th, while just as faithful, taught
because it was the best thing she could do, rather than from choice. But
the duty was irksome, and often she longed to throw the book from her
and give the scholars their dismissal. When such feelings possessed her,
she "did penance," as she said, by giving special attention to the
lessons, "for it would not do to have the children suffer from her
whims."

One day there came to her school a little deformed boy, about eight
years old. He had been brought there by one of the scholars, and when
Ruth entered the school-room she did not notice him, but proceeded with
the opening exercises. She had taught the children to repeat with her
alternate verses of Scripture, and this morning selected the
twenty-third Psalm. After she had repeated the first verse, the scholars
took up the second. But there was one voice, clear and distinct, above
all the others. Glancing round, she saw a pale face, whose large,
earnest eyes, bent full upon her, touched her strangely. Slightly
averting her head, she went on where the children left off, but still
there was the fixed look. It was not a stare or look of curiosity, such
as a new scholar might show, but penetrating as though the child had
passed through deep experiences, maturing the intellect while the body
was dwarfed and feeble. At the close of the exercises, a little girl
taking him by the hand, led him up to the desk, and introduced him as a
new scholar.

"What is his name?" inquired Ruth.

"I'll tell her; mother said I should be a man and speak out. My name is
Philip Driscoe," and here the thin tiny hand was slipped in Ruth's. How
very thin and white it was, like a baby's hand. As it lay for a moment
in Ruth's the fingers closed over it, and stooping down she kissed the
child. "I like you, you are good, like mother," and drawing closer he
laid his other hand over hers by way of caress.

A sudden impulse seized her to take him in her arms, but the children
were there, looking on understandingly. Holding both hands she bent
smilingly down, but in an instant her eyes were full of tears. She was
thinking of Guy. What if he had been thus afflicted? A thrill of
gladness followed the pain occasioned by the thought, and collecting
herself she took the child over to a seat in the middle of the room,
promising him a book in a little while.

"And a slate and pencil to make pictures?"

"Yes, can you draw pictures?"

"O, elegant ones; mother says I'll ma