V. IN THE BISHOP'S HOUSE
Tode's patrons were mostly newsboys of his acquaintance, who camepretty regularly to his stand for breakfast, and generally for amidday meal, lunch or dinner as it might be. Where they took theirsupper he did not know, but he usually closed his place of businessafter one o'clock, and spent a couple of hours roaming about thestreets doing any odd job that came in his way, if he happened to feellike it, or to be in need of money.
After his meeting with the bishop he often wandered up into theneighbourhood of St. Mark's with a vague hope that he might see againthe man who seemed to his boyish imagination a very king among men. Ithad long been Tode's secret ambition to grow into a big, strong manhimself--bigger and stronger than the common run of men. Now, wheneverhe thought about it, he said to himself, "Just like the bishop."
But he never met the bishop, and having found out that he did notpreach regularly at St. Mark's, Tode never went there after the secondtime.
One afternoon in late September, the boy was lounging along with Tagat his heels in the neighbourhood of the church, when he heard a greatrattling of wheels and clattering of hoofs, and around the corner camea pair of horses dragging a carriage that swung wildly from side toside, as the horses came tearing down the street. There was no one inthe carriage, but the driver was puffing along a little way behind,yelling frantically, "Stop 'em! Stop 'em! Why don't ye stop thebrutes!"
There were not many people on the street, and the few men within sightseemed not at all anxious to risk life or limb in an attempt to stophorses going at such a reckless pace.
Now Tode was only a little fellow not yet fourteen, but he was strongand lithe as a young Indian, and as to fear--he did not know what itwas. As he saw the horses dashing toward him he leaped into the middleof the street and stood there, eyes alert and limbs ready, directly intheir pathway. They swerved aside as they approached him, but with aquick upward spring he grabbed the bit of the one nearest him, andhung there with all his weight. This frightened and maddened thehorse, and he plunged and reared and flung his head from side to side,until he succeeded in throwing the boy off. The delay however, slightas it was, had given the driver time to come up, and he speedilyregained control of his team while a crowd quickly gathered.
Tode had been flung off sidewise, his head striking the curbstone, andthere he lay motionless, while faithful Tag crouched beside him, nowand then licking the boy's fingers, and whining pitifully as he lookedfrom face to face, as if he would have said,
"_Won't_ some of you help him? I can't."
The crowd pressed about the unconscious boy with a sort of morbidcuriosity, one proposing one thing and one another until a policemancame along and promptly sent a summons for an ambulance; but before itappeared, a tall grey-haired man came up the street and stopped to seewhat was the matter. He was so tall that he could look over the headsof most of the men, and as he saw the white face of the boy lyingthere in the street, he hastily pushed aside the onlookers as if theyhad been men of straw, and stooping, lifted the boy in his strongarms.
"Stand back," he cried, his voice ringing out like a trumpet, "wouldyou let the child die in the street?"
They fell back before him, a whisper passing from lip to lip. "It'sthe bishop!" they said, and some ran before him to open the gate andsome to ring the bell of the great house before which the accident hadoccurred.
Mechanically the bishop thanked them, but he looked at none ofthem. His eyes were fixed upon the face that lay against his shoulder,the blood dripping slowly from a cut on one side of the head.
The servant who opened the door stared for an instant wonderingly, athis master with the child in his arms, and at the throng pressingcuriously after them, but the next moment he recovered from hisamazement and, admitting the bishop, politely but firmly shut out theeager throng that would have entered with him. A lank, rough-haireddog attempted to slink in at the bishop's heels, but the servant gavehim a kick that made him draw back with a yelp of pain, and he tookrefuge under the steps where he remained all night, restless andmiserable, his quick ears yet ever on the alert for a voice or a stepthat he knew.
As the door closed behind the bishop, he exclaimed,
"Call Mrs. Martin, Brown, and then send for the doctor. This boy washurt at our very door."
