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“But beautifuller,” said the mother, “beautifuller, isn’t it, Josiah!”

“Yes,” answered Josiah; but still he spoke as if he had some secret misgiving–as if he were not quite sure that the beauty of the song had a right to do away with the sadness of his dream.

“But,” said Tiny, timidly, yet as if determined that he would have the matter quite settled now and for ever–“am I a singer, father? am I a poet?”

Slowly came the answer–but it actually came, “Yes,” with a broken voice and troubled look, and then the old man buried his face in his hands, as if he had pronounced some dreadful doom upon his only son.

“Then,” said Tiny boldly, rising from his seat, “I must go into the world. It says it needs me; and father, shall your son hide himself when any one in need calls to him for help? I never would have gone, father, if you and mother had not said that I was a singer and a poet. For you I know would never deceive me; and I made a vow that if ever a time came when you should say that to me, then I would go. But this is my home, father and mother; I shall never get another. The wide world could not give me one. It is not rich enough to build me a home like this.”

“Don’t speak in that way,” said the old man; and he turned away that Tiny should not see his face, and he bent his head upon the back of his chair.

Presently Tiny went softly up to him and laid his hand upon Josiah’s arm, and his voice trembled while he said, “Dear father, are you angry with me?”

“No, Tiny,” said Josiah; “but what are you going to do with the world? You! … my poor boy.”

“Good!” said Tiny with a loud, courageous voice–as if he were prepared, single handed, to fight all the evil there was in the world–“Good, father, or I would not have dared to take the pilgrim’s harp down from the wall. I will sing,” continued he still more hopefully, and looking up smiling into the old man’s face–“I will sing for the sick and the weary, and cheer them; I will tell the people that God smiles on patient labour, and has a reward in store for the faithful, better than gold and rubies. I will get money for my songs, and feed the hungry; I will comfort the afflicted; I will–“

“But,” said Josiah solemnly, lifting his head from the back of the chair, and looking at Tiny as if he would read every thought there was in the boy’s heart, “What did all that mean about the Beautiful Gate? Ah, my son, you were thinking more of your own pride and glory, than of the miserable and the poor!”

“It was only to prove to you that I had a voice, and that I could sing, father,” answered Tiny.

Long gazed Josiah upon the face of his son as he heard this. Then he closed his eyes, and bent his head, and Tiny knew that he was praying. That was a solemn silence–you could have heard a pin drop on the kitchen floor.

Presently the old man arose, and without speaking, went softly and took the harp down from the wall. “Take it,” said he, handing it to Tiny, “Take it–it is yours. Do what you will. The Lord direct your goings.”

“Without your blessing, father?” said Tiny, stepping back and folding his arms upon his breast. He would not take the harp. Then, with both hands pressed on Tiny’s head, the old man said, “May God bless you, my son.”

The old man’s face was very calm then, and there was not a tear in his eyes as he spoke; he had begun to hope again. And he turned away from Tiny to comfort his poor wife.