Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: The Dark Night.—Frontispiece.
 Osric was just strapping his books together.]



                      [The Boonville Series]



                         THE DARK NIGHT;

                               OR,

               "THE FEAR OF MAN BRINGETH A SNARE."


                               BY

                      LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY,

      AUTHOR OF "IRISH AMY," "COMFORT ALLISON," "THE TATTLER,"
        "NELLY; OR THE BEST INHERITANCE," "TWIN ROSES," ETC.



                          PHILADELPHIA:
                  AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
                      1122 CHESTNUT STREET.

          NEW YORK: NO. 8 AND 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.



   Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by the
                    AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
     in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.



      WESTCOTT & THOMSON,                          HENRY B. ASHMEAD,
     Stereotypers, Philada.                        Printer, Philada.



                            CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.



                         THE DARK NIGHT.

CHAPTER I.

ONE lovely spring morning, in the latter end of May, Osric Dennison and
his sister Elsie were getting ready to go to school. The school was at
Boonville, almost a mile from their father's house, though there was a
"cross-lot" path which shortened the distance. And as Osric and Elsie
liked to have a little time for talk and play before school, they were
apt to set out from the red farmhouse as soon after breakfast as they
could conveniently get away.

On this Monday morning, they were unusually early, even for the red
farmhouse. There was corn-planting to do, there was the washing to get
on with, and the children's elder sister Avice, who taught school in a
district some miles away, and who came home every Saturday, had to get
back to her place in time to begin her school at nine o'clock. So Mrs.
Dennison had her breakfast on the table at six o'clock.

Osric and Elsie had done all their "chores," such as washing breakfast
things, feeding pigs and fowls, etc., and it was not yet quite eight.
Osric was just strapping his books together, and Elsie had finished
putting up the dinner for both of them, when Avice came into the room
with her hat on and her satchel in her hand.

"Has either of you children seen the book I brought home with me on
Saturday—that volume of the History of England?"

"I haven't," said Osric, promptly.

"Haven't you, Elsie?" asked her sister. "I want it very much to carry
back with me."

"I haven't had it, sister, but I guess I can find it," said Elsie,
quietly. "I think I know where I saw it." She left the room as she
spoke, and presently came back with the missing volume.

"Where was it?" asked Avice.

"On the window in the parlour. I thought I saw it there this morning."

"Well, I should have said for certain that I carried it up stairs on
Saturday night," said Avice. "However, it does not matter now it is
found. Good-bye, children; be good till I see you again." Avice kissed
them and went quickly away, for she had no time to spare.

"Ozzy, didn't you have that book yesterday?" said Elsie, after they
had set out for school and were walking soberly along the edge of the
mowing lot. "I am sure I saw you reading it."

Ozzy hung his head, but said nothing.

"Didn't you have it?" repeated Elsie, as though determined to have an
answer.

"Well, I meant to put it back again as much as could be," said Ozzy.
"It was so interesting about the queen of Scots, and all—"

"But what made you tell sister that you did not have it, when you did?"
asked Elsie.

"I was afraid she would scold," said Osric, hanging down his head
again. "Mother said we must never take sister's books without asking,
and I was afraid sister would tell her."

The younger Dennison children always called Avice "sister." It was a
mark of respect exacted by their mother. Mrs. Dennison was a second
wife, not so very much older than Avice herself, and she always treated
her stepdaughter with a great deal of consideration. Avice, on her
part, was very fond both of Mrs. Dennison and the children, and when
she was at home in vacation-time, she always helped a great deal in the
work of the farm, and did many things for the little ones.

Osric and Elsie were twins twelve years old, but strangers always
took Elsie to be the elder, not only because she was taller than her
brother, but because she was so much more thoughtful and sensible.
Elsie was constantly watching for chances to help people. She always
saw it if her mother's scissors fell on the floor, or her needle wanted
threading; and if her father lost his snuff-box or glasses, or left his
handkerchief up stairs, or mislaid his paper, it was Elsie who found
them, and so about everything else. Her sister Avice often called her
Little Helpful. It cost Elsie no great self-denial to do all these
things. She really loved work for its own sake, and though she enjoyed
a play-spell as much as anybody, she went back to her work or her
lessons with a new zest after it. She was as truthful as daylight in
everything where Osric was not concerned. She never had any "secrets"
or concealments of her own, but she always hid Ozzy's faults as much as
possible, and if she ever stretched a point in speaking, it was about
something which he had or had not done. She seldom did anything which
required serious blame or punishment, but if she did, she never tried
to evade the consequences, and would no more lie to screen herself than
she would put her hand into the fire. In fact, Elsie was very brave
about everything.

Osric, on the contrary, was very much of a coward. He was not afraid of
horses or cows, or of guns, or of going in swimming, or anything like
that, but he was greatly afraid of pain either of body or mind, and he
could not endure to be found fault with. He loved Elsie more than any
one else in the world, but his love for her was not sufficient to keep
him from letting her bear the blame of a good many of his faults and
shortcomings. Elsie was the only person from whom he would bear a word
of blame, and he did not like it even from her; hence it came to pass
that while Elsie had no secrets from Osric, but always told him all her
plans of work or amusement, Osric did a good many things of which Elsie
never knew anything unless she found them out by accident. Elsie was
always rather uneasy about her brother, and carried him on her mind, as
it were; thus increasing a certain anxious expression of countenance
which was growing upon her, and which made her look older than her
years.

Osric loved Elsie, as I have said, but he was also rather afraid of
her, especially of late. Elsie had been thinking a great deal of
religious matters lately. She would have liked to talk over all her
thoughts and impressions with Osric, but Osric was always very uneasy
when she began, and slipped away or changed the subject as soon as
possible. In fact, Osric hated anything serious, and really cared for
nothing except amusing himself. Amusement was the object and business
of his life, and he would sacrifice almost everything before giving up
any scheme which promised even a small amount of diversion. This love
of amusement often made him neglect his work, and sometimes brought him
into some serious trouble, but old Squire Dennison was very indulgent
to his only son, and Osric usually slipped out of his scrapes very
easily. Of late, however, Squire Dennison had begun to wake up to the
fact that Osric was not always truthful, and he watched the boy rather
more carefully.

Elsie walked on the rest of the way to school very silent and very
unhappy, and very undecided in her own mind. She did not know in the
least what she ought to do, or whether she ought to do anything.
Sometimes, she thought she would tell her mother, but then she could
not bear to have Ozzy call her a telltale, and besides, Mrs. Dennison
never encouraged the children to tell of each other's faults. There did
not seem to be any use in talking to Osric himself. She had tried that
so many times that she was quite discouraged. He would hang his head,
and excuse himself; and begin to cry, and end by keeping out of her way
for two or three days. Perhaps, after all, Osric had not known exactly
where the book was. She was tempted to ask him, but then she reflected
that she might thus lead him to tell another lie.

She did not know what to do, and so she did nothing except walk
silently along, listening to Osric's remarks, for after a few minutes,
he began to talk as if nothing had happened. In fact, so long as he was
not scolded or punished for them, Osric's faults never made him unhappy
for any length of time.

Boonville is a very little place. You will not find it down on any map
of the State, and I am not sure that even the county map takes notice
of it. There are, however, three mills at Boonville, all owned by
the same person—a gentleman named Francis, who resides at Hobartown,
some twelve miles away. One of these mills is a grist-mill, one is a
saw-mill, and the other is used for grinding plaster or gypsum, which
is taken from the bank of the river about a mile below. These three
mills stand together on the bank of the river near the bridge, and with
the dam above, the bright sparkling water and the rows of willows above
and below, they make a very pretty picture. There is a small church at
Boonville made of wood and painted white, though the paint is rather
the worse for wear.

A school-house stands beside it, and on the other side of the road is a
pretty large grove, almost large enough to be called a wood. There are
other woods about a quarter of a mile away—real woods which have never
been cleared, and which run along both sides of the road more than
three miles. There is an old tavern at Boonville, which was very busy
long ago in the days when post-coaches ran between Albany and Buffalo,
and heavy teams conveyed all the goods which did not go by the canal.
The tavern is quiet enough now. The grass grows up between the stones
round the door, and nobody stops there except now and then a teamster
or farmer having business at the mills.

There are perhaps in all a dozen other houses in the place. In one of
these lives the minister, Mr. Child, who preaches here and at Gibson
Centre, three miles away; in another, a pretty white house with green
blinds, a verandah, and a flower garden, lives Mr. Antis, the overseer
of the mill. Most of the other houses are either painted red, or are
gray for want of any paint at all. I doubt if any house in Boonville
has been touched with a brush for the last ten years except that
belonging to Mr. Antis, and Jeduthun Cooke's cottage down by the mill,
which is almost as neat as Mr. Antis's own.

The road runs rather high above the little river on the east side,
before you come to the descent which leads down to the bridge and the
mill. Standing among the trees on the side of this road, and looking
across the stream, you see something which strikes you as rather
curious in such a place. This is neither more nor less than a handsome
burial-vault built into the steep side of the hill a short distance
from the river. The front of the vault is like a little gothic chapel
of handsome gray stone, with thick shrubbery growing on each side.
There is a grassy slope in front of the door, and a narrow and steep
but well-kept carriage-road leads up to it.

This vault is the old family burial-place of General Dent, who lived
in the large brick house of which you can just see the chimneys over
the trees yonder. The vault was built in the time of the old general's
father, and is always kept in the most perfect repair. At the time of
my story, nobody had been buried in it for many years—no one, in fact,
since the general's only remaining son was brought back from Virginia,
where he had been travelling for his health. The children were
therefore very much surprised when they came out into the road, where
they had a view of the vault, to see the door of it standing open.



CHAPTER II.

