ly respectable man in all
Scranton who did. Perhaps he admired Nick's muscular build, and
believed he would make a fine smith, if the husky boy only took a
liking to the vocation of hammer and forge and anvil.

Then again it was likely that the deacon, who was a shrewd old fellow
as well as good-natured and honest, saw deeper into that bad boy's
soul than ordinary people, judging from surface indications. Hugh
himself was inclined to believe this might be the case.

Be that as it may, Nick had been known to go out there to the Winslow
shop occasionally after supper, and work alongside the old man for
hours at a time. Folks considered it only another odd fad on the
part of the deacon. They prophesied that he would sooner or later he
sorry for having anything to do with such a good-for-nothing
scapegrace as Nick Lang, who would not hesitate to play some nasty
practical joke on his benefactor when the notion seized him and he
had grown tired of bothering with blacksmithing.

The deacon himself came to the door. He knew both lads, and asked
them to step in and sit with him before his cheery fire, as he had
half an hour on his hands before starting to church.

Hugh plunged into the matter without waste of time. He told Deacon
Winslow how he had been reading that wonderful story of Jean Valjean;
and then what a strange freak of fate allowed him to play the same
part that the good priest had done.

Step by step he carried it along, and Deacon Winslow appeared to be
deeply interested, if one could judge from the way he rubbed his
hands together, and nodded his head approvingly when he learned of
the motives that had influenced Hugh to act as he did.

Even what had occurred on the ice on the preceding afternoon was
narrated, for, as Hugh explained, he believed it had a great deal to
do with the startling event that had stunned Scranton that same
Sunday morning.

When he had finally ended with a profession of his belief in Nick's
innocence the old man once more nodded his head. His wise eyes shone
with a rare delight as he gazed at Hugh. The boy could not help
thinking that the good priest in the story must have been a whole lot
like old Deacon Winslow; who could believe wrong of no one, boy or
man, but was always finding some excuse for forgiving, even those who
deceived him in business transactions.

"You have done well, my lad," said the old man warmly, patting Hugh
on the arm affectionately. "And rest assur