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It would have been hard to find two children, both belonging
to the poorer class, whose situations in life had, thus far, presented
a more complete contrast than those of Gerty and Willie.
With Gerty's experiences the reader is somewhat acquainted. A
neglected orphan, she had received little of that care, and still
less of that love, which Willie had always enjoyed. Mrs. Sullivan's
husband was an intelligent country clergyman; but, as he
died when Willie was a baby, leaving very little property for the
support of his family, the widow went home to her father, taking
her child with her. The old man needed his daughter; for death
had made sad inroads in his household since she left it, and he
was alone.

From that time the three had lived together in humble comfort;
for, though poor, industry and frugality secured them from
want. Willie was his mother's pride, her hope, her constant
thought. She spared herself no toil or care to provide for his
physical comfort, his happiness, and his growth in knowledge and
virtue.

It would have been strange enough if she had not been proud
of a boy whose uncommon beauty, winning disposition, and early
evidences of a manly and noble nature, won him friends even
among strangers. He had been a handsome child; but there was
that observable in him, now that he had nearly reached his thirteenth
year, far excelling the common boyish beauty, which consists
merely in curly hair, dark eyes and rosy cheeks. It was

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his broad, open forehead, the clearness and calmness of his full
gray eye, the expressive mouth, so determined and yet so mild,
the well-developed figure and ruddy complexion, proclaiming high
health, which gave promise of power to the future man. No one
could have been in the boy's company half an hour, without loving
and admiring him. He had naturally a warm-hearted, affectionate
disposition, which his mother's love and the world's smiles had
fostered; an unusual flow of animal spirits, tempered by a natural
politeness towards his elders and superiors; a quick apprehension;
a ready command of language; a sincere sympathy in
others' pleasures and pains; in fine, one of those genial natures,
that wins hearts one knows not how. He was fond of study, and
until his twelfth year his mother kept him constantly at school.
The sons of poor parents have, in our large cities, almost every
educational advantage that can be obtained by wealth; and Willie,
having an excellent capacity, and being constantly encouraged
and exhorted by his mother to improve his opportunities to the
utmost, had attained a degree of proficiency quite unusual at his
age.

When he was twelve years old he had an excellent opportunity
to enter into the service of an apothecary, who did an extensive
business in the city, and wanted a boy to assist in his store. The
wages that Mr. Bray offered were not great, but there was the
hope of an increased salary; and, at any rate, situated as Willie
was, it was not a chance to be overlooked. Fond as he was of
his books, he had long been eager to be at work, helping to bear
the burden of labor in the family. His mother and grandfather
assented to the plan, and he gladly accepted Mr. Bray's proposals.

He was sadly missed at home; for, as he slept at the store during
the week, he rarely had much leisure to make even a passing
visit to his mother, except on Saturday, when he came home at
night and passed Sunday. So Saturday night was Mrs. Sullivan's
happy night, and the Sabbath became a more blessed day than
ever.

When Willie reached his mother's room on the evening of
which we have been speaking, he sat down with her and Mr.

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Cooper, and for an hour conversation was brisk with them.
Willie never came home that he had not a great deal to relate
concerning the occurrences of the week; many a little anecdote to
tell; many a circumstance connected with the shop, the customers,
his master the apothecary, and his master's family, with whom he
took his meals. Mrs. Sullivan was interested in everything that
interested Willie, and it was easy to see that the old grandfather
was more entertained by the boy than he was willing to appear;
for, though he sat with his eyes upon the floor, and did not seem
to listen, he usually heard all that was said, as was often proved
afterwards by some accidental reference he would make to the
subject. He seldom asked questions, and indeed it was not necessary,
for Mrs. Sullivan asked enough for them both. He seldom
made comments, but would occasionally utter an impatient or
contemptuous expression regarding individuals or the world in
general; thereby evidencing that distrust of human nature, that
want of confidence in men's honesty and virtue, which formed, as
we have said, a marked trait in the old man's character. Willie's
spirits would then receive a momentary check; for he loved and
trusted everybody, and his grandfather's words, and the tone in
which they were spoken, were a damper to his young soul; but,
with the elasticity of youth and a gay heart, they would soon
rebound, and he would go on as before. Willie did not fear his
grandfather, who had never been severe to him, never having, indeed,
interfered at all with Mrs. Sullivan's management; but he
sometimes felt chilled, though he hardly knew why, by his want
of sympathy with his own warm-heartedness. On the present
occasion, the conversation having turned at last upon True Flint
and his adopted child, Mr. Cooper had been unusually bitter and
satirical, and, as he took his lamp to go to bed, wound up with
remarking that he knew very well Gerty would never be anything
but a trouble to Flint, who was a fool not to send her to
the alms-house at once.