AS Osric and Elsie stood looking and wondering at the unusual
spectacle, they were joined by two or three of the other children—by
Anna Lee and her sister Hetty, by David Parsons and his cousin
Christopher or Christie, a delicate little fellow about nine years old.

"I wonder if old General Dent is dead?" said Elsie.

"I know he isn't, for I saw him riding with Miss Rebecca last night.
They went by our house," said Anna, with considerable satisfaction,
"and the general bowed to me."

"That's nothing; General Dent bows to everybody," said Hetty, who
always liked, as she said, "to take people down. He bowed to Mrs. Cooke
the other day."

"Why shouldn't he bow to Mrs. Cooke?" returned Anna, with spirit. "I am
sure there is not a nicer woman in the world than Kissy Cooke. I only
wish I was half as good!"

Hetty had nothing to reply to that, but she laid it up in her mind,
determined to "pay" Anna for it later in the day.

"I didn't know the Dents had any relations round here," said David. "It
looks kind of strange to see that dark door open, don't it? I think it
looks as if it was waiting for somebody."

"I suppose it is," replied Elsie. "It didn't open itself."

"There is Jeduthun Cooke sitting in the mill door," said Osric. "Let us
go and ask him. He will be sure to tell us all about it."

The children ran down the descent leading to the grist-mill, where
Jeduthun Cooke was sitting in the door playing on the harmonica.

He was always making music of some kind—singing or whistling, or
playing on the fife or bugle, or on the harmonica, as at present. Old
Mrs. Badger, up at the tavern, said she wondered Mr. Antis would have
such a noise, but the "boss" only laughed, and said the stones would
not know how to run without Jeduthun's music. Jeduthun Cooke was a
light-coloured quadroon who had worked steadily in Mr. Worthington's
mill for the last sixteen years, except for the three years that he was
in the army as bugler to a cavalry regiment. He was a tall man, and as
thin, wiry, and agile as a panther, and there was a sparkle in his eye
which looked as if he might have a fiery temper. Nevertheless, he had
never been seen furiously angry but twice. Once was at the Badger boys,
whom he found tying a bunch of crackers to the tail of the old dog at
the mill. Jeduthun thrashed them both soundly, and threatened them with
a ducking, to boot. The boys went to complain to their grandmother—an
unwise proceeding on their part, for the old lady not only gave them a
second edition of the thrashing, but sent them to bed at five o'clock
on the Fourth of July. There were both dishonour and loss in that, and
the boys never forgot the lesson.

The other time Jeduthun flew into a passion, there was also a child
concerned, but this time the child was the victim. An Englishman had
come to work in the saw-mill, and had brought with him a little orphan
nephew. There was a strong conviction among the people at Boonville
that this lad was abused; but nothing was done about the matter till
one morning, when Jeduthun, going down to the mill earlier than
usual, heard the poor child screaming and begging for mercy. Jeduthun
jumped over the gate and ran round the house to the back door. There
was poor little Eben tied to a post, while his uncle was beating him
unmercifully. Nobody knew exactly what happened, but when Mr. Antis,
wakened by the cries of the child and screams of murder from the woman,
appeared on the scene, he found Jeduthun engaged in ducking Tom Collins
in the mill-dam, and with some trouble prevailed on him to let the man
come out of the water before he was quite drowned. Tom Collins brought
an action for assault, and Jeduthun was fined seventy-five cents, which
he cheerfully paid, remarking that he thought he had got the worth of
his money. Eben was taken away from his cruel relation and placed with
a farmer in the neighbourhood, and Tom Collins found it expedient to
move away from Boonville.

These two instances of temper did not make Jeduthun at all less
popular in the little community. He was a special favourite with the
children, for whom he told stories, sung songs, and made kites, tops,
and water-wheels; and then he sometimes lectured as well, and he liked
nothing better than to have a dozen of the school-children round the
mill door all chattering at once. He kept excellent order among his
little friends, never permitting any teasing, meddling, or other bad
manners, and Miss Hilliard, the school-mistress, used to say that
Jeduthun was really a great help to her.

Jeduthun was sitting in the mill door playing a very sad and solemn
tune on his harmonica, or mouth-organ, as it is sometimes called, and
the children waited till he finished it, for they knew he did not like
to be interrupted.

"That sounds like a funeral tune!" said Anna Lee.

"'Tis," said Jeduthun.

"They sung it at Mary Jane Hill's funeral over at the Springs,"
remarked Elsie. "It goes to the words, 'When blooming youth is snatched
away.'"

"That's it, exactly," returned Jeduthun, and he sung the first verse of
the hymn in such a soft, pure voice, and with such a tender solemnity,
that it brought tears to the children's eyes as they listened, as well
as to those of Mr. Antis,—albeit "unused to the melting mood,"—who was
busy in his office.

"They'll be singing that over at the Springs to-day," remarked Jeduthun
when he had finished the verse. "Miss Lilla Parmalee is going to be
buried to-day."

"Oh, poor thing! Is she dead?" exclaimed Anna Lee.

"She's dead, sure enough, but you needn't call her 'poor thing' any
more, Anna. She has got a long way beyond that by this time," said
Jeduthun. "Yes, Miss Lilla has been in heaven two days already. They
are going to bring her over here, and put her in old General Dent's
vault. The Parmalees are kind of connections of the Dents, somehow.
Kissy, she knows all about it. The boss was there yesterday, and last
night, the general and his sister drove over. The funeral is to be at
half-past one o'clock, and they'll get here about three, I expect."

"There's somebody mowing the grass before the door of the vault,"
remarked Osric, looking across the river.

"Yes, the general's man came down to open the door and make everything
nice. Kissy, she went over yesterday to see if she could do anything.
She used to work at Mr. Parmalee's before she was married. She was
saying last night that she was the first one to lay Miss Lilla in her
new cradle, and yesterday she helped to lay her in the coffin."

"I suppose they will have a splendid coffin?" said Mehetabel Lee.

"Oh yes. Mr. Parmalee won't spare expense, you may be sure. It's a kind
of comfort to him, I expect, though it don't do her any good. They have
got a coffin covered with white, with silver nails-and handles, and a
great silver cross on the breast, with Miss Lilla's name, and a text of
Scripture, and heaps of lovely white flowers of all kinds."

"Miss Lilla always liked white," remarked Elsie. "I hardly ever saw her
wear anything else in summer, and even in quite cold weather. Don't you
remember, Anna, when we were little girls, our wishing we could have
such white frocks as Miss Lilla's? Kissy was doing them up, and she
showed them to us."

"She had better white robes than any that money could buy," said
Jeduthun, solemnly. "She had washed her robes and made them white in
the blood of the Lamb, as Scripture says, and now she is a-wearing of
them before his throne. You get such robes as those, my dears, and then
you won't fear to die any more than she did."

"It must have been rather sudden at last," remarked Hetty, after a
little silence. "I saw her riding out in the carriage last week, when I
was over at the Springs. Let's see! why, that was only last Friday."

"Yes, she rode out the morning of the day she died, but her death
wasn't sudden more than any death is sudden," replied Jeduthun. "They
have been expecting it any time for the last year. In fact, Miss Lilla
has never been well like other people since she was born. I never
thought she would live as long as she has done."

"Such good people always seem to me to die young," said Anna.

"Well, I don't know," said David. "Look at grandmother! She is 'most a
hundred, and I am sure she is as good as she can be."

"That she is!" said Jeduthun. "She is a splendid old Christian. She
told me she had been a church-member for seventy-five years. Well,
young or old don't matter so much, if we are only ready, and we are
all of us old enough to make ready. Remember that, children. You can't
tell when your time will come, but if you are only ready, it will be
all right, whether you are as young as you be now, or as old as Madam
Brown."

"We can't tell when our call will come, either," said Elsie.

"No, and so the only safe way is to get ready now, because, you see,
to-day is your own, and to-morrow isn't;" and Jeduthun began to
sing again, this time, the beautiful tune which goes by the name of
Windham—"Life is the time to serve the Lord!"

The children listened respectfully, and Elsie and Anna with real
interest, to Jeduthun's little sermon, and even Hetty resolved that
she would not "pay" Anna for getting the best of their little dispute.
After all, Anna might die—she was often ailing—and then Hetty would be
sorry that she had teased her. Osric, however, had no taste for such
grave talk, and he slipped away and went up to the school-house, where
he found all the children assembled, and all talking together about
Miss Lilla's funeral.

"The coffin covered with white velvet, all nailed on with silver nails,
and a real silver cross on the top," one of the girls was saying as he
came up.

"Oh, Mary, not real silver!" said another.

"Real silver! My aunt said so," persisted Mary. "And they are to have
eight young ladies for pall-bearers, all dressed in white, with long
white veils and beautiful bunches and wreaths of flowers, and eight
young gentlemen with scarfs of white silk and white rosettes. They
sent to Hobartown for everything: flowers and coffin, and hearse and
carriages. Of course there wasn't anything at the Springs good enough
for the Parmalees," added Mary, imitating with considerable success the
tone in which she had heard her mother say these words.

"I wonder they didn't send to the city and have done with it," remarked
Osric.

"They have everything just as nice in Hobartown as they do in the
city," said Mary. "Of course they would, because so many rich people
live there. Anyhow, it shows that Miss Lilla's friends haven't any very
deep feelings for her, or they wouldn't be thinking of making such a
fuss. And such mourning! Oh my! Dresses covered with crape, veils down
to the ground, and all."

"I wish we could go to see the funeral," said little Christopher. "I
suppose Miss Hilliard wouldn't let us out?"

"Not she! She never will let any one have any fun that she can help,"
said Osric. "I think it is too bad."

