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RICHARD HARVEY;OR,TAKING A STAND.BY THE AUTHOR OF "ROBERT DAWSON,"ETC., ETC.LONDON:FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.,BEDFOBD BTREET, COVENT GARDEN.
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PREFACE.DEAR YOUNG READER,The following story has beenwritten that it may do you good, andteach you to "take a stand" on theright side, as Richard did.You are young now, and your temp-tations to do wrong may be few; butsoon you will be older, and the invita-tions to do wrong will increase; andthe only way to prevent your fallinginto sin is for you now to "take astand." The best way to take thestand and keep it is to ask the Lord
iv PREFACE.Jesus Christ to give you His HolySpirit to teach and guide you.Do this while you are young, and inafter years, as you look back, you willalways rejoice that you took the standon the right side.
CONTENTS.CHAP. PAGEI. Richard and his Grandfather 7II. A Temptation 24III. Richard's First Place 37IV. Richard and his Friend 56V. Tom Bell's Troubles 64VI. A Happy Christmas 68VII. A Painful Decision 75VIII. Richard's Reward 96
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CHAPTER IRICHARD AND HIS GRANDFATHER.N one of the prettiest of thelittle towns on the Hampshirecoast there stands a smallcottage, which belongs to afamily of the name of Harvey. Itis a very old little house,-low andthatfched,-with a porch all coveredwith honeysuckles and wild roses, andwith latticed windows and stone floor.Such a home as is still to be seenin the neighbourhood of the NewForest. It stands just at the back Iof the town, close down by the creo,and has a very good garden (consider-ing its size), through which a tinybrook flows, singing and flashing overthe stones on its way to the great sea
8 RICSARD HANVEY.The garden has potatoes and cabbagesand lettuce and carrots and turnipsgrowing in it, and close up by thehouse there is a flower-bed, full ofcabbage-rose trees, stocks, tansy, andall kinds of old-fashioned flowers.Very near it there stood (at thetime my story begins) a very old appletree. Many of its branches had fallen,and those which remained bore onlyone or two poor apples.On a bench beneath it, one fineevening in autumn, an aged, man mighthave been seen sitting, watching thesun sink in a glowy of crimson clouds.He was a fine-looking old man, haleand hearty, with cheeks the colour of arusset pippin, and a kind, pleasant ex-pression of coun'enance.By his side stood a little boy, dressedin a very clean pinafore, with brightblue eyes, and fair hair (rather fadedby exposure to the sun) and rosycheeks. He held a small hoe in hishand.These two were Richard Harvey andhis grandfather." Grandfather," said Richard, strik-
RICHARD AND HIS GRANDFATHER. 9ing the old apple tree with his hoe," why don't you cut down this old treeand put in a young one instead? Itdon't bear at all scarcely now.""Nay, my child," said the old man," let it bide a bit, and we shall bothgo together. I can't bear to part froman old friend, and such the tree is tome. For many a year it has given meshelter and pleasant fruit. We willlet it bide my time, Richard."Richard felt very sad when his grand-father spoke thus, for he dearly lovedand reverenced him, and from that dayhe used to be afraid whenever the windblew, lest it should blow down theapple tree; for then he thought hisgrandfather would die also. He wasonly a very little boy, so it was not sostrange that he should have taken upsuch a notion.The cottage and garden belonged tohis grandfather; but Richard's fatherand mother, and their children, all livedin it with him to take care of him.The old man and his grandson werealmost always to be seen together.You would generally find them, if
10 RICHARD HA1LVEY.you called at the cottage after schoolhours, very busy in the garden; Richardpulling up weeds, while his grandfather,leaning upon his staff, pointed themout. Sometimes the old man sat sunninghimself on a rude bench under the oldapple tree; then you may be sureRichard was not far off, unless he wasstill at school, or gone upon an errand.They are always talking. Sally, hissister, says nobody seems to have somuch to say to each other as Richardand his grandfather, and she wondersat it. Certainly they are never hap-pier than when in each other's com-pany. If Richard ever happens to begone a little longer than usual, the oldgentleman looks uneasy, goes to thedoor, gazing eagerly up and down thelane, and sometimes muttering," I hopeno evil has befallen him-I hope hehas got into no bad company-Godkeep the child! " The old man hasbeen acquainted with sorrows; all hischildren have died before him, exceptthe son who lives with him;-all didI say? no, that is not certain: hisyoungest son grew up a disobedient
