“She is sick?” inquired the bishop, his voice full of sympathy, as he looked at the small, wan face.

  The woman’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Yes,” she answered, “I doubt I’m goin’ to lose her, an’ I feel I ought to be glad for her sake—but I can’t.” She bent over the little form and kissed the heavy eyelids.

  “Tell me all about it, my daughter,” the bishop said, and the woman poured out her story—the old story of a husband who provided for his family after a fashion, when he was sober, but left them to starve when the drink demon possessed him. He had been away now for three weeks, and there was no money for medicine for the sick child, or food for the others.

  Before the story was told the bishop’s hand was in his pocket and he held out some money to the woman, saying,

  “Go out and buy what you need. It will be better for you to get it, than for me to. The breath of air will do you good, and I will see to the children until you come back.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then with a word of thanks, threw a shawl over her head and was gone.

  The bishop gathered the three older children about him, one on each knee and the third held close to his side, and told them stories that held them spellbound until the sick baby began to stir and moan feebly. Then the bishop arose, and taking the little creature tenderly in his strong arms, walked back and forth in the small room until the moaning cry ceased and the child slept. He had just laid it again on the bed when the mother came back with her arms full of packages. The look of dull despair was gone from her worn face, and there was a gleam of hope in her eyes as she hastily prepared the medicine for the baby, while the bishop eagerly tore open one of the packages, and put bread into the hands of the other children.

  “God bless you, sir,—an’ He will!” the woman said, earnestly, as the bishop was departing with a promise to come soon again.

  Tode, from his seat in a corner had looked on and listened to all, and now followed the bishop down to the street, and on until they came to a big building. The boy did not know then what place it was. Afterward he learned that it was the poorhouse.

  Among the human driftwood gathered here there was one old man who had been a cobbler, working at his trade as long as he had strength to do so. The bishop had known him for a long time before he gave up his work, and now it was the one delight of the old man’s life to have a visit from the bishop, and knowing this, the latter never failed to come several times each year. The old cobbler lived on the memory of these visits through the lonely weeks that followed them, looking forward to them as the only bright spots in his sorrowful life.

  “You’ll pray with me before ye go?” he pleaded on this day when his visitor arose to leave.

  “Surely,” was the quick reply, and the bishop, falling on his knees, drew Tode down beside him, and the old cobbler, the child and the man of God, bowed their heads together.

  A great wonder fell upon Tode first, as he listened to that prayer, and then his heart seemed to melt within him. When he rose from his knees, he had learned Who and What God is, and what it is to pray, and though he could not understand how it was, or why—he knew that henceforth his own life must be wholly different. Something in him was changed and he was full of a strange happiness as he walked homeward beside his friend.

  But all in a moment his new joy departed, banished by the remembrance of that pocketbook.

  “I found it. I picked it up,” he argued to himself, but then arose before him the memory of other things that he had stolen—of many an evil thing that he had done, and gloried in the doing. Now the remembrance of these things made him wretched.

  The bishop was to deliver an address that evening, and Tode was alone, for he did not feel like going to the housekeeper’s room.

  He was free to go where he chose about the house, so he wandered from room to room, and finally to the study. It was dark there, but he felt his way to his seat beside the bishop’s desk, and sitting there in the dark the boy faced his past and his future; faced, too, a duty that lay before him—a duty so hard that it seemed to him he never could perform it, yet he knew he must. It was to tell the bishop how he had been deceiving him all these weeks.

  Tears were strangers to Tode’s eyes, but they flowed down his cheeks as he sat there in the dark and thought of the happy days he had spent there, and that now he must go away from it all—away from the bishop—back to the wretched and miserable life which was all he had known before.

  “Oh, how can I tell him! How can I tell him!” he sobbed aloud, with his head on the desk.

  The next moment a strong, wiry hand seized his right ear with a grip that made him wince, while a voice with a thrill of evil satisfaction in it, exclaimed in a low, guarded tone,

  “So! I’ve caught you, you young cheat. I’ve suspected for some time that you were pulling the wool over the bishop’s eyes, but you were so plaguy cunning that I couldn’t nab you before. You’re a fine specimen, aren’t you? What do you think the bishop will say to all this?”