Brown promptly obeyed both orders, and Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper,hastily prepared a room for the unexpected guest. The doctor soonresponded to the summons, but all his efforts failed to restore theboy to consciousness that day. The bishop watched the child asanxiously as if it had been one of his own flesh and blood. He hadneither wife nor child, but perhaps all the more for that, his greatheart held love enough and to spare for every child that came in hisway.
It was near the close of the following day when Tode's eyes slowlyopened and he came back to consciousness, but his eyes wandered aboutthe strange room and he still lay silent and motionless. The doctorand the bishop were both beside him at the moment and he glanced fromone face to the other in a vague, doubtful fashion. He asked noquestion, however, and soon his eyes again closed wearily, but thistime in sleep, healthful and refreshing, instead of the stupor thathad preceded it, and the doctor turned away with an expression ofsatisfaction.
"He'll pull through now," he said in a low tone. "He's young and fullof vitality--he'll soon be all right."
The bishop rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "That's well! That'swell!" he exclaimed, heartily.
The doctor looked at him curiously. "Did you ever see the lad beforeyou picked him up yesterday?" he asked.
"No, never," answered the bishop, who naturally had not recognised inTode 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 takinga little street urchin like that right into his home and treating himas if he were his own flesh and blood! Well, well, he himself getstaken in often no doubt in another fashion, but all the same the worldwould be the better if there were more like him!"
And if the doctor's pronouns were a little mixed he himself understoodwhat 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 livelyconsciousness of his surroundings. It was still early and the nursewas dozing in an easy-chair beside the bed. The boy looked at hercuriously, 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 oneside of his head and a sick faintness swept over him. It was his firstexperience of weakness, and it startled him into a faint groan as hishead fell back on the pillow.
The sound awoke the nurse, who held a spoonful of medicine to hislips, 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' whatails me, anyhow."
But that strange weakness made it easy to obey orders and lie stillwhile the nurse bathed his face and hands and freshened up the bed andthe room. Then she brought him a bowl of chicken broth with which shefed him. It tasted delicious, and he swallowed it hungrily and wishedthere had been more. Then as he lay back on the pillows he rememberedall that had happened--the horses running down the street, his attemptto stop them, and the awful blow on his head as it struck thecurbstone.
"Wonder where I am? Tain't a hospital, anyhow," he thought. "My! But Ifeel nice an' clean an' so--so light, somehow! If only my head wasn'tso sore!"
No wonder he felt "nice and clean and light somehow," when, for thefirst time in his life his body and garments as well as his bed, wereas sweet and fresh as hands could make them. Tode never had mindeddirt. Why should he, when he had been born in it and had grown upknowing nothing better? Yet, none the less, was this new experiencemost delightful to him--so delightful that he didn't care to talk. Itwas happiness enough for him, just then, to lie still and enjoy thesenew conditions, and so
presently he floated off again into sleep--asleep full of beautiful dreams from which the low murmur of voicesaroused him, and he opened his eyes to see the nurse and the doctorlooking down at him.
"Well, my boy," said the doctor, with his fingers on the wrist nearhim, "you look better. Feel better too, don't you?"
Tode gazed at him, wondering who he was and paying no attention to hisquestion.
"Doctor," exclaimed the nurse, suddenly, "he hasn't spoken a singleword. 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 thepoor child is deaf and dumb, I shall certainly keep him here until Ican find a better home for him."
As his eyes rested on the bishop Tode started and uttered a littleinarticulate cry of joy; then, as he understood what the bishop wassaying, 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 beforeyesterday, but we're friends all the same, aren't we, my lad?" and hesmiled down into the grey eyes looking up to him so earnestly andhappily.
Tode opened his lips to speak, then suddenly remembering, slightlyshook his head while the colour mounted in his pale cheeks.
"He acts like a deaf mute, certainly," muttered the doctor, andstepping to the head of the bed he pulled out his watch and held itfirst 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 ashis ears. He knew well enough what the doctor was doing but he made nosign. Were not the bishop's words ringing in his ears? "If the poorchild is deaf and dumb I shall certainly keep him here until I canfind a better home for him."