RICHARD ANDO IS GRANDFATHER. 11bad boy and ran away. Once he cameback; but not relishing the peace andpurity of his father's house, he wentaway again, and now it is many, manyyears since any tidings have been heardof him. This has always been a secretand heavy grief on the old man's heart.Every morning and night, for fifteenyears, he has never been known to for-get at family prayers to pray for " myson Michael;" speaking his name,and beseeching the Father of merciesto bring back the lost sheep to thefold.Once in a long while he speaks ofMichael in the family, and always witha tear in his eye. The children have avery gloomy idea of him, and theythink he must have been very, verybad, to make poor dear grandfatherfeel so sad; they are glad he is dead, astheir father thinks he must be, and asthey think likewise. Things go onquietly at the cottage; the fatheralways has a day's work to do; themother is as busy as busy can be, takingcare of home; grandfather tending thegarden, and sometimes the baby
12 RICHARD HARVEY.Richard and his two sisters at school,except now and then when Richardgoes to help his father.One afternoon, on returning froman errand, his two sisters ran out tomeet him, looking very mysterious." Oh, Richard," they both cried atonce, " you don't know what hashappened! you don't know who hascome! you can't guess!""What ? who ?" asked Richard, notknowing just how to feel; "tell mequickly."" Oh! " they both cried, almost outof breath, " oh, uncle Michael hascome!"Richard stood still for fear andwonder. " Uncle Michael! he that isso wicked! he that's dead!" he wasat last able to utter." He is not dead," they said; "butoh, he looks so bad! " and his eldestsister took him by the hand to leadhim into the house. Richard drewback; he felt afraid to meet one whoseconduct had caused so much sor-row to his dear grandfather. Whatsort of a person was he ? how did he
RICHARD AND HIS GRANDFATHER. 13look? His sisters then went and stoodin the entry, looking into the kitchen,while Richard, on tiptoe, peeped throughbetween them to take a glimpse of thenew comer.There he sat in grandfather's arm-chair, bending over just like him, look-ing as pale as-Richard could think ofnothing that looked just as pale-withstray locks of black hair, and a wildblack eye, and coughing so that hecould hardly speak. Uncle Michael'sappearance was ill-calculated to reas-sure poor Richard. The very sight ofhim made him shudder. Grandfathersat a little way off, looking straight atMichael, " with such a look," Richarddescribed, " it seemed as if it would eatuncle Michael up."As Richard stood peeping behind hissisters, his mother from within called,"Richard !" There was no help forhim now, in he must go; he pulled offhis hat, and with head down, walkedinto the very presence of uncle Mi-chael."This is our son," said his mother;"that is your uncle Michael, that you
14 RICHARD HARVEY.have heard of many times, Richard."He put out his hand to the boy, whoshrank from the cold, damp touch. "Iwish I was a boy like him again," spakeuncle Michael, in hollow tones-" Iwish I was a boy again; "-then hestopped to cough. "Richard," he be-gan again, fixing his large, glassy eyesfull in the boy's face, "Richard, don'tever do anything you'll be sorry for;now you are a boy, TAKE A STAND onthe right side; take a stand, and don'tbe driven off, Richard."Richard shrank from the glance, andwas relieved when another fit of cough-ing made his uncle both unable to speakand to look up. Richard then slippedout at the back door.Michael Harvey had come home todie; knowing he must die, he beggedhis way home from a distant place tobehold once more his father's face; hefelt he could not, dare not die, withoutasking his forgiveness for all the sor-rows he had occasioned him. It hadbeen fifteen years since he left home-Afteen years he had led a vagabond,wicked, unhappy life -and now he
RICHARD AD HrIS GRANDFATHER. 15reappeared among his friends, bearingthe fruits of a long course of disobe-dience and sin. He was poor, ill, and,worse than all-for poverty and sick-ness can be borne with peace and evenwith joy,-he was wretched; there was,as it were, a worm gnawing at his heart:it was the bitter remembrance of thesins of his youth. Michael's father andbrother were thankful to see him, andto do anything to make the few dayshe had to live as comfortable as it wasin their power to do. His father hadforgiven him, but he could not forgivehimself, or blot out the past, nor hadhe any heart to ask forgiveness of hisGod. After the first day he seemedto take little interest in anything abouthim, a distressing cough scarcely allow-ing him to speak.He would often follow Richard withhis eyes, and look upon him as if hehad a great deal to say to the boy.Richard could not go and sit down onthe stool beside the arm-chair, as healways used when his grandfather satthere, but he stole between his grand-father's legs, and from that safe posi-