There was a pause after the old man left the room; then Willie
exclaimed, “Mother, what makes grandfather hate folks?”

“Why, he don't, Willie.”

“I don't mean exactly hate,—I don't suppose he does that,

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quite; but he don't seem to think a great deal of anybody—do
you think he does?”

“O, yes; he don't show it much,” said Mrs. Sullivan; “but he
thinks a great deal of you, Willie, and he wouldn't have anything
happen to me for the world; and he likes Mr. Flint, and—”

“O, yes, I know that, of course; I don't mean that; but he
doesn't think there's much goodness in folks, and he don't
seem to think anybody's going to turn out well, and—”

“You're thinking of what he said about little Gerty.”

“Well, she an't the only one. That's what made me speak
of it now, but I've often noticed it before, particularly since I
went away from home, and am only here once a week. Now, you
know I think everything of Mr. Bray; and when I was telling
to-night how much good he did, and how kind he was to old Mrs.
Morris and her sick daughter, grandfather looked just as if he
didn't believe it, or didn't think much of it, somehow.”

“O, well, Willie,” said Mrs. Sullivan, “you mustn't wonder
much at that. Grandpa's had a good many disappointments.
You know he thought everything of Uncle Richard, and there was
no end to the trouble he had with him; and there was Aunt
Sarah's husband—he seemed to be such a fine fellow when Sally
married him, but he cheated father dreadfully at last, so that he
had to mortgage his house in High-street, and finally give it up
entirely. He's dead now, and I don't want to say anything against
him; but he didn't prove what we expected, and it broke Sally's
heart, I think. That was a dreadful trial to father, for she was
the youngest, and had always been his pet. And, just after that,
mother was taken down with her death-stroke, and there was a
quack doctor prescribed for her, that father always thought did
her more hurt than good. O, take it altogether, he's had a
great deal to make him look on the dark side now; but you
mustn't mind it, Willie; you must take care and turn out well
yourself, my son, and then he'll be proud enough; he's as pleased
as he can be when he hears you praised, and expectes great things
of you, one of these days.”

Here the conversation ended; but not until the boy had added
another to the many resolves already made, that, if his health

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and strength were spared, he would prove to his grandfather that
hopes were not always deceitful, and that fears were sometimes
groundless.

O! what a glorious thing it is for a youth when he has ever
present with him a high, a noble, an unselfish motive! What an
incentive is it to exertion, perseverance and self-denial! What a
force to urge him on to ever-increasing efforts! Fears that would
otherwise appall, discouragements that would dishearten, labors
that would weary, obstacles that would dismay, opposition that
would crush, temptation that would overcome, all, all lie disarmed
and powerless, when, with a single-hearted and worthy aim, he
struggles for the victory!

And so it is, that those born in honor, wealth and luxury, seldom
achieve greatness. They were not born for labor; and,
without labor, nothing that is worth having can be won. Why
will they not make it their great and absorbing motive (a worthy
one it certainly would be), to overcome the disadvantages of their
position, and make themselves great, learned, wise and good, in
spite of those riches, that honorable birth, that opportunity for
luxurious sloth, which are, in reality, to the clear-judging eye of
wise men and angels, their deadliest snare? A motive Willie
had long had. His grandfather was old, his mother weak, and
both poor. He must be the staff of their old age; he must labor
for their support and comfort; he must do more;—they hoped
great things of him; they must not be disappointed. He did not,
however, while arming himself for future conflict with the world,
forget the present, but sat down and learned his Sunday-school
lessons. After which, according to custom, he read aloud in the
Bible; and then Mrs. Sullivan, laying her hand on the head of
her son, offered up a simple, heart-felt prayer for the boy,—one
of those mother's prayers, which the child listens to with reverence
and love, and remembers in the far-off years; one of those
prayers which keep men from temptation, and deliver them from
evil.