There were few things at which the boy would have hesitated to ensurehis staying there. He understood now that he was in the house of thebishop--"my bishop" he called him in his thought.
So, naturally enough, it was taken for granted that the boy was deafand dumb, for no one imagined the possibility of his pretending to beso. Tode thought it would be easy to keep up the deception, but atfirst he found it very hard. As his strength returned there were somany questions that he wanted to ask, but he fully believed that if itwere known that he could hear and speak he would be sent away, andmore 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 pictureswere provided for his amusement, yet still the hours sometimes draggedsomewhat heavily, but it was better when he was well enough to walkabout 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 loveanybody who needed her love and service. So, it was with greatsatisfaction that she obeyed the bishop's orders, and bought for theboy a good, serviceable outfit as soon as he was able to walk abouthis room.
She combed out and trimmed his rough, thick hair, and then helped himdress himself in one of his new suits. As she tied his necktie for himshe looked at him with the greatest satisfaction, saying to herself,
"Whoever would believe that it was the same boy? If only he could hearand speak now like other boys, I'd have nothing more to ask for him."
Then she stooped and kissed him. Tode wriggled uneasily under theunwonted caress, not quite certain whether or not he liked it--from awoman. The housekeeper took his hand and led him down the stairs tothe bishop's study. It was a long room containing many books andeasy-chairs and two large desks. At one of these the bishop satwriting, and over the other bent a short, dark-faced man who woreglasses.
"Come in, Mrs. Martin, come in," called the bishop, as he saw herstanding at the open door. "And who is this?" he added, holding outhis hand to the boy.
"You don't recognize him?" Mrs. Martin asked smiling down on Tode'ssmooth head.
The bishop looked keenly at the boy, then he smiled contentedly anddrew the little fellow to his side.
"Well, well!" he said, "the clothes we wear do make a greatdifference, 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. Itwas not a friendly look, and Tode felt it.
"Ah," replied Mr. Gibson, slowly. "So this is the boy, is it? He wasfortunate to fall into your hands;" and with a sharp, sidelong glanceover his shoulder, Mr. Gibson turned again to his work.
The bishop drew a great armchair close to his table and gently pushedTode into it. Then he brought a big book full of pictures and put itinto the boy's hands.
"Let him stay here for a while, Mrs. Martin," he said. "I always workbetter when there is a child near me--if it's the right sort of achild," he added, with a smile.
Mrs. Martin went out, and Tode, with a long, happy breath, leaned backin the big chair and looked about him at the many books, at the darkhead bent over the desk in the alcove, finally at the noble face ofthe bishop intent on his writing.
This was the beginning of many happy hours for Tode. Perhaps it wasthe weakness and languor resulting from his accident that made himwilling to sit quietly a whole morning or afternoon in the studybeside the bishop's table, when, before this, to sit still for half anhour would have been an almost unendurable penance to him; but therewas another and a far stronger reason in the deep reverential love forthe bishop, that day by day was growing and strengthening into apassion in his young heart. The boy's heart was like a garden-spot inwhich the rich, strong soil lay ready to receive any seed that mightfall upon it. Better seed could not be than that which allunconsciously this man of God--the bishop--was sowing therein, as dayafter day he gave his Master's message to the sick and sinful andsorrowful souls that came to him for help and comfort.
It goes without saying that the bishop had small leisure, for many andheavy were the demands upon his time and thought, but nevertheless hekept two hours a day sacredly free from all other claims, that hemight give them to any of God's poor or troubled ones who desired tosee him, and believing that Tode could hear nothing that was said, heoften kept the boy with him during these hours.
Strange and wonderful lessons were those that the little street boylearned from the consecrated lips of the good bishop--lessons of God'slove to man, and of the loving service that man owes not only to hisGod, but to his brother man. Strange, sad lessons too, of sin andsorrow, and their far-reaching influence on human lives. Tode had notlived in the streets for nearly fourteen years without learning agreat 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 forit. Many a time he longed to ask the bishop some of the questions thatfilled his mind, but that he dared not do.