16 RICHARD HARVEY.tion took long and thoughtful surveysof his uncle."That boy," uncle Michael wouldoften begin, when Richard was near-" that boy! I wish I was his ageagain. Richard, Richard, child, mindand don't do anything you'll be sorryfor.""How will he know?" asked Sally,who sometimes ventured to propounda question to the uncle."'How will he know !' I'll tell you,by taking a stand against every-thing he feels is wrong-everything,no matter what or who 'tis. Ay, if Ihad taken a stand against the first glass,I should not have been where I nowam," he groaned ; and the childrendrew a long breath. " Don't forget it,Richard, don't forget it," he said, slowlyand impressively,-" take your stand onthe right side while you are a BOy,then your chance is good; take it,Richard, mind you, TAKE IT." Theeffort of speaking brought on a violentfit of coughing, which almost threatenedhis life.Uncle Michael lived just one week
RICHARD AND HIS GRAIDFATHER. 17after he came home. The neighbourscame in to see him, and old friends ofthe family offered their assistance, buthe was too far gone to need or to carefor their friendliness. Few who hadonce known him would have recog-nized in the pale, bloated being beforethem, the once handsome, high-spiritedMichael Harvey. Bent and brokendown, he looked sixty instead of thirty;and as people went away, they shooktheir heads and said, " What a wreckof himself!' Poor Michael, how muchhe has to reflect on !""It is no more than might be ex-pected; such a beginning is sure tomake a bad ending.""If boys would only take warningfrom his example!"" What sorrow he laid up for his poorfather !"" And what sorrow for himself!-oh,and that is not the worst of it-what amiserable creature to die !""Here you see the importance ofnot taking a right stand in the firstplace."Richard heard all these observa-B
18 RICHARD HARhEY.tions, as he sat down at the door, orstood out by the gate, and they did notfail to make a deep impression uponhis mind. He treasured them all up,and thought them all over and overagain.Uncle Michael died and was buried.It was a very grave and solemn day tothe children when the burial tookplace. The long, narrow coffin, theblack hearse, the slow, mournfultread of those who followed. Richardwatched with painful interest thecoffin as it was lowered into theground, and then he heard the sodthrown in to cover it up. It was thelast of all that was to be seen of uncleMichael.One only wept for him; it was hisaged father; and he wept bitterly.On the Sunday afternoon after theburial, towards the cool of the day,grandfather went out and sat down onthe bench under the old apple tree;Richard soon followed, and threw him-self on a tuft of grass by his side. Theold man sighed. Perhaps it was in theWay of comfort that Richard said,
RICHARD AND HIS GRANDFATHER. 19"Grandfather, don't you hope I shallgrow up to be a good boy ? "" I hope so, Richard !" ejaculatedthe grandfather, tearfully, placing hiswithered hand upon the boy's head;"I hope so, Richard! ""I don't mean to be like uncleMichael, grandfather."" I hope not, Richard," said the oldman solemnly; "I hope not! " Apause followed."Grandfather," began Richard again,"don't you think uncle Michael wasvery sorry ? ""I think he was," answered grand-father; "but all his sorrow, Richard,could not uNDo what he had done; itcould never redeem the time he hadwasted."" He never could, get it back again,could he ? " said Richard." Never! never! Richard; and theway, my child, the way to do, is totake your sTAND EIGHT in the firstplace.""And stand by your stand," addedRichard." Just so! " and the sad expression
20 RICHAaRD HAR-TEY.of grandfather's face for a momentpassed away to one of pleased appro-bation, as he looked down upon thefair-haired boy at his feet. "Just so!You know the little brook yonder "-the old man nodded towards it,-" youknow the brook.""Yes,sir," answered Richard, briskly,jumping up on his feet, for he knewthe little brook, and loved it too; hethought it was a strange question,"Yes, sir, I know the brook, wellenough."" You see how the water runs down.""Fast and quick! " exclaimed Rich-ard, going and looking over into thegully." Easy enough, don't it? down,down! ""Yes, sir, it would rather go thannot; it skips along from stone tostone," said Richard, smiling over thebrook, " carrying everything along withit, except now and then, when a greatstone stops it."Grandfather left his bench, andwalked up to the brink of thegully.