"I don't call a funeral very great fun," said Alice Brown, rather
indignantly. "I guess thee wouldn't think so, if it was thy sister that
was to be buried instead of Miss Lilla."

"Rich folks don't have feelings like poor folks," said Mary, tossing
her head. "They just like to make a show, that's all. I can't bear such
people. They are always just as disagreeable as they can be."

"I am sure Miss Lilla was not disagreeable," remarked Elsie, who had
come up in time to hear Mary's words. "She was just as lovely as
she could be to everybody. Jeduthun Cooke says she used to have her
Sunday-school class come to her room to recite for ever so long after
she left off going to church, till she grew so weak, she could not bear
it any longer. And I know how good she was to Mary Jane Hill all the
time she was sick. She used to go and read to her by the hour, and she
was always sending her nice things to eat, and taking her out riding
in the carriage whenever she was able to go. Mrs. Hill told sister she
should never forget what Miss Lilla had done for Mary Jane, and Mary
Jane herself told sister that Miss Lilla had made death easy to her,"
added Elsie, in a low, reverent voice. "She said Miss Lilla first led
her to see the Lord as her Saviour."

"But, now, Elsie, do you think it is quite right to spend so much money
on a funeral?" asked Anna. "Hundreds of dollars for a coffin, just to
be buried in the ground? What good will all that do Miss Lilla?"

"It won't do her any good, of course," replied Elsie, "but, I suppose,
the friends find comfort in it. I know when our baby died, sister Avice
sent and bought the muslin for a beautiful white frock, and sat up all
night to make it. She let me buy the white ribbon for it, with my own
money that aunt gave me, and it was a comfort," said Elsie, wiping away
the tears that overflowed at the remembrance of the little baby-sister.

"But such a lot of money," said Anna. "Now, do you think it is right,
Alice Brown?"

"I shouldn't feel free to do it," said Alice, who had been brought up
among "Friends." "It is not our way, but thee knows, Anna, that we are
not to judge one another. People see things in different lights. I
don't doubt John Parmalee thinks it right, or he wouldn't do it, for he
is a good man."

"I know what I would do with the money," said Elsie. "I would build a
chapel or a school-house, and somewhere about it, I would put up Miss
Lilla's name, so it should be a kind of monument to her."

"What a girl you are, Elsie!" said Hetty. "I don't believe anybody else
would have thought of such a thing."

"Oh yes, it has been often done," returned Alice Brown. "I have seen a
beautiful church which was built in that way. A gentleman had two twin
babies to whom somebody left a great fortune, and when the babies died,
he took the money which had belonged to them, and built this church."

"I think that was lovely," exclaimed Elsie. "Do you know any more such
stories, Alice?"

"Yes, but I haven't time to tell them now, for there comes Miss
Hilliard."

"I wonder if she wouldn't let out school early this afternoon, if we
were to ask her?" said Osric.

"Thee can try, but I don't believe she will. Thee knows, Osric, she
never does dismiss school in any such way without asking the trustees,
and we had an extra holiday only last week."

"I mean to ask her, anyhow;" said Osric, who did not like to give up
any chance of a show, even though it were a funeral.

As Alice Brown had predicted, Miss Hilliard decidedly refused to
dismiss the school. She didn't wish the children to miss their lessons
and be unsettled by another holiday, and, moreover, she thought it
would be disagreeable to the mourning family to have them crowding
round and staring. She said "No" so decidedly that Osric did not
venture to ask her again, but nevertheless, he did not give up the idea
of seeing the funeral.

Miss Hilliard knew Miss Lila Parmalee very well, and after she had
opened the school with reading the story of the raising of Lazarus,
she told the children something about the dead young lady: how she had
always loved her Saviour ever since she was a little child, and how
desirous she had always been to use the little strength she had to his
glory, and for the good of those for whom he had died; how kind and
thoughtful she had been to those around her, never saying anything
wilfully to hurt any one's feelings, and never missing the chance of
doing a kind action; how she had taught in the Sunday-school as long
as she could go to church, and afterwards had the children meet at her
room as long as she was able to talk with them. Miss Hilliard had to
stop two or three times to wipe away her tears as she was speaking, for
she loved Miss Lilla dearly.

"Some people say that rich people are always proud," remarked Elsie,
"but I am sure Miss Lilla was not, though I suppose she was very rich."

"There is a good deal of covetousness and envy at the bottom of
such remarks, I fear," replied Miss Hilliard. "There is no meaner
satisfaction than that which people take in disparaging and slandering
those who are better off than themselves."

"I never heard that any of these very people objected to making money
themselves for fear it would make them disliked," said David.

Miss Hilliard smiled.

"No, we are all ready enough to run that risk. People are neither
wicked because they are rich nor good because they are poor. There
are temptations in both states of life. Rich people, when they are so
disposed, have it in their power to do a great deal of good, but we all
have opportunities enough in that way if we are only willing to use
them. We will now begin our lessons."

Osric had paid very little attention to what Miss Hilliard said. He
sat up straight and behaved well outwardly, but all the time, and all
through the reading and prayer, he was thinking how he could manage to
slip away and go to see the funeral. He did not care anything about
Miss Lilla's goodness or the sorrow of her parents at losing her, but
he wanted very much to see the fine white silver coffin, and the young
ladies dressed in white, and all the parade. He wanted, too, to see the
inside of the vault, and find out whether it was all lined and paved
with white marble, as the children said. He thought about the matter
all the morning, and listened to all the talk during recess, when every
newcomer had some new story to tell, and the more he heard and thought,
the more he wanted to go, and the more determined he was that he would
go. For, lazy as he was about a great many things, Osric could be
persevering and industrious as anybody, when any scheme of amusement
was concerned.

As he was eating his dinner at noon, sitting under a tree in the edge
of the woods, little Christopher Parsons came up to him. Christopher,
or Christy, as he was usually called, was a slender little fellow about
nine years old, a pretty good boy, but too easily led away for his
own good. He could never bear to say "No!" And so it happened that he
often got into scrapes and did wrong things because people asked him
to do so. David Parsons; who was himself a good boy and fond of his
little cousin, used to say that Christy was certainly to be known by
the company he kept, for when he was with good boys he was a good boy
himself, and when he was with bad boys, he was ready to be as bad as
any of them.

"Don't you wish we could go and see the funeral, Ozzy?" he asked as he
threw himself down on the grass at Osric's side.

"Yes, indeed! I think that Miss Hilliard is real mean," returned Osric.

"She is a regular old maid, and I hate old maids, anyway. They are
always just as mean and spiteful as they can be."

Now, Miss Hilliard could hardly be called an old maid, since she was
only twenty-four, and was, besides, engaged to be married. In reality,
Christopher loved her dearly, as he had good reason to do, but he did
not like to say so, for fear Osric should laugh at him.

"I think she might let us go, anyhow," said he.

"I mean to go," said Osric, after looking round to see that nobody was
near to listen to him, "I mean to go in spite of her, and so can you,
if you like."

"You don't mean to run away from school, do you?" asked Christopher.

Osric nodded his head and screwed up his mouth.

"I know what I am going to do," said he. "I would tell you, only I am
afraid you would run and tell David."

"I wouldn't, neither," returned Christopher, indignantly. "I don't tell
David everything. Do tell me, Ozzy."

"I won't, unless you will promise to go with me."

Christy hesitated. He did very much want to see the grand funeral, but
he did not quite like the idea of running away from school. Only that
morning while listening to Miss Hilliard's remarks, he had resolved
that he would always be a good boy, and try to do good like Miss Lilla.
Running away from school would not be a very promising beginning, but
then Osric wanted him to go, and perhaps would laugh at him, if he
refused, and call him a baby.

"But how will you manage it?" he asked, at last. The question showed
that he was not resisting firmly; but playing with the temptation.

"What's the use of telling you?" returned Osric. "You won't dare to go
with me, and you will run and tell of me directly, I know you will.
If you would help me, I would manage it nicely, and if I thought you
would," continued Osric, "I would try it."

"You can tell me how you mean to manage, anyway," said Christopher. "I
promise you, as true as I live and breathe, I won't tell, even if I
don't go myself."

"Well, I'll tell you. You know it is our week to go after water, and
Miss Hilliard always sends us for a fresh pailful a little before the
girls' recess. Well, we can take the pail and go to the well and leave
it. Then we can go up to the vault, and if nobody is there, and the
door is open, we can slip inside and wait till the people come. If the
door isn't open, or if somebody is watching, we can hide among the
trees till the funeral comes, and then we can see all the people and
get back before the end of the boys' recess."

"But what will Miss Hilliard say, if we stay so long?" asked
Christopher.

"We will tell her that the pump was out of order, and old Peter
wouldn't let us have any water at his well—you know he never will let
anybody come to his well—and that we had to go up to the tavern for
water."

"But that will be a lie," said Christopher, rather startled.

"Fiddlestick's-end!" retorted Osric. "If you are such a spooney as
that, Chris, I don't want anything to do with you. Suppose it is a
little stretch, what then? All the boys tell them, and the girls too,
worse than the boys."

"Oh, Ozzy, not all! I don't believe your sister would tell a lie for
the world!"

"Won't she, then? If you had heard her this morning! If she didn't tell
a fib, she acted it, and that is worse. Besides, this can't be a lie.
You will see the pump will be out of order when the time comes."

"But, Ozzy—" said Christopher, still hesitating. He did not know
exactly what he meant to say. The more he thought about it, the more he
wanted to go, and the more he listened to the temptation; the fainter
became the whispers of his conscience. Osric saw his advantage, and
pursued it.

