark’s, and the rector came to me to inquire if I knew any one of that name. I had not your present address, but have been intending to look you up as soon as I could find time.”

  “I cannot understand it,” said Mrs. Russell, carefully examining each compartment of the book. “Why in the world should the thief have put the empty pocketbook there, of all places?”

  “Of course he would want to get rid of it,” the bishop replied, thoughtfully, “but that certainly was a strange place in which to put it.”

  “If the thief could know how the loss of that money drove that poor foolish boy back into sin and misery, he surely would wish he had never touched it—if he has any conscience left,” said Mrs. Russell. “There is good stuff in that poor boy of mine, and I can’t bear to give him up and leave him to go to ruin.”

  The bishop looked at her with a grave smile as he answered:

  “Mrs. Russell, I never yet knew you willing to give up one of your straying lambs. Like the Master Himself, your big heart always yearns over the wanderers from the fold. I wonder,” he added, “if we couldn’t get one or two newsboys to help in this search. Many of them are very keen, sharp little fellows, and they’d be as likely as anybody to know Jack, and to know his whereabouts if he is still in the city. Let me see—his name is Jack Finney, and he is about fifteen or sixteen now, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, nearly sixteen.”

  “Suppose you give me a description of him, Mrs. Russell. I ought to remember how he looks, but I see so many, you know,” the bishop added, apologetically.

  “Of course you cannot remember all the boys who were in our mission school,” replied Mrs. Russell. “Jack is tall and large, for fifteen. His hair is sandy, his eyes blue, and, well—his mouth is rather large. Jack isn’t a beauty, and he is rough and rude, and I’m afraid he often does things that he ought not to do, but only think what a hard time he has had in the world thus far.”

  “Yes,” replied the bishop with a sigh, “he has had a hard time, and it is not to be wondered at that he has gone wrong. Many a boy does that who has every help toward right living. Well now, Mrs. Russell, I’ll see what I can do to help you in this matter. Your faith in the boy ought to go far toward keeping him straight if we can find him.”

  The bishop walked to the hall with his visitor. When he came back Tode sat with his eyes fastened on the open book in his lap, though he saw it not.

  He did not look up with his usual bright smile when the bishop sat down beside him. That night he could not eat, and when he went to bed he could not sleep.

  “Thief! Thief! You’re a thief! You’re a thief!”

  Over and over and over again these words sounded in Tode’s ears. He had known of course that he was a thief, but he had never realised it until this day. As he had sat there and listened to Mrs. Russell’s story, he seemed to see clearly how his soul had been soiled with sin as surely as his body had been with dirt, and even as now the thought of going back to his former surroundings sickened him, so the remembrance of the evil that he had known and done, now seemed horrible to him. It was as if he looked at himself and his past life through the pure eyes of the bishop—and he hated it all. Dimly he began to see that there was something that he must do, but what that something was, he could not as yet determine. He was not willing in fact to do what his newly awakened conscience told him that he ought to do.

  In the morning he showed so plainly the effects of his wakeful night, and of his first moral battle, that the bishop was much concerned.

  He had begun to teach the boy to write that he might communicate with him in that fashion, but as yet Tode had not progressed far enough to make communication with him easy, though he was beginning to read quite readily the bold, clear handwriting of the bishop.

  This morning, the bishop, noting the boy’s pale cheeks and heavy eyes, proposed a walk instead of the writing lesson. Tode was delighted to go, and the two set off together. Now the boy had an opportunity to see yet farther into the heart and life of this good, great man. They went on and on, away from the wide streets and handsome houses, into the tenement house district, and finally into an old building, where many families found shelter—such as it was. Up one flight after another of rickety stairs the bishop led the boy. At last he stopped and knocked at a door on a dark landing.

  The door was opened by a woman whose eyes looked as if she had forgotten how to smile, but a light flashed into them at sight of her visitor. She hurriedly dusted a chair with her apron, and as the bishop took it he lifted to his knee one of the little ones clinging to the mother’s skirts. There were four little children, but one lay, pale and motionless on a bed in one corner of the room.