After Willie went home that evening, and Gerty was left
alone with True, she sat on a low stool beside him for some time,
without speaking. Her eyes were intently fixed upon the white

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image which lay in her lap; that her little mind was very busy,
there could be no doubt, for thought was plainly written on her
face. True was not often the first to speak; but, finding Gerty
unusually quiet, he lifted up her chin, looked inquiringly in her
face, and then said:

“Well, Willie's a pretty clever sort of a boy, isn't he?”

Gerty answered, “Yes;” without, however, seeming to know
what she was saying.

“You like him, don't you?” said True.

“Very much,” said Gerty, in the same absent way. It was
not Willie she was thinking of. True waited for Gerty to begin
talking about her new acquaintance; but she did not speak for a
minute or two. Then looking up suddenly, she said:

“Uncle True?”

“What say?”

“What does Samuel pray to God for?”

True stared. “Samuel!—pray!—I guess I don't know exactly
what you're saying.”

“Why,” said Gerty, holding up the image, “Willie says this
little boy's name is Samuel; and that he sits on his knee, and
puts his hands together so, and looks up, because he's praying to
God, that lives up in the sky. I don't know what he means,—
way up in the sky,—do you?”

True took the image and looked at it attentively; he moved
uneasily upon his chair, scratched his head, and finally said:

“Well, I s'pose he's about right. This'ere child is prayin',
sartain, though I didn't think on it afore. But I don't jist know
what he calls it a Samuel for. We'll ask him, some time.”

“Well, what does he pray for, Uncle True?”

“O! he prays to make him good; it makes folks good to pray
to God.”

“Can God make folks good?”

“Yes. God is very great; he can do anything.”

“How can he hear?”

“He hears everything and sees everything in the world.”

“And does he live in the sky?”

“Yes,” said True, “in heaven.”

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Many more questions Gerty asked; many strange questions,
that True could not answer; many questions that he wondered he
had not oftener asked himself. True had a humble, loving heart,
and a child-like faith; he had enjoyed but little religious instruction,
but he earnestly endeavored to live up to the light he had.
Perhaps, in his faithful practice of the Christian virtues, and especially
in his obedience to the great law of Christian charity,
he more nearly approached to the spirit of his Divine Master
than many who, by daily reading and study, are far more familiar
with Christian doctrines. But he had never inquired deeply into
the sources of that belief which it had never occurred to him to
doubt; and he was not at all prepared for the questions suggested
by the inquisitive, keen and newly-excited mind of little
Gerty. He answered her as well as he could, however; and,
where he was at fault, hesitated not to refer her to Willie, who,
he told her, went to Sunday-school, and knew a wonderful sight
about such things. All the information that Gerty could gain
amounted to the knowledge of these facts: that God was in
heaven; that his power was great; and that people were made
better by prayer. Her little eager brain was so intent upon the
subject, however, that, as it grew late, the thought even of sleeping
in her new room could not efface it from her mind. After
she had gone to bed, with the white image hugged close to her
bosom, and True had taken away the lamp, she lay for a long
time with her eyes wide open. Just at the foot of the bed was
the window. Gerty could see out, as she had done before in her
garret at Nan Grant's; but, the window being larger, she had a
much more extended view. The sky was bright with stars; and
the sight of them revived her old wonder and curiosity as to the
author of such distant and brilliant lights. Now, however, as
she gazed, there darted through her mind the thought, “God lit
them! O, how great he must be! But a child might pray to
him!” She rose from her little bed, approached the window,
and, falling on her knees and clasping her hands precisely in the
attitude of the little Samuel, she looked up to heaven. She
spoke no word, but her eyes glistened with the dew of a tear
that stood in each. Was not each tear a prayer? She breathed
no petition, but she longed for God and virtue. Was not that very

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wish a prayer? Her little uplifted heart throbbed vehemently.
Was not each throb a prayer? And did not God in heaven,
without whom not a sparrow falls to the ground, hear and accept
that first homage of a little, untaught child; and did it not call
a blessing down?

Many a petition did Gerty offer up in after years. In many a
time of trouble did she come to God for help; in many an hour
of bitter sorrow did she from the same source seek comfort; and,
when her strength and heart failed her, God became the strength
of her heart. But never did she approach his throne with a
purer offering a more acceptable sacrifice, than when, in her first
deep pentience, her first earnest faith, her first enkindled hope,
she took the attitude, and her heart uttered, though her lips pronounced
them not, the words of the prophet-child, “Here am I,
Lord!”

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