  Tode had recognised the voice of Mr. Gibson, the secretary. He knew that the secretary had a way of going about as soft-footed as a cat. He tried to jerk his ear free, but at that Mr. Gibson gave it such a tweak that Tode could hardly keep from crying out with the pain. He did keep from it, however, and the next moment the secretary let him go, and, striking a match, lit the gas, and then softly closed the door.

  “Now,” he said, coming back to the desk, “what have you to say for yourself?”

  “Nothing—to you,” replied Tode, looking full into the dark face and cruel eyes of the man. “I’ll tell the bishop myself what there is to tell.”

  “Oh, you will, will you?” answered the man, with a sneer. “I reckon before you get through with your telling you’ll wish you’d never been born. The bishop’s the gentlest of men—until he finds that some one has been trying to deceive him. And you—you whom he picked up out of the street, you whom he has treated as if you were his own son—I tell you, boy, you’ll think you’ve been struck by lightning when the bishop orders you out of his sight. He never forgives deceit like yours.”

  Tode’s face paled and his lips trembled as he listened, but he would not give way before his tormentor.

  His silence angered the secretary yet more. “Why don’t you speak?” he exclaimed, sharply.

  “I’ll speak to the bishop—not to you,” replied the boy, steadily.

  His defiant tone and undaunted look made the secretary furious. He sprang toward the boy, but Tode was on the watch now, and slipped out of his chair and round to the other side of the desk, where he stopped and again faced his enemy, for he knew now that this man was his enemy, though he could not guess the reason of his enmity. The secretary took a step forward, but at that Tode sped across the room out of the door, and up to his own room, the door of which he locked.

  Then he sat down and thought over what had happened, and the more he thought of it the more certain he felt that what the secretary had said was true.

  A long, long time the boy sat there, thinking sad and bitter thoughts. At last, with a heavy sigh, he lifted his head and looked about the bright, pretty room, as if he would fix it all in his mind so that he never could forget it, and as he looked at the soft, rich carpet, the little white bed with its fresh, clean linen, the wide, roomy washstand and bureau, he seemed at the same time to see the bare, dirty, cheerless little closet-like room to which he must return, and his heart ached again.

  At last he started up, searched in his pockets for a piece of paper and a pencil, and began to write. His paper was a much-crumpled piece that he had found that morning in the wastebasket, and as yet his writing and spelling were poor enough, but he knew what he wanted to express, and this is what he wrote:

  DEAR BISHOP:

  I hav ben mene and bad i am not def and dum but i acted like i was caus I thot you wood not kepe me if yu knu I am sory now so i am going away but i am going to kepe strate and not bee bad any more ever. I thank you and i lov you deer.

  TODE BRYAN.

  It took the boy a long time to write this and there were many smudges and erasures where he had rubbed out and rewritten words. He looked at it with dissatisfied eyes when it was done, mentally contrasting it with the neat, beautifully written letters he had so often seen on the bishop’s desk.

  “Can’t help it. I can’t do no better,” he said to himself, with a sigh. Then he stood for several minutes holding the paper thoughtfully in his hand.

  “I know,” he exclaimed at last, and ran softly down to the study. It was dark again there and he knew that Mr. Gibson had gone.

  Going to the desk, he found the Bible which the bishop always kept there. As Tode lifted it the leaves fell apart at one of the bishop’s best-loved chapters, and there the boy laid his letter and closed the book. He hesitated a moment, and then kneeling down beside the desk, he laid his face on the cover of the Bible and whispered solemnly,

  “I will keep straight—I will.”

  It was nearly nine o’clock when Tode returned to what had been his room; what would be so no longer. He undressed slowly, and as he took off each garment he looked at it and touched it lingeringly before he laid it aside.

