r before, but now I cried tempestuously, and clung
to him like a shipwrecked little mariner in a storm. Neither spoke, but
he held me fast and let me cry myself to sleep; for, when the shower was
over, a pensive peace fell upon me, and the dim old garret seemed not a
prison, but a haven of refuge, since my boy came to share it with me.
How long I slept I don't know, but it must have been an hour, at least;
yet my good Christy never stirred, only waited patiently till I woke up
in the twilight, and was not afraid because he was there. He took me
down as meek as a mouse, and kept me by him all that trying evening,
screening me from jokes, rebukes, and sober looks; and when I went to
bed he came up to kiss me, and to assure me that this awful circumstance
should not be reported at home. This took a load off my heart, and I
remember fervently thanking him, and telling him I never would forget
it.

I never have, though he died long ago, and others have probably
forgotten all about the naughty prank. I often longed to ask him how he
knew the surest way to win a child's heart by the patience, sympathy,
and tender little acts that have kept his memory green for nearly thirty
years.

Cy was a comrade after my own heart, and for a summer or two we kept the
neighbourhood in a ferment by our adventures and hair-breadth escapes. I
think I never knew a boy so full of mischief, and my opportunities of
judging have been manifold. He did not get into scrapes himself, but
possessed a splendid talent for deluding others into them, and then
morally remarking, 'There, I told you so!' His way of saying 'You
dars'nt do this or that' was like fire to powder; and why I still live
in the possession of all my limbs and senses is a miracle to those who
know my youthful friendship with Cy. It was he who incited me to jump
off of the highest beam in the barn, to be borne home on a board with a
pair of sprained ankles. It was he who dared me to rub my eyes with red
peppers, and then sympathisingly led me home blind and roaring with
pain. It was he who solemnly assured me that all the little pigs would
die in agony if their tails were not cut off, and won me to hold
thirteen little squealers while the operation was performed. Those
thirteen innocent pink tails haunt me yet, and the memory of that deed
has given me a truly Jewish aversion to pork.

I did not know him long, but he was a kindred soul, and must have a
place in my list of boys. He is a