post bright and early, and the
garden was never kept in better order. Every morning Tiger and Tom
stood faithfully in the market place with their baskets, and never gave
up, no matter how warm the day, till the last vegetable was sold, and
the money placed faithfully in Mrs. Casey's hand.

Tom's father often passed through the market, and gave his little son an
encouraging smile, but he did not offer to help him out of his
difficulty, for he knew if Tom struggled on alone, it would be a lesson
he would never forget. Already he was becoming so gentle and patient
that every one noticed the change, and his mother rejoiced over the
sweet fruits of his repentance and self-sacrifice.

After a few weeks, the bandages were removed from Dick's hands, but they
had been unskillfully treated, and were drawn up in very strange shapes.

Mrs. Casey could not conceal her grief. "He will never be the help he
was before," she said to Tom, "he will never be like other boys, and he
wrote such a fine hand; now he can no more make a letter than that
little chicken in the garden."

"If we only had a great city doctor," said a neighbor, "he might have
been all right. Even now his fingers might be helped if you should take
him to New York."

"Oh, I am too poor, _too poor_" said she, and burst into tears.

Tom could not bear it, and again rushed into the woods to think what
could be done, for he had already given them all his quarter's
allowance. All at once a thought flashed into his head, and he started
as if he had been shot. Then he cried in great distress:--

"No, no, anything but that, I can't do _that!_"

Tiger gently licked his hands, and watched him with great concern.

Now came a terrible struggle. Tom paced back and forth, and although he
was a proud boy, he sobbed aloud. Tiger whined, licked Tom's face,
rushed off into dark corners, and barked savagely at some imaginary
enemy, and then came back, and putting his paws on his young master's
knees, wagged his tail in anxious sympathy.

[Illustration]

At last Tom took his hands from his pale, tear stained face, and looking
into the dog's great, honest eyes, he cried with a queer shake in his
voice:--

"Tiger, old fellow! dear old dog, could you ever forgive me if I sold
you?"

Then came another burst of sorrow, and Tom rose hastily, as if afraid to
trust himself, and almost ran out of the woods. Over the fields he
raced, with Tiger close at his heels, nor rested a momen