was stingy, too."

"Do you mind telling me now what you did with the money?"

The boy did not answer for a few moments. Then he said, quietly:

"I bought a Bible for Fred Phillips. He didn't have a good Bible, and I
thought he needed one more than you and the boys needed expensive
presents."

"But why didn't you tell your father?"

"Because Fred was ashamed not to be able to buy the Bible for himself,
and he wouldn't take mine until I had promised that I wouldn't tell
anybody that I had given it to him. Since Fred has moved to Boston, I
feel he wouldn't care if I told you. I want you to know, for I just
heard to-day that Fred has joined the church. Isn't that good news?"

"Yes, indeed. Perhaps your giving him the Bible helped him to do it,
too. Charles, when you get to be a man, do you suppose you will always
be so careless of how others may misunderstand you?"

"I am not careless of that now," he declared. "The desire to be popular
is one of the things I have to fight against all the time."

What shall we choose? Comfort of service? Ease, or honorable performance
of duty? The desire for popularity, or the purpose to be of use? Service
is the best way to find comfort; honorable performance of duty is the
sure road to the only ease worth while, and thoughtfulness for others is
the open sesame to popularity.

There is nothing new in this statement. It is only one of the thousand
and one possible applications of the lesson taught by the great Teacher
when He said, "He that loseth his life for My sake shall find it."

CHAPTER FIVE

_COURAGE FOR THE SAKE OF OTHERS_

FROM Norway comes a moving tale of a lighthouse keeper. One day he went
to the distant shore for provisions. A storm arose, and he was unable to
return. The time for lighting the lamp came, and Mary, the elder child,
said to her little brother, "We must light the lamp, Willie." "How can
we?" was his question. But the two children climbed the long narrow
stairs to the tower where the lamp was kept. Mary pulled up a chair and
tried to reach the lamp in the great reflector; it was too high. Groping
down the stairs she ascended again with a small oil lamp in her hand. "I
can hold this up," she said. She climbed on the chair again, but still
the reflector was just beyond her reach. "Get down," said Willie, "I
know what we can do." She jumped down and he stretched his little body
across the chair. "Stand on me," he said. And she stood on the little