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Bess looked up to smile a welcome, and Jamie tried to cry “Hurrah;” but the feeble voice faltered and failed, and he could only wave his hand and cling fast to his friend, whispering, brokenly,–

“I’m glad, oh, very glad; for now you need not rob yourself for us. I know you have, Walter; I have seen it in your poor thin face and these old clothes. It never would have been so, but for Bess and me.”

“Hush, Jamie, and lie here upon my arm and rest; for you are very tired with your work,–I know by this hot hand and shortened breath. Are you easy now? Then listen; for I’ve brave news to tell you, and never say again I do too much for you,–the cause of my success.”

“I, Walter,” cried the boy; “what do you mean?”

Looking down upon the wondering face uplifted to his own, the young man answered with deep feeling,–

“Six months ago I came into this room a desperate and despairing man, weary of life, because I knew not how to use it, and eager to quit the struggle because I had not learned to conquer fortune by energy and patience. You kept me, Jamie, till the reckless mood was passed, and by the beauty of your life showed me what mine should be. Your courage shamed my cowardice; your faith rebuked my fears; your lot made my own seem bright again. I, a man with youth, health, and the world before me, was about to fling away the life which you, a helpless little child, made useful, good, and happy, by the power of your own brave will. I felt how weak, how wicked I had been, and was not ashamed to learn of you the lesson you so unconsciously were teaching. God bless you, Jamie, for the work you did that day.”

“Did I do so much?” asked the boy with innocent wonder; “I never knew it, and always thought you had grown happier and kinder because I had learned to love you more. I’m very glad if I did anything for you, who do so much for us. But tell me of the book; you never would before.”

With a kindling eye Walter replied,–

“I would not tell you till all was sure; now, listen. I wrote a story, Jamie,–a story of our lives, weaving in few fancies of my own and leaving you unchanged,–the little counsellor and good angel of the ambitious man’s hard life. I painted no fictitious sorrows. What I had seen and keenly felt I could truly tell,–your cheerful patience, Bess’s faithful love, my struggles, hopes, and fears. This book, unlike the others, was not rejected; for the simple truth, told by an earnest pen, touched and interested. It was accepted, and has been kindly welcomed, thanks to you, Jamie; for many buy it to learn more of you, to weep and smile over artless words of yours, and forget their pity in their reverence and love for the child who taught the man to be, not what he is, but what, with God’s help, he will yet become.”

“They are very kind, and so are you, Walter, and I shall be proud to have you rich and great, though I may not be here to see it.”

“You will, Jamie, you must; for it will be nothing without you;” and as he spoke, the young man held the thin hand closer in his own and looked more tenderly into the face upon his arm.

The boy’s eyes shone with a feverish light, a scarlet flush burned on his hollow cheek, and the breath came slowly from his parted lips, but over his whole countenance there lay a beautiful serenity which filled his friend with hope and fear.

“Walter bid Bess put away that tiresome work; she has sat at it all day long, never stirring but to wait on me;” and as he spoke, a troubled look flitted across the boy’s calm face.