possessing a fine feeling
of security and hopefulness; still wistful, often weeping in the night,
but not melancholy. Responsive to environment, by nature harmonious
with his new surroundings, he presently moved through the lofty old
rooms with a manner reflecting their own--the same gravity, serenity,
old-fashioned grace: expressing even their stateliness in a quaint and
childish way. Thus was the soil of his heart prepared for the seed of
a great change.

By and by the curate enlightened the child concerning sin and the
Vicarious Sacrifice. This was when the leaves were falling from the
trees in the park--a drear, dark night: the wind sweeping the streets
in violent gusts, the rain lashing the windowpanes. Night had come
unnoticed--swiftly, intensely: in the curate's study a change from gray
twilight to firelit shadows. The boy was squatted on the hearth-rug,
disquieted by the malicious beating at the window, glad to be in the
glow of the fire: his visions all of ragged men and women cowering from
the weather.

"It is time, now," the curate sighed, "that I told you the story."

"What story?"

"The story of the Man who died for us."

The boy turned--in wonderment. "I did not know," he said, quickly,
"that a man had died for us. What was his name? Why did he do it? My
mother never told me that story."

"I think she does not know it."

"Then I'll tell her when I learn."

"Perhaps," said the curate, "she will like to hear it--from you."

Very gently, then, in his deep, mellifluous voice--while the rain beat
upon the windows, crying out the sorrows of the poor--the curate
unfolded the poignant story: the terms simple, the recital clear,
vivid, complete.... And to the heart of this child the appeal was
immediate and irresistible.

"And they who sin," the curate concluded, "crucify Him again."

"I love that Jesus!" the boy sobbed. "I love Him--almost as much as
mother."

"Almost?"

The boy misunderstood. He felt reproved. He flushed--ashamed that the
new love had menaced the old. "No," he answered; "but I love Him very
much."

"Not as much?"

"Oh, I could not!"

The boy was never afterwards the same. All that was inharmonious in
life--the pain and poverty and unloveliness--became as sin: a
continuous crucifixion, hateful, wringing the heart....

Late in the night, when he lay sleepless, sick for his mother's
presence, her voice, her kisses, her soothing touch, the boy would rise
to