Among these visitors there came one morning to the study a plainlydressed lady with a face that Tode liked at the first glance. As shetalked with the bishop, the boy kept his eyes on the book open in hislap, but he heard all that was said--heard it at first with a startledsurprise that changed into a sick feeling of shame and misery--for thestory to which he listened was this:
The lady was a Mrs. Russell. The bishop had formerly been her pastorand she still came to him for help and counsel. She had been muchinterested in a boy of sixteen who had been in her class in themission school, a boy who was entirely alone in the world. He hadpicked up a living in the streets, much as Tode himself had done, andfinally had fallen into bad company and into trouble.
Mrs. Russell had interested herself in his behalf, and upon herpromise to be responsible for him, he had been delivered over to herinstead of being sent to a reform school. She went to a number of thesmaller dry goods stores and secured promises of employment for theboy as parcel deliverer. To do this work he must have a tric
ycle, andthe energetic little lady having found a secondhand one that could behad for thirty dollars, set herself to secure this sum from several ofher friends. This she had done, and was on her way to buy the tricyclewhen she lost her pocketbook. The owner of the tricycle, being anxiousto sell, and having another offer, would not hold it for her, but soldit to the other customer. The boy, bitterly disappointed, lost hopeand heart, and that night left the place where Mrs. Russell had puthim. Since then she had sought in vain for him, and now, unwilling togive 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 andragged, gliding under the feet of the horses on the muddy street, themissing pocketbook clutched tightly in his hand. Then a second picturerose before him, and he saw himself crowding the emptied book intothat box on the chapel door of St. Mark's.
The bishop pulled open a drawer in his desk and took from it apocketbook, 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 theinside.
"_How_ did it get into your hands?" she questioned, at last.
"You would never guess how," the bishop answered. "It was found in thepastor's box at St. Mark's, and the rector came to me to inquire if Iknew any one of that name. I had not your present address, but havebeen intending to look you up as soon as I could find time."
"I cannot understand it," said Mrs. Russell, carefully examining eachcompartment of the book. "Why in the world should the thief have putthe 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 putit."
"If the thief could know how the loss of that money drove that poorfoolish boy back into sin and misery, he surely would wish he hadnever 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 togive 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 yourstraying lambs. Like the Master Himself, your big heart always yearnsover the wanderers from the fold. I wonder," he added, "if we couldn'tget one or two newsboys to help in this search. Many of them are verykeen, sharp little fellows, and they'd be as likely as anybody to knowJack, and to know his whereabouts if he is still in the city. Let mesee--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 toremember 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 missionschool," replied Mrs. Russell. "Jack is tall and large, forfifteen. 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 onlythink 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 boydoes 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. Yourfaith in the boy ought to go far toward keeping him straight if we canfind him."
The bishop walked to the hall with his visitor. When he came backTode sat with his eyes fastened on the open book in his lap, though hesaw it not.
He did not look up with his usual bright smile when the bishop satdown beside him. That night he could not eat, and when he went to bedhe 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. Hehad known of course that he was a thief, but he had never_realised_ it until this day. As he had sat there and listened toMrs. Russell's story, he seemed to see clearly how his soul had beensoiled with sin as surely as his body had been with dirt, and even asnow the thought of going back to his former surroundings sickened him,so the remembrance of the evil that he had known and done, now seemedhorrible to him. It was as if he looked at himself and his past lifethrough the pure eyes of the bishop--and he hated it all. Dimly hebegan to see that there was something that he must do, but what thatsomething was, he could not as yet determine. He was not willing infact to do what his newly awakened conscience told him that he oughtto 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 withhim in that fashion, but as yet Tode had not progressed far enough tomake communication with him easy, though he was beginning to readquite 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 togo, and the two set off together. Now the boy had an opportunity tosee yet farther into the heart and life of this good, great man. Theywent on and on, away from the wide streets and handsome houses, intothe tenement house district, and finally into an old building, wheremany families found shelter--such as it was. Up one flight afteranother of rickety stairs the bishop led the boy. At last he stoppedand knocked at a door on a dark landing.
