"I thought not; it would not be like you. That being the case, isn't it time to do something definite?"

"Time, certainly," Edward answered gloomily; "but what's to do?"

"That brings me to the unfolding of my scheme. Edward, do you know that it was my lifelong desire to reach the point towards which you are looking?"

"_No_," said Edward, with pitying interest; "I never thought of it."

"Well," and Ray smiled sadly, "it is so; and I hope you may never know how hard it is to have to give up such a wish. I cannot say that I did actually give it up entirely until very lately. I gave up all study three years ago, and came home to regain strength! _you_ know how well I have succeeded in that." And Ray pressed his thin, wasting hand across his damp forehead. "It is all over now, _utterly_." The hand did duty now for a moment, shading his eyes from the light. Presently he spoke more cheerily. "All over for myself, but not for you; so, Edward, what I want to say to-night, in brief, is this: You have talents, perseverance, and health; I have money,--the four combined cannot fail to speed you in your work. What say you?"

"I--I don't understand you," Edward spoke, in complete bewilderment.

"Let me speak more plainly. I want you to go now, _immediately_, to some good preparatory school, thence to college, thence to the seminary, and the means wherewith to do these three important things shall be at your disposal. Isn't that plain?"

"Why," said Edward, "I don't know what to say; I am too much astonished, and--and thankful."

"Then you will do it?"

"Only,--Ray?"

"Well?"

"Isn't there a right kind of pride, about being helped in these things?"

"There is a great deal of wrong kind of pride. Let me show you;" and he sat up and spoke eagerly. "It is right and honourable for people to help themselves in this world, but very vain and foolish to refuse help which would greatly aid the cause that they profess to have at heart. You see how it is: G.o.d has given me money; I am ready and waiting to give it back to Him. I would gladly give myself to Him in the ministry; I have longed and prayed for this; but He has seen fit not to answer as I wished. I have no strength to give; you have, and are ready to give it. Do you think G.o.d would be less pleased with the offering if we united it, thus giving me a chance to do something?"

"No," said Edward, speaking very slowly; "only, I had hoped to accomplish my plans without help from any one but G.o.d."

Ray leaned back again among the cushions, and spoke wearily,--

"That is, you prefer to be a great many years longer in preparation than you need be, and have about half as much strength finally as you would have, had you not overworked, rather than give me a chance to do what I could, since I cannot do what I would."

"But, Ray, there are plenty of people to help, even if you do no more for me. The world is full of poor young men, struggling to get an education."

"Yes, that is so; and I suppose you would enjoy helping some young man out in Oregon, of whom you had never heard, quite as well as you would me."

Edward came quickly to the sofa where Ray was lying, and laid his hand tenderly over the closed eyes.

"Ray, there is nothing in the world I would not do for you."

"Will you let me help you into the ministry, as rapidly as money _can_ help?"

"I will be glad to; it is a great, n.o.ble offer, and I thank you from my heart. You mustn't think that I don't; only I thought--perhaps"

"I know," said Ray, for Edward had stopped doubtfully; "I understand just how you feel; but I _do_ think the feeling, in this case at least, is wrong; and, my dear brother, you will be glad when you know how thankful you have made me."

"Yes; and after all you will not be doing any more for me--you _can't_--than you have done. I think money is very little, compared with that. Ray," and Edward sank down among the cushions in front of him, "I do believe you are more to me than any other human being ever will be."

Ray smiled, quite as if he did not think so, but would not unsay it for anything.

"It is all right," he said gently, after a little silence. "I think you will do so much more than I ever _could_ have done. G.o.d bless you, my dear brother!"

After that Edward went up to his room, got out his little red Bible, his precious lamp, and, opening at the history of the rock-bound grave, read on until he came to the verse, "And when they looked, they saw that the stone was rolled away." Around this he made heavy marks with his pencil, thinking, meantime, that the angel of the Lord was still at work on earth.

"Bob," said Edward, stopping before Bob's counter, two days after this matter was settled, "I am going to start for home in the morning."

"Are you, though?" Bob answered eagerly, stopping his work to take the sentence in fully. "My! I wish I was going along, just to see what folks would say."

"About _you_, do you mean?" said Edward, laughing, and thinking wonderingly, as well as joyfully, of the change which there had been in Bob Turner.

Bob had a counter too, and was no longer an errand-boy; there had very rarely been known such a rapid promotion in that store; but the truth was, Mr. Minturn had early learned that Bob Turner was destined to be, not a minister, nor a lawyer, not even a scholar, but a thorough, energetic, successful merchant. He had no sooner made this discovery than he determined to give the boy a chance.

So Bob had earned a name and a place in the store, and was a general favourite with the other clerks, and was beginning to have customers who sought him out, and liked to make purchases of him. More than all, Bob was an earnest Christian; his loving tenderness for, and almost worship of, Ray Minturn, kept him from being much led into temptation, and his influence over the younger clerks was growing to be for good. He was destined to be more popular than Edward had been; for Edward had risen too rapidly, and was too much at home with the entire Minturn family, not to be looked upon with some degree of envy.