"You need not go, if you don't want to, Christopher," said he, turning
away. "I did think you thought everything of me, but I see you don't
care anything about me. If you did, you would do what I want you to,
but I know one thing,—I never will ask you to do anything for me again.
I thought you would like to see the funeral, or I wouldn't have asked
you. Now I suppose you will go and tell Miss Hilliard, and get me a
whipping. I never thought you would use me so. Come, Christy," he
added, changing his tone to a coaxing one, "I know you will do this for
me. I never will forget it, and I will do as much and more for you."

There is no use in following the conversation farther. Osric gained
his point, and Christopher promised to go with him to the funeral.
It would not have been easy to tell exactly why he was so anxious to
lead Christopher away with him, only people who do wrong are usually
desirous to have others do wrong likewise. It makes them feel, somehow,
a little less wicked. They think it forms some excuse for themselves to
say that they are no worse than others.

Presently the bell rung.

"You go in, Christy," said Osric as they came near the school-house,
and saw that every one had gone in but themselves. "I'm going to have a
drink first."



CHAPTER III.

WHILE Osric and Christopher had been hatching their conspiracy, Elsie
and Anna had been sitting with Alice Brown under the willow by the side
of the river.

It was a beautiful place. The river ran sparkling along, and made a
cheerful, pleasant murmur against its banks. Just above the dam it was
still and glassy, and poured over the edge of the dam in a smooth, even
sheet. It was just the same, winter or summer, for it was the outlet
of quite a large lake ten or twelve miles away, and was not affected
by the dry weather. Across the river was a green bank, and above that
the steep hillside in which General Dent's vault was built. The vault
was shaded by trees, and the grass grew close to the threshold. The sun
was shining on it, and a robin was sitting singing on one of the carved
pinnacles over the door, but still Elsie thought it looked dismal.

"I shouldn't like to be buried in a vault," said she, with a shiver. "I
should rather be put in the ground, where the grass could grow over me,
and the sun shine on my grave."

"I think I should feel as thee does," replied Alice Brown; "but, after
all, dear, thee knows it does not make any great difference. When the
trumpet shall sound and the dead be raised, it will not matter much
whether we are received from a grass-covered grave, or a stone vault,
or the waters of the sea. We shall all meet the Lord in the air, to be
ever with him, and that is the great thing."

Alice Brown was the oldest girl in school—quite a grown-up young woman.
All the girls looked up to her, and she was kind to them all, but she
was especially fond of Elsie and Anna. They on their part loved Alice
dearly, told her all their troubles, and went to her for help and
advice on all occasions. When Elsie first began to hope that she really
loved her Saviour, Alice was the first person who found out what she
was thinking of, and she had been a great help to Elsie ever since, in
directing her by precept and example in the right way.

The girls sat silent for some moments, and then Elsie said suddenly:

"Alice, if you had a dear friend who kept doing wrong, and would do
wrong whatever you could say to him, and if he would not mind a word
you said, but only kept out of your way, what would you do?"

Alice knew well enough what Elsie meant, for Osric's faults were no
secret at school, whatever they might be at home. She said nothing of
him, however, but answered quietly:

"I think, Elsie, I should try to cast my burden on the Lord."

"Yes, but how?" asked Elsie. "I don't understand, Alice."

"Well, thee knows, Elsie, that we always have liberty to tell him
all our troubles in our prayers, because he himself invites us, and
promises us his help. If we see our friends going wrong, as thee says,
and cannot help it ourselves, we must just ask the Lord to take the
case in hand. We must ask him to send his Spirit to our friend, to lead
him into the right way and keep him there, and then we must try to
believe that he will do it."

"That seems to be the hard part of it," said Anna.

"It is hard sometimes," said Alice, sighing, "very hard indeed—but yet
he will give us that grace as well as any other, if we are patient and
humble in asking and in waiting for it. But, dears, it is time for the
bell to ring, and we must not be late."

"Alice, won't you pray? You know what I mean," whispered Elsie, hanging
back and squeezing her friend's hand. "I can't tell you about it, but
you know who I mean."

"Yes, my dear," replied Alice. "Thee may be sure I will."

If Miss Hilliard had noticed, she might have seen that Christopher
looked red and confused, and hesitated a moment, when she told him to
go with Osric and bring a pail of fresh water. As he rose to obey,
Christie's conscience gave him a last pull and whisper—a last draw
before it was too late. He had half a mind to ask to be excused, but he
thought how vexed Osric would be, and how he would laugh at him, and
the fear of man was stronger in his mind than the fear of doing wrong.
When Osric and Christopher came out of the school-house, it wanted a
quarter to three.

"We shall be just in time," said Osric. "Hurry, Chris! Never mind the
old pail. Leave it anywhere."

Christopher, however, hid the pail behind the corner of the fence, and
then ran on after Osric, who was already at the bridge. They went up
along the road leading to the vault, and stopped among the trees.

"There! You see we can't go into the vault," said Christopher. "There
is General Dent's man Isaac watching the door."

"Likely as not he will go away in a minute," returned Osric. "Wait a
little and see. Yes, there he goes. Now let us run and peep in before
he comes back again."

The two boys hastened up the hill and into the vault, the door of which
stood open. There was not much to see, after all. There were no coffins
standing about, as Osric had expected. In truth, the coffins were
placed in niches in the wall, and there built up, and a marble slab or
tablet placed over the spot to show who was buried there. Christopher
and Osric peeped about trying to read the inscriptions on these tablets.

"Do you suppose the coffins are in behind the wall or under the floor?"
asked Christopher.

"I suppose they are in behind these marble slabs," replied Osric, in a
tone of disappointment. "I thought they would be lying on shelves or on
the ground, so that we could see them. How cold it is in here, isn't
it?"

"I suppose that is because the vault is under ground. See here,
Ozzy—here is the old general's stone. Born 1750. More than a hundred
years ago."

"He was an old man when he died, too," said Osric. "I can just remember
him. Here is the general's youngest sister. Aged twelve—just as old as
I am, and she died so long ago—1802."

"I wonder if she has been in heaven all that time?" said Christopher,
who was a thoughtful child. "I wonder whether the general will know
her when he gets there, too? Oh dear! I wish I hadn't come here!"
said Christopher, struck with sudden remorse. "Suppose we should die
suddenly, Ozzy?"

"Now, Christy Parsons, if you begin whining, I will never speak to you
again as long as I live!" said Osric, angrily. "I should never have
come, if you hadn't been so ready to come with me, and now you begin
blaming me."

"I didn't blame you, either!" returned Christopher, greatly hurt.
"I only said, What if we should die suddenly? And I didn't make you
come, either, you know. I never should have thought of running away
from school, if you hadn't coaxed me, and I mean to go right back this
minute and tell Miss Hilliard I am sorry and I won't do so again."

"And so get punished and kept after school, and have all the boys laugh
at you for a tattle-tale and a girl-boy," said Osric, "and just as
likely as not, have General Dent taking you up and putting you into
jail for trespass. They do put people into jail for trespass, I know,
and of course trespassing in a vault would be worse than any other."

As the two boys were wrangling at the far end of the vault, they heard
outside a noise of horses' feet and wheels and subdued voices. The
funeral train had come up, and they had not seen it, after all.

"We can't get out now, anyhow," said Osric. "We shall have to wait till
they bring in the coffin, and then we can see that, at any rate, and
slip out with the rest of the people."

"But somebody will be sure to see us," said Christopher, on whose mind
the idea of going to jail for trespass had taken a strong hold. "I
don't see how we can ever get out at all."

"Hush, can't you?" returned Osric, giving him a pinch. "Somebody will
hear you. Just you do as I do. There! They are saying the prayers."

"In the midst of life, we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour
but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased? Yet,
O Lord most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour,
deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death!"

How solemn the words sounded! Christopher felt as if they were meant
for him—as if he were being buried instead of Miss Lilla. He burst out
crying in spite of himself, and of Osric's shakes and pinches.

"Do be still, you great baby! I never saw such a dunce in my life! I
never will go anywhere with you again!"

"I can't help it!" sobbed Christopher. "I feel so bad;" and he withdrew
from Osric's grasp to the very farthest end of the vault, which was
quite spacious, and leaning his head against the damp wall, he cried as
if his heart would break.

Meantime, the service was concluded; the white and glistening coffin,
covered with flowers, was brought in and set down on the floor. Osric
had his wits about him, and as the bearers withdrew, he slipped out
with them without being noticed, and hid in a thick bush which grew
close to the door. There were no pall-bearers dressed in white, no
plumes of white feathers or white velvet pall. There were no grand
carriages from Hobartown, but only Mr. Parmalee's own, with General
Dent's, Doctor Henry's, and a few others from the Springs. It was no
such great show, after all.

Osric was so busy noticing these things that he never thought of
Christopher. There was some confusion among the carriages at going
away: one was upset, and the horses were frightened. Osric waited
till all was quiet and every one had gone. Then he came out and ran
towards the school-house. He did not see any one, and thought with some
vexation that recess was over, and he should be caught, after all. What
was his astonishment, on arriving within sight of the school-house, to
see the door and windows closed, and nobody about but Elsie, who as
soon as she saw him, came running along the road to meet him.

"Why, Ozzy, where have you been?" she exclaimed. "School has been out
almost an hour, and it is five o'clock. Where is Christy?"

"He has gone home long ago," said Osric, but as he spoke his heart
sank, and he turned as pale as death, for it struck him all at once
like a blow, that he had left Christopher locked up in the burial-vault.



CHAPTER IV.

IT was even so. Christopher, in the midst of his distress and fear,
had not observed that the service was concluded. He had slipped out of
sight behind a piece of projecting masonry, so as not to be noticed,
and the first sound that aroused him to his true position was the
closing and locking of the heavy outer door. Even then, he did not
think of being locked in. He heard the bustle outside gradually die
away, but he never thought that he was being left alone.