  “I b’lieve he’d want me to keep these clothes,” he thought, “but I don’t know. Maybe he wouldn’t when he finds out how I’ve been cheatin’ him. Mrs. Martin’s burnt up my old ones, an’ I’ve got to have some to wear, but I’ll only take what I must have.”

  So, with a sigh, he laid aside his white shirt with its glossy collar and cuffs, his pretty necktie and handkerchief. He hesitated over the shoes and stockings, but finally with a shake of the head, those, too, were laid aside, leaving nothing but one under garment and his jacket, trousers and cap.

  Then he put out the gas and crept into bed. A little later he heard Mrs. Martin go up to her room, stopping for a moment to glance into his and see that he was in bed. Later still, he heard the bishop come in and go to his room, and soon after the lights were out and all the house was still.

  Tode lay with wide open eyes until the big hall clock struck twelve. Then he arose, slipped on his few garments and turned to leave the room, but suddenly went back and took up a little Testament.

  “He told me to keep it always an’ read a bit in it ev’ry day,” the boy thought, as with the little book in his hand he crept silently down the stairs. They creaked under the light tread of his bare feet as they never had creaked in the daytime. He crossed the wide hall, unfastened the door, and passed out into the night.

  VI. Tode’s New Start

  A chill seemed to strike to Tode’s heart as he stood on the stone steps and looked up to the windows of the room where the bishop was sleeping, and his eyes were wet as he passed slowly and sorrowfully out of the gate and turned down the street. Suddenly there was a swift rush, a quick, joyful bark, and there was Tag, dancing about him, jumping up to lick his fingers, and altogether almost out of his wits with joy.

  Tode sat down on the curbstone and hugged his rough, faithful friend, and if he whispered into the dog’s ear some of the grief that made the hour such a bitter one—Tag was true and trusty: he never told it. Neither did he tell how, night after night, he had watched beside the big house into which he had seen his master carried, nor how many times he had been driven away in the morning by the servants. But Tag’s troubles were over now. He had found his master.

  “Well, ol’ fellow, we can’t stay here all night. We must go on,” Tode said at last, and the two walked on together to the house where the boy had slept before his accident. The outer door was ajar as usual, and Tode and the dog went up the stairs together.

  Tode tried the door of his room. It was locked on the inside.

  “They’ve let somebody else have it,” he said to himself. “Well, Tag, we’ll have to find some other place. Come on!”

  Once the boy would not have minded sleeping on a grating, or a doorstep, but now it seemed hard and dreary enough to him. He shivered with the cold and shrank from going to any of his old haunts where he would be likely to find some of his acquaintances, homeless street Arabs, like himself. Finally he found an empty packing box in an alley, and into this he crept, glad to put his bare feet against Tag’s warm body. But it was a dreary night to him, and weary as he was, he slept but little. As he lay there looking up at the stars, he thought much of the new life that he was to live henceforth. He knew very well that it would be no easy thing for him to live such a life, but obstacles in his way never deterred Tode from doing, or at least attempting to do, what he had made up his mind to. He thought much, too, of the bishop, and these thoughts gave him such a heartache that he would almost have banished them had he been able to do so—almost, but not quite, for even with the heartache it was a joy to him to recall every look of that noble face—every tone of that voice that seemed to thrill his heart even in the remembrance.

  Then came thoughts of Nan and Little Brother, and these brought comfort to Tode’s sorrowful heart. He had not forgotten Little Brother during the past weeks. There had never been a day when he had not thought of the child with a longing desire to see him, though even for his sake he could hardly have brought himself to lose a day with the bishop. Now, however, that he had shut himself out forever from what seemed to him the Paradise of the bishop’s home, his thoughts turned again lovingly toward the little one, and he could hardly wait for morning, so eager was he to go to him.

  Fortunately for his impatience, he knew that the Hunts and Nan would be early astir, and at the first possible moment he went in search of them. He ran up the stairs with Tag at his heels, and almost trembling with eagerness, knocked at the Hunts’ door. Mrs. Hunt herself opened it, and stared at the boy for a moment before she realised who it was.

