“Don’t you think that fellow John ought to be ashamed of himself, and I don’t believe he ever thinks of it,” said Joe, recurring to his old feeling of revenge and hatred.

“Perhaps he thinks of it more than you imagine,” said Emilie, “but don’t fancy that no one cares about you, that is the way to be very unhappy.”

“It is true,” said Joe, sadly.

“God cares for you,” however, replied Emily softly.

“Oh, if I could think that, it would be a comfort,” Miss Schomberg, “and I do need comfort; I do, I do indeed, groaned the boy.”

Emilie’s tears fell fast.  No words of sympathy however touching, no advice however wise and good, no act however kind could have melted Joe as the tears of that true-hearted girl.  He felt confidence in their sincerity, but that any one should feel for him, should shed tears for him, was so new, so softening an idea, that he was subdued.  Not another word passed on the subject.  Emilie returned to the piano, and soon had the joy of seeing Joe in a tranquil sleep; she shaded the lamp that it might not awake him, covered his poor cold feet with her warm tartan, and with a soft touch lifted the thick hair from his burning forehead, and stood looking at him with such intense interest, suck earnest prayerful benevolence, that it might have been an angel visit to that poor sufferer’s pillow, so soothing was it in its influence.  He half opened his eyes, saw that look, felt that touch, and tears stole down his cheeks; tears not of anger, nor discontent, but of something like gratitude that after all one person in the world cared for him.  His sleep was short, and when he awoke, he said abruptly to Emilie, “I want to feel less angry against John,” Miss Schomberg, “but I don’t know how.  It was such a cruel trick, such a cowardly trick, and I cannot forgive him.”

“I don’t want to preach,” said Emily, smiling, “but perhaps if you would read a little in this book you would find help in the very difficult duty of forgiving men their trespasses.”

“Ah, the Bible, but I find that dull reading; it always makes me low spirited, I always associate it with lectures from uncle and Mr. Barton.  When I did wrong I was plied up with texts.”

Emilie did not know what answer to make to this speech.  At last she said, “Do you remember the account of the Saviour’s crucifixion, how, when in agony worse than yours, he said, ‘Father forgive them.’  May I read it to you?”

He did not object, and Emilie read that history which has softened many hearts as hard as Joe’s.  He made but little remark as Emilie closed the book, nor did she add to that which she had been reading by any comment, but; bidding him a kind good night, went to meet Aunt Agnes at the church door, and conduct her safely home.