"Ozzy!" he whispered, timidly. There was no answer. "Ozzy," he said, in
a louder tone, "hadn't we better go out now? I believe every one has
gone away. I don't hear any one moving. Oh, Ozzy, do speak to me!"

But Ozzy was far enough away by that time. Christopher could hardly be
convinced that he was left alone. At first the vault was perfectly dark
to him, but as his eyes became more accustomed to the place, he could
perceive that a little light came in from a hole over the door filled
in with thick glass, and also from the top. There was what is called
a ventilating shaft to the vault—a tall shaft like a chimney going up
from the centre of the roof through the hill, and for quite a distance
above it. At the sides of this shafts at the top, were four openings
for air, and through these, a little light penetrated, and fell on the
white floor of the vault. Christopher went towards it, and found he
could see still more plainly. Yes, Osric had certainly gone and left
him alone.

Christopher sprang to the door, determined to get out at all hazards.
He opened the inner door easily enough, but the outer one resisted all
his efforts. He shook it and called till he was perfectly exhausted,
but no one heard him. The nearest person was a quarter of a mile away.
He stopped and listened. He could hear the rushing of the water over
the dam, the singing of the birds, and the distant sound of wheels.
The mills were not running to-day, and there would be nobody at the
saw-mill, which was the nearest building, but surely some one must hear
him and come to take him out of that dreadful place, and once more he
began to cry and to pound the door, but it was all of no use.

Spent and exhausted at last, he sat down on the ground in dumb despair
and hid his face on his knees. When he looked up again the place was
perceptibly darker. The sun had gone down behind the hill, and as the
vault fronted the east, the place was in deep shadow. He heard strange
twitterings, and every few minutes a noise like distant thunder. He
sprang up once more, for he was afraid of thunder, and the thought of
passing through a thunder-storm in that place was unbearable. He shook
and beat the door, but in vain. And once more throwing himself on the
floor, this time on his face, he cried aloud, calling alternately
on Osric and on his mother to come to him. The tears relieved him.
He cried himself into quietness, and at last he sat up, and wiping
his eyes, he began to think what he had better do: but with all his
thinking, he could come to no conclusion.

He could not get out by his own efforts, that was certain; unless
somebody came after him, he had no better prospect than to stay there
and starve. There were two or three chances for him.

One was that Osric would tell the story, when of course, he would be
released very soon. As he considered the matter, he felt sure that
Osric would not get back to the school-house before recess was over.
Then, he would have to give an account of himself, and perhaps he would
tell the truth. But then Osric was so afraid of being found fault with,
and, besides that, he might not have known that Christopher was left
in the vault. He might suppose him safe at home all the time. Nobody
had seen the two boys, that Christopher knew of; and even when he was
missed, nobody would think of looking for him there. They would think
he had fallen into the river, or that he had started to go home through
the woods and got lost, but they would never, never think of him
sitting all alone in General Dent's burial-vault.

There was another hope, though not a very cheering one. Christopher
considered that all the other coffins were placed in recesses in the
wall, of which several still remained empty, while Miss Lilla's had
been set on the floor. He looked round, and even now he could see a ray
of light reflected from the silver cross on which the dead girl's name
was engraved. Christopher did not think they could mean to leave it
there. He thought it likely that somebody would come next day to place
it in one of the recesses, or to dispose of it in some other way. If
he could live till that time! But then, he remembered that very likely
nothing would be done for several days. Perhaps they might wait till
the marble slab was made ready with Miss Lilla's name and age on it,
and how could he live for three or four days in that close air, and
without anything to eat or drink?

Christopher's imagination had something to do with the closeness of the
place, for it was, in reality, better ventilated than most cellars.
It was cold and damp, however, and he was hungry and thirsty, and all
alone, with no very probable chance of escape: there was no imagination
in that.

All at once, Christopher remembered that he had two doughnuts in his
pockets. They would keep him from starving for a little while at least.
He would eat a part of one now, and keep the rest as long as he could.
But he was only a little boy, and hungry, and the doughnuts tasted very
good, and before he had decided, he had eaten the whole of one of them,
and came very near eating the other. He restrained himself, however,
put the doughnut away in his cap, which he laid in one corner of the
doorway, and again began to think.

All at once he heard the mill-bell ring. It was six o'clock, then.
Every one would be going home to supper. His mother would have the
table all ready, with the pitcher of new milk, the sweet-smelling
loaf of bread, and all the other good things, and every one would be
wondering what had become of Christopher. David would be called, and
would go all over the village asking for him. Well, Miss Hilliard would
know that he had gone out with Osric after a pail of water. David would
go out to Mr. Dennison's and question Osric, and so the truth would
come out. Oh yes, they would certainly find him before long; but,
meantime, how unhappy his poor mother would feel, and how grieved she
would be to hear that he had been such a wicked boy!

Only that morning he had resolved that he would be so good, and yet
he had allowed himself to be led away by the first temptation. He had
deceived Miss Hilliard, who had always been so kind to him; he had
disobeyed his dear, good mother, and displeased his heavenly Father,
and all because he was afraid of Osric Dennison, who had led him into
all this trouble, and left him to get out the best way he could.

Christopher burst into tears again, but this time they were tears of
genuine repentance. He had been well brought up so far. He had been to
Sunday-school all his life, and his mother had taught him to say his
prayers, and had read the Bible with him ever since he could remember.
The Sunday-school at Boonville was an old-fashioned one, where the
children came to learn, and not to be "interested" or entertained. They
learned their seven verses a week, and said them to their teacher on
Sunday, and the elder ones found proof-texts on subjects given out by
the superintendent, and committed to memory psalms and hymns.

Consequently, Christopher knew a good deal of the Bible for a child of
his age. He felt that he had done very wrong. He had been very wicked.
Nobody but God could help him now, and God was angry with him. Miss
Lilla was in heaven with her Saviour and the holy angels even now,
while her body lay there in the grave where he was, as it were, buried
alive with her, but if he were to die there! Oh, why did not somebody
come? It must be almost dark now. He could not see, at all. They must
have heard where he was by this time: why did not somebody come to take
him out? Must he stay there all night? Must he stay till he starved to
death or died of the chill and the damp air? He was not strong, and
he sometimes had fainting fits, and he had once heard his mother say
that he might die in these fits unless he had help directly. Suppose he
should have one now?

Just at this moment he remembered the words which had so affected him
in the funeral service: "Of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee,
O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased?" That was true. Of whom
else could he seek for help? Nobody else could give him any aid; but if
God were his Friend, no real harm could happen to him. Even if he were
to die, he should be quite safe, for the angels would carry him away
from that dreary place to the light and joy of heaven. But would God
forgive him? Was there any use in asking after he had been so wicked?

"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." Christopher had
heard those words more times than he could remember, but he had never
attached any particular meaning to them. Now they came to him as a
messenger from on high. He set himself to think of other promises to
the same effect, and he remembered a great many.

   "I said I will confess my transgressions unto the Lord, and thou
forgavest the iniquity of my sin."

   "Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners."

   "He is able to save them to the uttermost that come unto God
by him."

There seemed to be no end to the texts he could remember.

"That must mean me, because I am a sinner! It must be true—he says so!
Oh, if I had only minded before! But I know he can help me even now, as
he did Daniel and the three Hebrew children, if he sees it right."

Christopher raised his head. The full moon had risen, and a pale beam
of light came through the thick glass over the outer door and shone on
the white coffin. He went and knelt down by the side of it, feeling
that even Miss Lilla's dead body was some company for him.

He prayed that his sins might be forgiven and washed away; that he
might be released from that place and taken back to his mother, if it
was his Father's will; and if not, that he might be taken to heaven;
and that he might not be afraid to die when the time came. He prayed
for his mother and all his friends, and for Osric, and finally, quieted
by his prayers and worn out by fatigue, he laid his head down upon the
soft plush which covered Miss Lilla's last resting-place and fell fast
asleep.



CHAPTER V.

MEANTIME, there was a great wonder what could have become of
Christopher.

Mrs. Parsons waited till supper-time without much alarm. She thought
Christopher had perhaps stopped to play with the children who lived
near the school-house—a thing he sometimes did, though his mother had
forbidden it—but when the sun was near setting, and still he did not
come, she grew uneasy and went over to her brother-in-law's house to
see if David knew anything about his cousin. She met David himself at
the gate, apparently just come home.

"I have not been in school this afternoon," said he, in answer to
her eager question. "Father had an errand he wanted done over at
Shortsville (which was another little village on the outlet about five
miles away), and I saw a man from there down at the mill, so I just got
Miss Hilliard to excuse me, and rode over with him. I came back to the
Springs on the cars, and walked the rest of the way. The last I saw of
Christopher, he and Osric Dennison were talking together over Osric's
dinner."

"It is very strange," said Mrs. Parsons. "Christy never stays so late."

"I don't exactly see what could happen to him between here and the
village," said David. "He always comes by the road when he is alone,
and even if he had started to come through the woods, the path is
perfectly plain. To be sure, he might go off after flowers or some such
nonsense. I'll tell you what, auntie, I will just get a bite of supper,
and then, if father is willing, I will go back to the village and look
him up. Maybe he has gone home with some of the boys, and such young
ones never know what time it is, you know."

"It will be making you a great deal of trouble after your long walk,"
said poor Mrs. Parsons, "but I should be very much obliged to you,
David. I can't help feeling very uneasy."

Mr. Ezra Parsons made no objection to David's going to look for his
cousin, but his mother rather demurred.

"You have had a long walk already, and you are as tired as you can be.
I dare say the young one will turn up all right. Celia is just like a
hen with one chicken."

