“How is poor Will now, have you heard?”

“Oh, Charlie!” several exclaimed at once as they gathered around him.

“Oh! don’t you know? haven’t you heard?  Why, he opened his eyes and spoke, but they think his back is broken.”

Charles clasped his hands, lifted them high in the air, uttered not a word, but burst into tears.  For a few minutes he wept in silence, and then, still pale and grief stricken, but with a manly voice, he said to his companions:—­

“Boys, shall we ever forget the lesson of this day?”

And poor Will—­words would be too feeble to portray his agony of body and mind as he lay for long months upon his bed of suffering; but when he arose therefrom, with a feeble and distorted body, and a scar upon his forehead, he was changed in heart also, crushed in spirit, humble, and contrite.

Repentance had had its perfect work, and when he became convalescent, and his schoolmates came to congratulate him on his recovery, he threw his arms around the necks of each, and burst into tears, but could not speak, except to whisper, “Forgive, forgive.”

At his request the poor woman became the tenant, rent free, of a cottage belonging to his father, and his mother constantly ministered to her wants.  As soon as he could do so, he wrote to her, humbly pleading her forgiveness, and in return she gave him her blessing.

From this time one half of his ample quarterly allowance was given her; he visited her in her loneliness, and at last made his peace with God, and declared his punishment just—­henceforth to be a cripple and a hunchback.

Youthful readers, let the history of Will Winslow impress your hearts.  Revere the aged, whether they be in poverty or affluence; and feel it a privilege to minister to them in their infirmities, as they have done to you in the weakness and helplessness of infancy.  It is the only recompense which youth can make to age, and God will bless the youthful heart which bows in reverence before the hoary head.

[Illustration]

ONLY THIS ONCE

“I’ll be in again very soon, mother; I am only going ’round the corner to see the new billiard rooms;” and, cap in hand, Harry was closing the parlor door when his mother called him back.

“I cannot consent to your going there, my dear,” she said; “you must know that both your father and myself disapprove of all such places.”

“But I don’t intend to play, mother; only to look on; the boys say the tables are splendid; and besides, what could I tell Jim Ward after promising to go with him?  He is waiting outside for me.  Please say ‘yes’ only this once.”

“Tell Jim that we rather you would remain at home; and ask him to walk in and spend the evening,” said Harry’s father, as he looked up from the paper.

“Oh, I know he’ll not do that!” and Harry stood turning the door handle, till, finding that his parents did not intend to say anything more, he walked slowly to the front step.