e with
me, mother wouldn't seem to see his clothes and ragged shoes. She'd
just talk to him and treat him like he was the best dressed boy in town.
There's Bill Logan came home to dinner with me once. Mother made me ask
him. He is a real poor boy; has to work. His mother washes. He didn't
know what to do nor how to act. He kept his hands in his pockets most
all the time. Aunt Lilly said it was shocking. But mother said, 'Never
mind.' She said she was glad he had his pockets; for his hands were
rough and not too clean, and she thought they mortified him. Father went
and kissed her then. Don't tell this. I don't know what makes me run on
and tell you all these things. I never spoke of them before. But I know
father was a poor, young working man when he married mother."

The boy raised his hand, and the sparrow gave a twitter of delight and
flew heavenward.

"Why," exclaimed Tommy in amazement, "you've cured him! He is all right.
How did you do it? Do you feel sorry for the sparrows as well as Bob?"

"I pity every sparrow that is hurt," said the boy, "and isn't Bob of
more consequence than a sparrow?"

"I wish," said Tommy, "I hadn't fought with Bob. It was most all my
fault. I've a good mind to tell him so. I wish I was better acquainted
with you. If I played with such a boy as you are, now, I'd be better I
am certain. Suppose you come after school nights and play in our yard.
Never mind your clothes. Can't you come?"

"Yes, I will come if you want me to," answered the boy, looking
steadfastly at him a moment; "but now I must be about my father's
business."

He stooped, lifted the bag of tools to his shoulders, and before Tommy
could stay him had moved some steps away.

"Don't go yet, tell me some more about what you'd do," and Tommy turned
to follow him.

But was it the boy? And was that a bag of tools on his back? It had
grown strangely longer and heavier now, so that it dragged on the
ground, and the face was the face of the Picture, and lo, it turned
toward him, and the hand was raised in benediction and farewell, "I am
with you always," and he was gone.

"Oh! come back, come back," sobbed Tommy, reaching out his arms and
struggling to run after him.

"Poor boy," said his mother, wiping the blinding tears from his eyes,
"your sleep didn't do you much good."

"I've not been asleep," said Tommy; "I've been talking with--with--Him,"
and he spoke low with a longing reverence and pointed to the Picture.

"I