"Well, that's just what she is,—a hen with one chicken!" said Mr.
Parsons, smiling. "She is a widow, you know, and Christy is all she has
in the world. If she had such a brood as you, mother, she would be more
reasonable."

David laughed, and his mother smiled also, for she knew very well that
she had been just as anxious about every one of her seven sons as Mrs.
Celia was about her one.

"After all, I should feel uneasy, if Harry were out of the way. Chris
is a delicate boy, and, as you say, he is all she has. I don't mind if
David don't, I'm sure, but the child ought to know better than to stay
so."

"He does know better," returned David. "However, Chris is a pretty good
boy in general, that I will say for him. The worst thing about him is,
that he is so easily led away. The boys can make him do anything only
by laughing at and teasing him. I hope they have not coaxed him to go
in swimming, or any such thing. I tell you what, ma, I begin to feel
rather uneasy. I guess I will start off now, without waiting for my
supper. I'll take the lantern and go through the woods."

"What time will you be back?"

"I can't tell. If I can't hear of him in the village, nor find him in
the woods, I will go out to Mr. Dennison's. He may have gone home with
Osric, though I don't think it likely."

"If you don't come back in an hour, I will hitch up and come down to
the village myself," said Mr. Parsons. "Though I dare say, the little
scamp is as comfortable as can be, somewhere or other. He will deserve
a thrashing for making so much trouble."

By this time, David had the bright kerosene lantern trimmed and
lighted, and was ready to set out on his expedition. His mother kept
him waiting while she filled his pockets with cakes.

She was not one of those mothers who pet their children when they are
little, and turn them off like a brood of last month's chickens as soon
as a younger one comes along. When her biggest boy, who was a rising
lawyer in the city, came home for a visit, he came to his mother for
his good-night and good-morning kiss as regularly as little Harry, who
was only seven years old.

David kissed his mother, and whistling for his dog Sandy, a beautiful
and intelligent Scotch colly, he set out on his expedition. Mrs. Celia
Parsons was standing at her gate looking down the road.

"Keep up good courage, auntie," said David, cheerfully. "I hope to
bring him home all right."

David spoke encouragingly, but in his heart he felt rather uneasy.
He crossed a field, and turned into a path which formed his usual
short-cut to the village. This path led through a corner of the great
woods mentioned in the first chapter of this story, and was a favourite
with all the Parsons boys, though Christopher did not usually dare to
go or come that way unless in his cousin's company. The woods were
very dark and thick, and swampy in places, and were haunted by numbers
of owls, which often made themselves heard even in daylight. Birds
sung and flitted there which were heard nowhere else, and whose voices
sounded shrill and strange, and there was an awful tradition that
somewhere in the depths of the forest, among the tangled bushes, there
was or had been a wild cat's den, which said wild cat had been heard
to screech by sundry people "just like a cat owl," which it probably
was. The older boys were fond of these woods, and explored them in
every direction to find rare wild flowers, ferns, and mosses for Miss
Hilliard, who was a great botanist, but the younger children were
rather afraid of them.

David walked along, swinging his lantern on every side, peering into
the woods, and now and then giving a peculiar shrill whistle or calling
aloud. Sandy, the dog, went sniffing at the path, now and then making
a short excursion into the bushes. No sign of Christopher was seen or
heard, as may be supposed. Arrived at the village, David made inquiries
of every one he thought likely to know anything about the matter. He
soon learned from some of the children that Christopher had gone with
Osric for a pail of water just before recess, and that neither of them
had returned to school.

"Run away to see the funeral, I dare say," said David to himself. "If I
don't give it to Chris, when I catch him! I wonder whether I had better
go out to Dennison's or wait a little longer? There's Jeduthun Cooke. I
will ask him."

Jeduthun had seen nothing of the boys. He and Keziah had been expressly
invited to attend Miss Lilla's funeral from the house, and had borrowed
a horse and buggy to drive over to the Springs. He had not seen the
boys in the crowd round the door of the vault, nor afterwards, and he
did not think they had been at the funeral.

At this moment, Mr. Parsons came up in his buggy. He had driven over by
the road, keeping a sharp lookout on every side, but—as the reader need
hardly be told—had seen nothing of the child. He heard David's story
with some uneasiness. "After all, he may be out at Squire Dennison's
all the time. We had better drive out there and see."

Osric had walked home with Elsie in a very unenviable and uncomfortable
frame of mind. He would give no account of himself to Elsie, and coolly
told her to mind her business.

"Just as if you were my master," said he. "I dare say you will tell
mother of me?"

"I shall have to tell her what made me so late," said Elsie. "She will
be sure to ask me, and I shall have to tell her the truth."

"Oh yes! You are mighty particular about the truth all at once," said
Osric, scornfully. "You were not so very careful this morning. You just
as good as told sister a lie about that book, and you know you did. So!"

"I didn't, either," said Elsie, almost crying.

"You let her think what wasn't true, and that is just the same,"
persisted Osric. "Mother always says so, and you very often do."

"If I did, it was for your sake, Ozzy," returned Elsie. "I never meant
to tell a lie, only to keep you from being blamed. And I do wish you
would tell mother the truth about your running away from school. She
will be sure to find out some way or other, and she will be a great
deal more angry."

"You mind your business," was all Ozzy would say.

As it happened, the children were not very closely questioned. A
houseful of company had arrived in the course of the afternoon, and
Mrs. Dennison had her hands full.

She easily accepted Osric's excuse that Miss Hilliard had kept the
whole arithmetic class after school, and that Elsie had waited for
him, for even Osric hesitated about involving Elsie in a scrape
unnecessarily.

"You must be more careful another time," said she. "Elsie, you did
not do wrong in waiting for your brother, so you need not look so
sorrowful. It was nothing worse than an error in judgment, and you
could not know that I needed you. Run and put on your clean pink frock,
and then set the table."

Elsie obeyed, feeling more unhappy than she had ever done in all her
life. She knew that by her silence, she made herself a party to Osric's
lie, and a lie was dreadful to Elsie. Still, she could not bear to
betray her brother. Even the beautiful new book which her aunt had
brought her, could not divert her attention from her troubles, and
every one noticed how quiet and sober she was.

"Is Elsie always so sedate?" asked her aunt.

"She is always a quiet child," replied her mother. "Elsie is one of
those who always have to carry other people's burdens, and I suspect
she feels Osric's being kept after school far more than he does. She is
so good herself that she rarely has any faults of her own to repent of,
and she makes it up by repenting of her brother's."

Elsie overheard these words, and she could bear her trouble no longer.
She ran up to her room, and throwing herself down on her knees beside
the bed, she burst into tears and cried as if her heart would break.
Presently, Osric heard her, and came into the room.

"Do be still," said he, angrily. "What do you make such a fuss for?
Nobody has said anything to you."

"I can't help it, Ozzy," said Elsie, between her sobs. "I feel so
wicked."

"Pshaw! You are always making a fuss about something," returned
Osric, who felt uneasy himself, and as usual felt a strong desire to
revenge that uneasiness on somebody. "You just spoil all the comfort
of my life, Elsie Dennison, and especially since you've got to be so
wonderful pious. I wish you were not my sister at all. You do nothing
but plague me all the time."

"Oh, Ozzy, how can you say so?" exclaimed Elsie, in a new burst of
grief.

"Because I feel so," answered Osric. "I almost hate you, Elsie
Dennison, so there!" And with these wicked words, Osric quitted
the room and went to his own, which was close by. He was very
uncomfortable; for the more he thought about it, the more he felt that
he had left Christopher shut up in the vault. He tried to think that
somebody would be sure to let him out, but it was not very pleasant to
think of poor Christopher confined in that dismal place, and crying for
his mother, perhaps frightened to death by the darkness and loneliness:
for Osric had heard of such things.

Then, if Christopher should get out alive, he would be sure to tell,
and what would his father say? He had been threatened with severe
punishment the next time he told a lie, and he knew that his father was
a man of his word. Osric was frightened at himself when he found he was
actually hoping Christopher might never come out alive. Oh no, he did
not mean that, only he wished he had never gone to see the funeral. It
was all Christopher's fault, anyway. Osric would never have gone but
for him.

Presently he heard a buggy drive up, and a few minutes afterwards his
father called him from the foot of the stairs: "Osric! Come down here,
directly!"

"I am just going to bed," replied Osric, beginning to undress as fast
as possible. "I was all undressed."

"Dress yourself, then, and come down. I want you."

There was nothing for it but to obey. Osric put on his clothes again,
and went down to the kitchen, where he found his father and mother,
with Mr. Parsons and David.

"Come here, Osric," said his mother. "Mr. Parsons wants to speak to
you."

"Don't be afraid, now, but tell me the exact truth," said Mr. Parsons.
"Where did you and Christopher go when you were sent after water?"

"We didn't go anywhere," said Osric. "Only the school-house pump
wouldn't work, somehow, and we went to Mr. Peters, and he wouldn't let
us have any, and so we went up to the tavern."

[Illustration: The Dark Night.
 Where he found his father and mother
 with Mr. Parsons and David.]

"Well, and what then? Why did you not come back to school at once,
instead of staying out all the afternoon?"

"We did go back as soon as we could," replied Osric.

"But, Ozzy, Miss Hilliard and all the children say that you did not
come back at all," said David. "Miss Hilliard says she has never seen
you since she sent you for the water before the girls' recess."

"Call Elsie," said Mr. Dennison. "She will tell the truth, if she is
asked, I am sure."

Elsie was called, and came down, her eyes red with crying. "Now, Elsie,
tell us the exact truth," said her father, drawing her towards him.
"Did Osric and Christopher go out after water before recess?"

Once being asked a straightforward question, Elsie had no hesitation in
answering. She checked her tears, and replied plainly, "Yes, father."

