This proposition was more grateful to Theodore’s mind than he cared to acknowledge to himself.  Indeed he had no clear ideas of his feelings about the little accident that had interrupted the dismal course of his life; and he studiously avoided questioning himself too closely.  Only there came across him, every now and then, a sensation that there was some special providence about it all, and that there was some mysterious connection between this adventure and the words of the apparitions who had spoken to him in the morning.

But “let be, let us see what will happen,” was the ruling feeling, and as he felt less miserable than usual, he did not wish to disturb the pleasing dream by enquiries, why?

After his solitary dinner, as he was seated alone in his arm chair, he was relapsing fast into his usual unhappy state of mind, for this was at all times the most trying part of the day to him, when a knock at the door aroused him.

Ah, it was the good old housekeeper again!  She who, with the acute instinct of sorrow-soothing which women so eminently possess, had purposely come at this the young master’s “dark hour,” to try if it could be kept back by the charm she had seen working a short time before.  “The little fellow is quite fit to come in now, Sir, if you’d wish to see him before he’s put to bed.”  And her efforts were rewarded by seeing a look of interest light up poor Theodore’s eye.  The boy was now ushered in, and his improved appearance and cleanliness were very striking.  Theodore took hold of his hand—­“There, you need not be afraid; you may sit down upon that chair.  Are you comfortable?” “Yes.”  “Have you had plenty to eat?” “Yes, plenty.”  And the child laughed a little.

“I hope you are a good boy.”

He looked stupid.  “Can you say your prayers?”

“What’s that?”

“Ah!  I was afraid not.  You never heard about God?” “Yes; but the woman used to keep that to herself.”  “Keep what?”

“Why,” for God’s sake, when she begged.  She didn’t let me say it, but she always said it herself; and then, when people wouldn’t give us any thing, she used to say—­”

“No, no!  I will not hear about that;” interrupted Theodore, “but I hope some day you will learn about God.”

“In the begging? must I say it in the begging next time?”

“No, I don’t mean that; not in begging bread of people in the road, but in praying.”

“What’s that?” “Begging.”  “Then I am to beg?” “No, not on the road, but of a great good Being, who will never refuse what you ask.”

“Is that you?”

“No, my poor boy; not me, but the great Being, called God, who lives in the sky.  You must beg all you want of Him.”

“I don’t know Him.”

“No; but you will learn to know Him when you have listened to me and prayed to Him.”

“I don’t know praying; I know begging.”

“Well, then, when you have begged Him—­”