The door was opened by a woman whose eyes looked as if she hadforgotten how to smile, but a light flashed into them at sight of hervisitor. She hurriedly dusted a chair with her apron, and as thebishop took it he lifted to his knee one of the little ones clingingto the mother's skirts. There were four little children, but one lay,pale and motionless on a bed in one corner of the room.
"She is sick?" inquired the bishop, his voice full of sympathy, as helooked 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 Iought to be glad for her sake--but I can't." She bent over the littleform and kissed the heavy eyelids.
"Tell me all about it, my daughter," the bishop said, and the womanpoured out her story--the old story of a husband who provided for hisfamily after a fashion, when he was sober, but left them to starvewhen the drink demon possessed him. He had been away now for threeweeks, and there was no money for medicine for the sick child, or foodfor the others.
Before the story was told the bishop's hand was in his pocket and heheld 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 tothe children until you come back."
She hesitated for a moment, then with a word of thanks, threw a shawlover her head and was gone.
The bishop gathered the three older children about him, one on eachknee and the third held close to his side, and told them stories thatheld them spellbound until the sick baby began to stir and moanfeebly. Then the bishop arose, and taking the little creature tenderlyin his strong arms, walked back and forth in the small room until themoaning cry ceased and the child slept. He had just laid it again onthe bed when the mother came back with her arms full of packages. Thelook of dull despair was gone from her worn face, and there was agleam of hope in her eyes as she hastily prepared the medicine for thebaby, while the bishop eagerly tore open one of the packages, and putbread into the hands of the other children.
"God bless you, sir,--an' He will!" the woman said, earnestly, as thebishop was departing with a promise to come soon again.
Tode, from his seat in a corner had looked on and listened to all, andnow followed the bishop down to the street, and on until they came toa big building. The boy did not know then what place it was. Afterwardhe learned that it was the poorhouse.
Among the human driftwood gathered here there was one old man who hadbeen a cobbler, working at his trade a
s long as he had strength to doso. The bishop had known him for a long time before he gave up hiswork, and now it was the one delight of the old man's life to have avisit from the bishop, and knowing this, the latter never failed tocome several times each year. The old cobbler lived on the memory ofthese visits through the lonely weeks that followed them, lookingforward 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 hisvisitor 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 manof 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 hisknees, he had learned Who and What God is, and what it is to pray, andthough he could not understand how it was, or why--he knew thathenceforth his own life must be wholly different. Something in himwas changed and he was full of a strange happiness as he walkedhomeward beside his friend.
But all in a moment his new joy departed, banished by the remembranceof that pocketbook.
"I found it. I picked it up," he argued to himself, but then arosebefore him the memory of other things that he had stolen--of many anevil thing that he had done, and gloried in the doing. Now theremembrance 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 fromroom to room, and finally to the study. It was dark there, but he felthis way to his seat beside the bishop's desk, and sitting there in thedark the boy faced his past and his future; faced, too, a duty thatlay before him--a duty so hard that it seemed to him he never couldperform it, yet he knew he must. It was to tell the bishop how he hadbeen deceiving him all these weeks.
Tears were strangers to Tode's eyes, but they flowed down his cheeksas he sat there in the dark and thought of the happy days he had spentthere, and that now he must go away from it all--away from thebishop--back to the wretched and miserable life which was all he hadknown 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 gripthat made him wince, while a voice with a thrill of evil satisfactionin it, exclaimed in a low, guarded tone,
"So! I've caught you, you young cheat. I've suspected for some timethat you were pulling the wool over the bishop's eyes, but you were soplaguy cunning that I couldn't nab you before. You're a finespecimen, aren't you? What do you think the bishop will say to allthis?"