"And when did they come back?"

Osric looked threateningly at Elsie, but she did not hesitate. She had
made up her mind as to her duty, and was determined to do it.

"They did not come back at all, father. They had not come when school
was out, and I waited ever so long for Ozzy after the school-house was
locked up."

"Now, Osric, you must tell us the truth," said Mr. Parsons, firmly but
kindly. "Christopher is missing and cannot be found, and his mother is
very much distressed about him."

At first, Osric would say nothing, but finally, he admitted that he and
Christopher had hid among the willows on the bank of the river to see
the funeral pass, that they had watched it across the river, and then
Christopher said his head ached, and he would go home.

"Which way did he go?"

"Through the woods."

"You are sure you did not go in swimming?" said Mr. Parsons.

"No," returned Osric, doggedly.

"Quite sure?"

"No, we didn't. We talked about it, but Christopher was afraid, and
wouldn't go."

"But where were you all the time, Osric?" asked his father. "You must
have been gone from the school-house almost two hours, according to
Elsie's account."

"I wasn't gone near so long," said Osric, reckless of consequences, and
with a burning desire to be revenged on Elsie. "I got back just after
school was out. I walked a little way with Christy, and then came right
back to the school-house. Elsie was playing with some girls on the
meeting-house steps, and she would not come for ever so long."

"Why, Ozzy!" exclaimed Elsie, perfectly aghast at this new falsehood.

"Well, you were, and you know it! Everybody thinks you are so good, and
you tell more lies than any girl I know. You made me wait ever so long,
and you wouldn't come at all till I said I'd tell mother."

"That does not agree very well with the story you told me when you
first came home—that Miss Hilliard had kept you after school, and that
Elsie waited for you," said his mother. "Which are we to believe?"

Osric was silent. He had forgotten that story. It is inconvenient for
liars to have short memories.

"You may ask any of the girls about it, mother," said Elsie.

"Now, Osric, tell us the exact truth, for it is very important that we
should know," said Mr. Parsons. "Where did you part from Christopher?"

"In the woods," replied Osric.

"Where in the woods?"

"By a great pine stump. He wanted me to go all the way with him; and I
wouldn't;" and to this story Osric doggedly adhered.

"That must have been about half-past four, as nearly as we can get at
it," said David. "What can have become of the child, father?"

"I cannot guess," replied his father; "but we must lose no time in
seeking for him. There is a storm threatening, and if Christopher is
lost in the woods, he may die of fright, if of nothing else, before
morning. We must go back to the village, turn out the men, and search
the woods. You are sure Christopher did not go in swimming?"

"He didn't while he was with me, that's all I know," said Osric,
sullenly.

Mr. Parsons and David got into the buggy and drove rapidly towards the
village. Mr. Dennison tried to get something more out of Osric, but in
vain. At last, wearied out with his obstinacy, he punished him severely
and sent him to bed.

Mrs. Dennison reproved Elsie for not telling the truth about the reason
of her delay.

"I know it was naughty," sobbed Elsie. "I have felt so bad about it
ever since, but I didn't know what to do."

"You may always know what to do when anybody, no matter who, tries to
make you a sharer in any deceit," said her mother, "You do Osric harm
instead of good, by always trying to cover up his faults. It is much
better that he should be found out and punished. I do not mean that you
are always to be telling of him, but you should never allow yourself
to be drawn in by him to do what you know to be wrong. Now go to bed,
and when you say your prayers, don't forget to ask forgiveness both for
yourself and your brother, and pray that poor Osric may see his sin and
repent of it."

There was no danger of Elsie's forgetting. She remembered what Alice
had said about casting her burden on the Lord, and she tried to do
it with all her heart. Then feeling very much humbled, but very much
comforted, she went to bed, and was soon fast asleep.

Meantime, all the men in the little village were out searching for
Christopher. One party explored the woods, and another searched the
banks of the stream up and down. David was with the party, and about
a quarter of a mile above the school-house, he found a handkerchief
belonging to his little cousin. David groaned at the sight, and hid his
face in his hands.

"I am afraid he did go in swimming, after all, and if he did, this is
all we shall ever see of him," said he.

"But Osric says he started for home through the woods," said one of the
large boys.

"Osric didn't tell the truth," replied David. "I don't know what the
truth is, but I know he didn't tell it. Oh, poor Aunt Celia!"

"Don't give up," said John Lee. "This handkerchief may have been left
here before. You know the little boys like to play up and down the
creek. Let us go back and see if any news has come from the woods. My!
What a flash that was! I am afraid we are going to have a great storm.
It's not a good night to be out in."

"The wind is rising too," said David. "Oh what will become of that poor
little child?"

"We'll give that Osric a lesson, anyhow!" said John Lee. "The little
rascal! He is always in some mischief or other! Won't he catch it from
Miss Hilliard, though?"

A furious gust of wind now came tearing down the valley, bending the
trees and snapping the branches, and the lightning flashed incessantly
on every side. The scouting-party hastened to get out of the woods as
quickly as possible. It was evident, even to David, that nothing could
be done till the storm was over.

Jeduthun Cooke had been one of the most active of the scouters, and
he came home wearied and wet enough, to find that Keziah had provided
him with a hot supper, and laid out dry clothes all ready for him. He
changed his wet garments, drank a cup of coffee, and then threw himself
on the bed to catch a little sleep. He had not slept, as it seemed to
him, more than five minutes, when he was wakened by Keziah:

"'Duthun! I say, 'Duthun! Nobody has thought of looking in the vault!"

Jeduthun was on his feet, wide awake, in an instant.

"The vault!" he exclaimed. "What's gone and put that in your head,
Kissy?"

"I dunno," replied Kissy. "I got up to see if the storm was over, and
it come to me all at once."

"But Osric says they did not go to the funeral, and I'm sure I didn't
see 'em there. To be sure, David Parsons mistrusted all the time that
Osric didn't tell the truth, but then I should think somebody would
have seen them."

"I can't help that," said Kissy, positively. "I'm just as sure as I can
be, that that poor child is in General Dent's vault this very minute. I
feel that for sure and certain."

When Kissy felt things "for sure and certain," there was no use in
arguing with her, as Jeduthun knew from long experience. Moreover, he
was struck with the idea himself.

"It don't seem very likely, and yet it is just possible," said he. "If
I had the key, I'd go up there this minute. Come to think of it, I
have got it, or what's as good," he exclaimed, starting up again. "Our
grainery key fits the vault-lock. I know, because the old general said
so one day when he was down at the mill. He saw me have the key, and
said it looked like his'n, and he and Mr. Antis tried it, and it just
fitted. Put on your rubbers, Kissy, and we'll go and see, anyhow. The
storm's over now."

Kissy lost no time in getting ready, but she detained her husband while
she put some wood in her stove and set on a kettleful of water.

"If he's been in that damp, cold place all night, he'll be about
chilled through," she explained to her husband. "The first thing to do,
will be to put him in a warm bed and give him hot tea."

"It takes women-folks to think of everything all in a minute," said
Jeduthun, admiring his wife's talents as usual; "but suppose the young
one isn't there, after all?"

"There ain't never no harm done by getting things ready," returned
Keziah, who always liked to make her sentences as strong as possible.
"Besides, he is there! I'm just as sure as if I saw him this minute.
Come on."

But by this time, succour was approaching Christopher from another
quarter. Elsie, who had gone to bed and to sleep early, was wakened
by the lightning, which flashed sharply in at her uncurtained window.
Elsie was not afraid of lightning. She lay quietly watching the flashes
and listening to the rapidly approaching thunder, wondering where
Christopher could be, and whether they had found him.

Elsie felt very unhappy both on her own account and her brother's. She
was sorry to have Osric disgraced and punished, but she was grieved
above all that he had been so wicked. Elsie did not believe Osric's
story any more than David did. As she thought the matter over, she
remembered that Osric had come, not from the direction of the woods,
but exactly the other way, from the village. She did not believe
that Christopher would undertake to go home alone through the woods,
especially as the old story of the wild cat had been revived and talked
over only the day before. As she lay pondering over these matters,
she was started by a tremendous flash and roar coming, as it seemed,
at the same moment, and then she heard Osric, whose room was next her
own, burst into a loud fit of crying. Forgetful of all his unkindness,
Elsie jumped out of bed at once and went to her brother, whom she found
burying his head under the bedclothes and crying bitterly.

"What's the matter, Ozzy?" said she, sitting down on the bed. "Are you
afraid?"

"Yes," sobbed Osric. "The house will be struck; I know it will."

"But, Ozzy, you know that God can take care of us, even if the house is
struck. Don't you know the pretty verse we learned last Sunday?—

  "'Ye winds of heaven, your force combine;
      Without His high behest
    Ye cannot in the mountain-pine
      Disturb the sparrow's nest!'

"He will take care of us, if we ask him."

"He won't take care of me," sobbed Osric, "I have been so wicked. You
don't know how wicked I have been, Elsie. I am sorry I told such a lie
about you."

"Never mind me," said Elsie. "I am sorry you told the lie, because that
was wicked, but I don't mind about myself. But, Ozzy, if you have not
told the truth about Christopher, do tell it now!"

"Oh what a flash!" exclaimed Osric, shrinking once more. "It seemed to
come right into the window."

"It is very near," said Elsie.

"There, again! Oh, the house will be struck, I know it will, and we
shall all be killed, and what will become of Christopher?"

"Christopher!" exclaimed Elsie, catching at the words. "Oh, Ozzy, do
you know where he is? Do tell the truth, if you know. Just think how
his poor mother is feeling about him! Do tell!"

"I am afraid father will punish me again," said Osric, shrinking. "Oh
dear! What shall I do?"