"Well, Tip,"--Bob had never learned not to say Tip, and probably never would, but Edward had long since forgotten to care,--"tell every one at home that I'm well and happy, and never want to see one of them again. I don't believe I have a friend there: anyhow, I know I don't deserve to have."

CHAPTER XXVII.

"Wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way? By taking heed thereto, according to Thy word."

Kitty Lewis shook out the folds of her new bright pink calico dress, walked to the little looking-gla.s.s, for about the tenth time, to see if the dainty white ruffle around her neck was in order; then took a survey of the room, lest there might possibly be something else to do which would improve its appearance.

It was the same little room in which Kitty had spent her childhood, from which Johnny first, and then long afterwards the husband and father, had been carried out to return no more. And yet it was not the same,--there was a neat rag carpet on the floor, a Christmas gift from Mrs. Minturn; the round table in the corner was covered with a bright red cloth, and strewn with a few books and papers; the full white curtain was looped away from the window, and the light of a clear sunset glimmered in the room; everything was neat and bright and cheery. The table was set for tea, the white cloth showing just the folds in which it was ironed; there were three plates and three cups and saucers, instead of two, while Kitty, in her restless wanderings around the room, and Mrs. Lewis, in her frequent glances out of the window, both showed that somebody was being watched and waited for.

"The eastern train is in," Kitty said finally "Now, if he comes to-night, he'll be here in three minutes." And it could not have been much more than that when a quick, crushing step was heard on the gravel outside, then on the plank before the door, then the door swung open, and Edward Lewis walked into the little room out of which he had gone three years before.

Kitty was all ready to spring forward, say, "Oh, Tip!" and throw her arms right around his neck. Instead, she stood still. Some way, in spite of the long letters which had pa.s.sed between them during these years, Kitty had fully expected to see a stout, tanned boy, in a strong, coa.r.s.e suit of grey, with thick boots and a new straw hat. Of, at least,--why, of course, she knew he must have changed some; hadn't she? But then she did _not_ think he would be so tall, and have a face and hands without tan or freckle, or that his clothes would be so _very_ black and fine, and fit as though they had grown on him, or that his collar would be so white and glossy, or his boots so small and shiny. So Kitty stood still in embarra.s.sed silence. But the mother,--oh, she saw in him the picture of the dear, dead father, as he used to come to her long, long ago; the husband who, through all change and poverty and pain, she had _always_ loved! And all the tenderness that had ever been in her heart took form, and spoke in those words with which she came forward to greet her son,--"Oh, my _dear_ boy!"

There was happiness in the little home that night; only the bedroom door was closed, and Edward knew that his father's bed was vacant.

Such a queer feeling as possessed him all the next day, while he went around the village! He went _every_where. He felt like walking through every street, and stepping on every stone on which his feet had trod in the old life, now utterly gone from him. He wandered down to the river-bank, where he had lain that summer morning and envied the fishes; and, standing there, thanked G.o.d for the mission cla.s.s in Mr. Holbrook's Sabbath school. Thence to the cemetery, where by the side of little Johnny's grave the new life had been commenced. There was a long grave beside the short one now; and, standing there, he thanked G.o.d for the hope which he had of meeting the father and the baby in heaven. Thence to the great elm-tree at the foot of the hill; and, standing there, he took out once more the little red Bible, and turned the leaves lovingly; lingered over the name written by Mr. Holbrook's hand, turned again to the first verse which he had ever read from its pages: "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path." Time and again had he proved the truth of that verse. There, under that very tree, it had helped him to fight battles with Satan and come off conqueror. And he thanked G.o.d for the Bible. After that he went directly to the village; just looked in at the meat market for the sake of the old days.

Somebody told Mr. Dewey who was coming, and he was just ready to say, "Hallo, Tip!" but instead, he came around from behind the counter, and, holding out his hand, said, "How do you do, Lewis? Glad to see you."

Something, either in the city-made clothes or the quiet air of dignity with which they were worn, made him dislike to say "Hallo, Tip!" to the tall young man before him.

Mr. Minturn shook him heartily by the hand. "Never rejoiced over any one's luck more in my life!" he said; then, in the same breath, "How's Ray? Oh yes, I see how it is, poor fellow! And you love him too; of course, every one does."

There was still the schoolroom to visit, and as Edward went up the familiar walk he wished Bob Turner could have been with him to make this call. But Bob was probably rushing like a top through the city store, without a thought of the old schoolhouse or the miserable days which he had spent there.

Mr. Burrows himself answered the knock, and gave him a hearty greeting.

Three years had made changes there. Edward found himself looking eagerly towards the back row of seats fur the old faces,--Will, Howard, Ellis, and half a dozen others,--before he remembered that they had long since entered higher schools. The boys whom he hid left plodding through long division were filling those back seats now, and leading their cla.s.ses in algebra and Latin. He sat down near the blackboard to watch the progress of Joe Bartlett through an example in division. And behold, he was doing that old never-to-be-forgotten example about the cows and sheep! He picked up an arithmetic eagerly.

"Mr. Burrows, do you remember that example?'

"I remember that it has puzzled some forty or more of my boys in the course of time," said Mr. Burrows, laughing; "but nothing very special about it."