laid it flat on his lap, and read out the
first question, looking inquiringly at Sam for the answer.

Sam hesitated, and scratched his head. "I give it up," said he.

"Do you think I am askin' conundrums?" said the deacon, sternly.

"No," said Sam, honestly.

"Why don't you know?"

"Because I can't tell."

"Because you didn't study it. Aint you ashamed of your ignorance?"

"What's the use of knowin'?"

"It is very important," said the deacon, impressively. "Now I will ask
you the next question."

Sam broke down, and confessed that he didn't know.

"Then you told me a lie. You said you studied the lesson."

"I didn't understand it."

"Then you should have studied longer. Don't you know it is wicked to
lie?"

"A feller can't tell the truth all the time," said Sam, as if he were
stating a well-known fact.

"Certainly he can," said the deacon. "I always do."

"Do you?" inquired Sam, regarding the old man with curiosity.

"Of course. It is every one's duty to tell the truth. You ought to die
rather than tell a lie. I have read of a man who was threatened with
death. He might have got off if he had told a lie. But he wouldn't."

"Did he get killed?" asked Sam, with interest.

"Yes."

"Then he must have been a great fool," said Sam, contemptuously. "You
wouldn't catch me makin' such a fool of myself."

"He was a noble man," said the deacon, indignantly. "He laid down his
life for the truth."

"What good did it do?" said Sam.

"I am afraid, Samuel, you are in a very benighted condition. You
appear to have no conceptions of duty."

"I guess I haven't," said Sam. "I dunno what they are."

"It is all the more necessary that you should study your catechism. I
shall expect you to get the same lesson to-morrow evenin'. It's too
late to study now."

"So it is," said Sam, with alacrity.

"I will show you where you are to sleep. You must get up airly to go
to work. I will come and wake you up."

Sam was not overjoyed at this announcement. It did not strike him that
he should enjoy going to work early in the morning. However, he felt
instinctively that it would do no good to argue the matter at present,
and he followed the deacon, upstairs in silence. He was ushered into a
small room partitioned off from the attic.

"You'll sleep there," said the deacon, pointing to a cot-bed in the
corner. "I'll call you at five o'clock to-morrow mornin'."

Sam undressed himself, and got into bed.

"This is jolly