"Oh, Ozzy, don't be such a coward," said Elsie, disgusted in spite
of herself. "Suppose he does? Wouldn't you rather be punished, even,
than to have poor Christopher out in this storm, and perhaps dying of
fright? Just think! If he dies in consequence of your keeping back the
truth, you will be the cause of his death. Come, do tell me! Where did
you and Christopher go?"

"We went to the funeral," said Osric, reluctantly, at last. "We watched
till Isaac went away, and then hid in the vault to see the coffin. Then
Chris was scared, and cried, and went and hid in the farther end of the
vault, and I slipped out with the bearers, and hid in a bush till the
people went away, and—and—"

"But didn't Christopher come out?" asked Elsie, struck with horror.

"I don't know whether he did or not. I never saw him. I did not think
anything about him, till you asked where he was. Oh, Elsie, where are
you going?" cried Osric as Elsie rose and went towards the door. "Don't
go away and leave me alone! Suppose the lightning should strike me!"

"I can't help it, Ozzy. I must tell father this minute, so that he
can know what to do. And if you are afraid, just think what poor
Christopher must be. How would you feel if you were shut up in the
burial-vault, instead of being safe at home? The best thing you can do
is to get up and come and tell father yourself."

"Oh, I can't! I durstn't!" cried Osric. "Elsie, do come back! Only wait
till morning, and I will tell him."

Osric cried and pleaded, but in vain. Elsie had had enough of
concealments, and she felt how much might depend on the little boy's
having timely assistance. She went down to her father's room and told
him the story. Mr. Dennison came up and questioned Osric himself,
and felt convinced that Elsie's suspicions were correct, and that
Christopher had been left in the vault.

As soon as the storm abated, he harnessed his horse, drove down to the
village as fast as possible, and seeing a light in Jeduthun's cottage,
he went straight to his door, and arrived there just as Jeduthun and
Kissy came out.

"There!" said Jeduthun, as soon as he heard the story. "Kissy, she
waked me up half an hour ago. She felt it for 'sure and certain' that
Christopher was in there, and started me out to see."

"How shall we get in?" asked Mr. Dennison.

Jeduthun explained that he had a key which would unlock the vault.

"You'd better hitch the horse under the shed," said he. "That road
always washes badly with such a heavy rain, and we shall get on faster
a-foot."

"Seeing you've got company, I'll stay at home and have everything
ready," said Kissy. "You had better bring him right here the first
thing. I'm as sure you will find him, as if I see him this minute."

Three or four minutes brought the two men to the door of the vault.
Jeduthun unlocked it without difficulty, and entered, holding up his
lantern. The next moment he uttered a suppressed exclamation:

"Here he is, sure enough! Softly, squire! 'Twon't do to wake him too
sudden. See how he lies, poor lamb! Tired himself out worrying and
crying, I suppose."

Jeduthun knelt down and took the child's hand, saying gently:

"Why, Christie, what brought you here?"

But the next moment, he looked up, pale as ashes, and said in a half
whisper, "Squire, we're too late. I'm dreadful afraid he's dead."

"Dead! He can't be," exclaimed Mr. Dennison, hardly knowing what he
said. "What could kill him?"

"Fright, as likely as anything," replied Jeduthun. "But we won't give
up hope," he added as he raised Christopher's apparently lifeless body
gently in his arms. "Maybe there is life in him yet. Anyhow, we will
give him a chance."

In a few minutes, Christopher was undressed and laid in a warm bed,
while Kissy surrounded him with hot-water bottles and rubbed him
vigorously with her strong hands. David Parsons, abroad at the first
dawn, had seen Mr. Dennison and Jeduthun issue from the vault with the
child, and was at the cottage as soon as they. Mr. Dennison went for
the doctor, though there seemed little hope of his doing any good, and
Mr. Parsons rode in the other direction to fetch his sister-in-law.

Before the poor mother arrived, Christopher showed signs of returning
life, but he knew no one, and it was hard to rouse him sufficiently to
swallow the hot drinks that Kissy gave him.

Mrs. Parsons would have taken her son home, but the doctor declared
that he must not be moved, since everything depended on the most
perfect quietness.

When Christopher began to recover his strength, he showed such signs of
terror, that Doctor Henry feared for his reason. He knew no one about
him, not even his mother,—she, poor woman! was almost overcome,—but
kept calling for Osric, and begging him not to go away and leave him
alone.

"Suppose I should bring my son over to see him?" said Mr. Dennison to
the doctor.

"It can do no harm, that is certain," said Doctor Henry, "and it may be
good for him, if not for Christopher."

Osric cried, and begged to be allowed to stay at home at first, but he
yielded when his father represented to him that he might perhaps save
Christopher's life by going to see him. He shrank back in the carriage
as they drove through the village, and burst out crying at the sight of
Mrs. Parsons's pale face and the sound of Christopher's voice from the
room beyond.

"Listen to me, Osric," said Mrs. Parsons, sitting down and drawing
Osric towards her. "I am not going to reproach you. I am sure your
own conscience does that. We want you to go in and speak gently to
Christopher, and try to quiet him and make him sleep. But to do this
you must be very quiet yourself—not cry or be afraid. Will you try?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Osric, choking down his sobs. "Oh, Mrs. Parsons,
I am so sorry that I led Christopher off!"

"I hope you are, my poor boy! Now see what you can do to repair your
fault."

The moment Christopher's eyes fell on Osric, he stretched out his hand
to him.

"Oh, Ozzy, I knew you wouldn't leave me all alone to die. But what made
you stay so long?"

"Never mind that now, Christopher," said his mother. "You see he has
come back."

"And you won't leave me again, will you?" continued Christopher,
holding Osric's hand tightly in his own. "It was very wicked to tell a
lie and run away from school, but we will confess our sins and say our
prayers, and when the angels come to take Miss Lilla to heaven, perhaps
they will let us out if we ask them. Don't you believe they will, Ozzy?"

Osric could not bear these words, and he burst into tears, and hid
his face on the pillow. His tears seemed to have a quieting effect on
Christopher, who said, soothingly, "There! Don't cry. Maybe we shall
get out, after all. I wish you could sing, Ozzy. It would make the time
pass quicker. I would, but my voice seems all gone away."

Jeduthun looked inquiringly at the doctor, who nodded in return, and
he began to sing, very softly and gently, the old lulling tune of
Amsterdam. Christopher listened with evident pleasure. His eyelids
presently began to droop, and at last he fell asleep, holding fast to
Osric's hand.

"That is worth everything," whispered the doctor. "I hope he will have
a good sleep, and wake up himself. Some of you must watch and keep
everything quiet outside. Don't try to draw your hand away, Osric. Sit
quite still, and, Kissy, have some broth ready to give him, the moment
he wakes. I will come over again towards evening, and see how he gets
on."

"Don't you think he will live, doctor?" whispered Osric.

"I don't know, my boy. I can tell better when he wakes. He has had a
great shock, and we cannot foresee the effects."

As Osric sat by Christopher's bed through the long morning hours, he
thought more earnestly than he had ever done before in all his life.
He saw how mean and wicked he had been—how selfish and cowardly. He
remembered how he had treated his kind little sister the night before,
and how he had lied about her. Somehow or other, Osric had always been
in the habit of thinking himself rather a good boy, because he did not
swear and use bad words, like some of the boys, or fly into a passion
at every little thing, like Tom Badger, or sulk, like his brother. But
now he saw himself in some degree as he really was, and he was ashamed
and disgusted at the sight.

"Oh how mean I have been!" he said to himself. "I wonder if I ever
could be as good as Elsie, if I were to try? Perhaps I could if I were
to pray and read the Bible as she does. I will try, anyway;" and Osric
made a good beginning by laying his head down, confessing his sins
to his heavenly Father, and begging for forgiveness and help for his
Redeemer's sake.

When Christopher awoke, he was perfectly sensible, but so weak that
the doctor thought he would hardly live through the night. He rallied
a little towards morning, but for many days, he hovered between life
and death, sometimes insensible, at other times deranged and thinking
himself again in the burial-vault.

At these times, no one could quiet him like Osric. Osric stayed at
Jeduthun's cottage day and night, always at the sick boy's call, never
seeming to care for rest or amusement, or anything else, but waiting on
Christopher. These days, dreary and anxious as they were, proved the
turning-point in Osric Dennison's life. He had many long and profitable
talks with Jeduthun and Mrs. Parsons, and learned a great deal. His
devotion to his friend was of service to him in another way. Even
David, who had thought at first that he never would forgive Osric, felt
his heart soften towards him as he saw how thin and pale Ozzy grew day
by day, and how careful he was never to go out of calling distance from
the cottage, lest Christopher should want him.

David told the story to the other boys, and they all agreed that when
Osric came among them once more, they would never reproach him with his
faults, but would try and help him to be a good boy.

At last, Christopher was so much better, that the doctor said that he
could be taken home. He begged hard that Osric might go with him, and
Mr. Dennison consented, thinking justly that the lesson his son was
learning was worth more to him than any he would lose in school. Osric
stayed all summer at Mrs. Parsons's, who became much attached to him.
He on his part, was never weary of waiting on her, and Mr. Ezra Parsons
said one day that his sister had lost one son to find two.

The society of the Parsons boys was of great benefit to Osric. They
were brave, truthful, manly lads, good both at work and play, and they
did their best to make a man of him. Every one noticed the improvement
when Osric went back to school in the winter, and no one rejoiced in it
more than Elsie.

Children, when any one tries to make you do wrong by laughing at or
threatening you, remember that "the fear of man bringeth a snare,"
while "the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom," and that no man can
really hurt you while you put your trust in him.



                        THE END.