  “For the land’s sake, if it isn’t Tode! Where in the world have you been all this time?” she cried, holding the door open for him to enter, while the children gazed wonderingly at him. “I’ve been sick—got hurt,” replied Tode, his eyes searching eagerly about the room. “I don’t see Nan or Little Brother,” he added, uneasily.

  “They don’t live here no more,” piped up little Ned.

  Tode turned a startled glance upon Mrs. Hunt.

  “Don’t live here!” he stammered. “Where do they live?”

  “Not far off; just cross the entry,” replied Mrs. Hunt, quickly. “Nan’s taken a room herself.”

  “Oh!” cried Tode, in a tone of relief, “I’ll go’n see her;” and waiting for no further words, he went.

  “Well,” exclaimed Mrs. Hunt, “he might ‘a’ told us how he got hurt an’ all, ‘fore he rushed off, I should think.”

  “Jus’ like that Tode Bryan. He don’t know nothin’!” remarked Dick, scornfully.

  His mother gave him a searching glance. “There’s worse boys than Tode Bryan, I’m afraid,” she said.

  “There ye go agin, always a flingin’ at me,” retorted Dick, rudely. “How’s a feller to git on in the world when his own mother’s always down on him?”

  “You know I’m not down on you, Dick,” replied his mother, tearfully.

  “You’re always a hintin’ nowdays, anyhow,” muttered Dick, as he reached over and helped himself to the biggest sausage in the dish.

  Mrs. Hunt sighed but made no answer, and the breakfast was eaten mostly in silence.

  Meantime, Tode running across the entry, had knocked on the door with fingers fairly trembling with eagerness and excitement. Nan opening it, gave a glad cry at sight of him, but the boy, with a nod, pushed by her, and snatched up Little Brother who was lying on the bed.

  The baby stared at him for an instant and then as Tode hugged him more roughly than he realised, the little lips trembled and the baby began to sob. That almost broke Tode’s heart. He put the child down, crying out bitterly,

  “Oh Little Brother, you ain’t goin’ to turn against me, sure?”

  As he spoke he held out his hands wistfully, and the baby, now getting a good look at him, recognised his favorite, and with his old smile held out his arms to the boy, who caught him up again but more gently this time, and sat down with him on his knee.

  It was some minutes before Tode paid any attention to Nan’s questions, so absorbed was he with the child, but at length he turned to her and told her where he had been and what had happened to him. She listened to his story with an eager interest that pleased him.

  “Wasn’t it strange,” she said, when he paused, “wasn’t it strange, and lovely too, that you should have been taken into the bishop’s house—and kept there all this time? Did you like him just as much in his home as in the church, Tode?”

  “He’s—he’s”—began Tode with shining eyes, then as the bishop’s face rose before him, he choked and was silent for a moment. “I don’t b’lieve there’s any other man like him in this world,” he said, finally.

  Nan looked at him thoughtfully, at his face that seemed to have been changed and refined by his sickness and his new associations, at the neat clothes he wore, then at his bare feet.

  “I shouldn’t think, if he’s so good, that he would have let you come away—so,” she said, slowly.

  Tode flushed as he tried to hide his feet under his chair.

  “‘Twasn’t his fault,” he answered, quickly. He too was silent for a moment, then suddenly he sat upright with a look of stern resolve in his grey eyes, as he added, “Nan, I’ll tell you all there is about it, ‘cause things are goin’ to be diff’runt after this. I’m goin’ to live straight every way, I am; I’ve—promised.”

  Then he told her frankly the whole story; how he had deceived the bishop, pretending to be deaf and dumb; how Mr. Gibson had come upon him in the study, and what he had said, and how, finally, he himself had come away in the night.

  Nan listened to it all with the keenest interest.

  “And you had to sleep out of doors,” she said; “I’m so sorry, but, if the bishop is so good, why didn’t you stay and tell him all about it, Tode? Don’t you think that that would have been better than coming away so without thanking him for all he had done—or anything?”