Tode had recognised the voice of Mr. Gibson, the secretary. He knewthat the secretary had a way of going about as soft-footed as acat. He tried to jerk his ear free, but at that Mr. Gibson gave itsuch a tweak that Tode could hardly keep from crying out with thepain. He did keep from it, however, and the next moment the secretarylet him go, and, striking a match, lit the gas, and then softly closedthe door.
"Now," he said, coming back to the desk, "what have you to say foryourself?"
"Nothing--to you," replied Tode, looking full into the dark face andcruel eyes of the man. "I'll tell the bishop myself what there is totell."
"Oh, you will, will you?" answered the man, with a sneer. "I reckonbefore you get through with your telling you'll wish you'd never beenborn. The bishop's the gentlest of men--until he finds that some onehas been trying to deceive him. And you--you whom he picked up out ofthe street, you whom he has treated as if you were his own son--I tellyou, boy, you'll think you've been struck by lightning when the bishoporders you out of his sight. He never forgives deceit like yours."
Tode's face paled and his lips trembled as he listened, but he wouldnot give way before his tormentor.
His silence angered the secretary yet more. "Why don't you speak?" heexclaimed, sharply.
"I'll speak to the bishop--not to you," replied the boy, steadily.
His defiant tone and undaunted look made the secretary furious. Hesprang toward the boy, but Tode was on the watch now, and slipped outof his chair and round to the other side of the desk, where he stoppedand again faced his enemy, for he knew now that this man was hisenemy, though he could not guess the reason of his enmity. Thesecretary took a step forward, but at that Tode sped across the roomout 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 hethought of it the more certain he felt that what the secretary hadsaid was true.
A long, long time the boy sat there, thinking sad and bitterthoughts. At last, with a heavy sigh, he lifted his head and lookedabout the bright, pretty room, as if he would fix it all in his mindso that he never could forget it, and as he looked at the soft, richcarpet, the little white bed with its fresh, clean linen, the wide,roomy washstand and bureau, he seemed at the same time to see thebare, dirty, cheerless little closet-like room to which he mustreturn, and his heart ached again.
At last he started up, searched in his pockets for a piece of paperand a pencil, and began to write. His paper was a much-crumpled piecethat he had found that morning in the wastebasket, and as yet hiswriting and spelling were poor enough, but he knew what he wanted toexpress, 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 wascaus I thot you wood not kepe me if yu knu I am sory now so i am goingaway but i am going to kepe strate and not bee bad any more ever. Ithank you and i lov you deer.
TODE BRYAN.
It took the boy a long time to write this and there were many smudgesand erasures where he had rubbed out and rewritten words. He looked atit with dissatisfied eyes when it was done, mentally contrasting itwith the neat, beautifully written letters he had so often seen on thebishop's desk.
"Can't help it. I can't do no better," he said to himself, with asigh. Then he stood for several minutes holding the paper thoughtfullyin his hand.
"I know," he exclaimed at last, and ran softly down to the study. Itwas dark again there and he knew that Mr. Gibson had gone.
Going to the desk, he found the Bible which the bishop always keptthere. As Tode lifted it the leaves fell apart at one of the bishop'sbest-loved chapters, and there the boy laid his letter and closed thebook. 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 hisroom; what would be so no longer. He undressed slowly, and as he tookoff each garment he looked at it and touched it lingeringly before helaid it aside.
"I b'lieve he'd want me to keep these clothes," he thought, "but Idon'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 towear, but I'll only take what I must have."
So, with a sigh, he laid aside his white shirt with its glossy collarand cuffs, his pretty necktie and handkerchief. He hesitated over theshoes 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 heardMrs. Martin go up to her room, stopping for a moment to glance intohis and see that he was in bed. Later still, he heard the bishop comein and go to his room, and soon after the lights were out and all thehouse was still.
Tode lay with wide open eyes until the big hall clock strucktwelve. Then he arose, slipped on his few garments and turned to leavethe 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 boythought, as with the little book in his hand he crept silently downthe stairs. They creaked under the light tread of his bare feet asthey never had creaked in the da
ytime. He crossed the wide hall,unfastened the door, and passed out into the night.