The stranger went on to explain, in such terms as a child could understand, the operations of the Spirit of grace and the exercise of faith.  He told him of One who was mighty to save, who had said, “Suffer little children to come unto me,” and was ever near to those Who trust in him; who would hear their prayer in distress, and aid them In the hour of temptation.  “But remember,” he added, “there is no true happiness except in the service of God; and to do this acceptably it is necessary to ‘watch and pray.’  Watch that you may pray, and pray that you may be safe.”

William listened to the words of the stranger with an emotion altogether new to him; he had heard such words before, but now they were invested with a new meaning.  Was it not the quickening influence of the Spirit of grace that was now operating upon his saddened heart, like the silent but refreshing dew on the arid earth?  Our tale must show whether the seed thus down by the way-side was to spring up, perish, or bring forth fruit a hundred-fold.

The stranger saw the impression he had made.  He would not interrupt the workings of the child’s soul by further words, and turning away toward another part of the graveyard, he left the boy to his self-communion.

After a while he returned, and found him still sitting on the grave where all his treasure of love was buried; but he had ceased weeping, and his countenance no longer wore the expression of despairing sorrow; trust in God and faith in the promise of heavenly protection, had strengthened his soul, and instead of the heart-breaking sense of loneliness that had rested on him since the loss of his mother, he felt the blessedness of assured protection from Him who has promised to be the orphan’s Father.  He was holding the little rude sketch he had made, to be treasured as a memorial of the spot so sacred, when far away, and was gazing on it attentively when the stranger returned.

“Are you going to colour your sketch?” he asked in a kindly tone; “it would make it more lively and natural.”

“I have no colours, sir,” replied William; “and do not know how to paint.  My father could paint, but he never wished me to learn; but when I look on this little drawing, I can think of the bright roses and the green grass here, and that will do.”

“Give me your picture, my child; I will colour it for you,” said the stranger.  “I am a painter, and have been staying for some days in the village; come this evening to my room, No. 24, at the hotel, and I will return your picture, and then you can tell me more of yourself and your parents.”

And now they parted, each one taking opposite paths, for their present homes lay quite apart from each other.  It was late before William found time to go to the hotel, but when he asked the landlord to show him to the painter’s room, No. 24, instead of ushering him into the presence of his unknown friend, the old man handed him a small packet, telling him, at the same time, that the stranger had received intelligence which had demanded his sudden departure, but that he had left the packet to be delivered by his own hand.