“I’m most sorry,” said Tommy, “I didn’t forgive Bob.  It makes me feel bad, what you told me about his having no home.  Now, mother is something like you.  She don’t mind one’s being poor.  Why, if I took Bob home with me, mother wouldn’t seem to see his clothes and ragged shoes.  She’d just talk to him and treat him like he was the best dressed boy in town.  There’s Bill Logan came home to dinner with me once.  Mother made me ask him.  He is a real poor boy; has to work.  His mother washes.  He didn’t know what to do nor how to act.  He kept his hands in his pockets most all the time.  Aunt Lilly said it was shocking.  But mother said, ’Never mind.’  She said she was glad he had his pockets; for his hands were rough and not too clean, and she thought they mortified him.  Father went and kissed her then.  Don’t tell this.  I don’t know what makes me run on and tell you all these things.  I never spoke of them before.  But I know father was a poor, young working man when he married mother.”

The boy raised his hand, and the sparrow gave a twitter of delight and flew heavenward.

“Why,” exclaimed Tommy in amazement, “you’ve cured him!  He is all right.  How did you do it?  Do you feel sorry for the sparrows as well as Bob?”

“I pity every sparrow that is hurt,” said the boy, “and isn’t Bob of more consequence than a sparrow?”

“I wish,” said Tommy, “I hadn’t fought with Bob.  It was most all my fault.  I’ve a good mind to tell him so.  I wish I was better acquainted with you.  If I played with such a boy as you are, now, I’d be better I am certain.  Suppose you come after school nights and play in our yard.  Never mind your clothes.  Can’t you come?”

“Yes, I will come if you want me to,” answered the boy, looking steadfastly at him a moment; but now I must be about my father’s business.”

He stooped, lifted the bag of tools to his shoulders, and before Tommy could stay him had moved some steps away.

“Don’t go yet, tell me some more about what you’d do,” and Tommy turned to follow him.

But was it the boy?  And was that a bag of tools on his back?  It had grown strangely longer and heavier now, so that it dragged on the ground, and the face was the face of the Picture, and lo, it turned toward him, and the hand was raised in benediction and farewell, “I am with you always,” and he was gone.

“Oh! come back, come back,” sobbed Tommy, reaching out his arms and struggling to run after him.

“Poor boy,” said his mother, wiping the blinding tears from his eyes, “your sleep didn’t do you much good.”

“I’ve not been asleep,” said Tommy; “I’ve been talking with — with — Him,” and he spoke low with a longing reverence and pointed to the Picture.

“It was a dream, my child.”

“Mother, it was a vision.  I saw Him, when He was a little boy in His own town, Nazareth.  And, mother, I even told Him it wasn’t much of a place to live in.  He talked to me about Bob.  He said you knew Him.  I saw him cure a little bird.  And oh, mother, He said He would be with me always.  He is a little boy like me!  I know what to do now.  He showed me.  I must find Bob; I must have him forgive me.  I want to bring him home with me into my bed for to-night.”