RIOHARD AND HIS GRANDFATHER. 21"You see that rock there ?" Hepointed to one with his staff." Oh yes, that is the great one that-if it foams and dashes and splashesever so much, maddening and scoldingas you know how it does after the rain,grandfather, carrying all the little rocksbefore it,-that one never moves; thatrock woN' it won't budge anyhow!and I don't believe all the rains in theworld can make it."And Richard looked up very decid-edly. Grandfather had heard thechildren talk about it before, whenthey used to run and see whatchanges the'rains had made in thegully."That rock seems to have taken astand, don't it, Richard?" ,"Yes, sir," answered he, lookingfrom the rock up into his grandfather'sface ; " yes, sir, it's taken a stand,hasn't it ?-and won't be moved.Taken a stand !" repeated Richard,his eyes glistening as if a new thoughthad struck him." It has, has it not, Richard ?" againasked the grandfather.
22 RICHARD HARVEY."Yes, sir, it has; I am sure it has;and NOTHING will move it!"" Just so; I want You to stand, myboy, as firm as that rock. Doingwrong will carry you down, fast andeasy, just like the waters- down!down! and if you don't want to becarried down, you must take a standjust like that rock-take a stand andKEEP IT ;" and grandfather brought hiscane firmly down upon the gravel. " IfMichael had done so, he would not bewhere he now is-no, no!" and grand-father sighed, "no, no! "Richard looked down with intenseinterest upon that rock. " It has takena stand !" repeated the boy, "just as Imust; and if the waters come ever somuch, it won't move; so I must takea right stand and keep it;" and henever perhaps watched the boiling,scampering brook with such eagerness.As he looked he was almost afraid thatthe rock would move. No; there itstood, as if it neither heard nor felt thegurgling or plashing."It don't mind it," said Richard tohimself, stilL iooking.
RICHARD AND HIS GRANDFIATHER. 23They spoke no more, for Richardwas thinking. In a little while theywent into the house together.Uncle Michael's return and deathmade a great moral impression uponthe children. Disobedience and sinfulhabits never seemed to them so dread-ful as now that they beheld their bitterfruits, and the sorrow they broughtwith them; now they could realizethem.Every boy has seen somebody likeuncle Michael, after a life of sinful in-dulgence, fall into an unhonouredgrave, nobody loving or missing them,or mourning their death. Indeed, theworld is better without them, andworse that they have lived. Think,boys, of the course that ends like this,and take a stand against it before it istoo late.
24 RICHARD HARVEY.CHAPTER II.A TEMPTATION.HEN Richard was about elevenyears old he often did errandsfor a family who lived up inthe High Street; being thusenabled to contribute his small earn-ings to the family support. One dayhe went into the small back gate, toask if they, wanted him for anythingthat afternoon. The lady said she did,and gave him ninepence to get a poundof sausages. "It is just the money, Ibelieve," added she.Richard soon reappeared throughthe gate, where two of his school com-panions were waiting for him. " I'vegot to go down into the town; you gowith me," said Richard.They both said that they would, andaway they all went together. Richardreached- the shop and made his pur-chase. He was just running out ofthe shop when the clerk called," Here,boy, here is your change; they are butsevenpence a pound now; " and Rich-
A TEMPTATION. 25ard received twopence into his handwith the bundle." She did not know they were seven-pence a pound," remarked one of theboys."No," said Richard; " she said sheguessed they were ninepence."" Let me see," said the other, look-ing wistfully into Richard's hand uponthe two pence. "My! I wish I had'em! ""And they would soon be mine if Iwas Richard," remarked the other."How ?" asked Richard, at thatmoment stopped by the other to lookat the varieties of sugar-candy tempt-ing every passer-by at a confectioner'swindow."How ? why, it is easy enough, Ishould think: those two pence are asgood as yours, as far as I can see."This was Daniel-Farmer's reasoning,and a pretty dangerous kind it was."She would never know it if youkept them," added the other." What if she did not ? what. differ-ence does that make ? " asked Richard."All the difference in the world-
26 RICHARD HARVEY.the difference between getting foundout and not getting found out: if youare not found out, what's the harm?The fact is, she expects to give nine-pence for the sausages. Well, now,the shopkeeper does not want the twopence, and why should not you havethem ? you have earned them over andover again, I dare say. It is not muchmatter WHO has them. Now let's takethe opportunity of getting somethinggood and having a bit of a spree withthem."Daniel urged the matter, and reallyit looked quite fair to Richard. Imean it looked fair, but it did not FEELfair."I don't see why all this makesthem mine," asked Richard, who be-gan to hanker a little after them." Why not yours as well as theshopkeeper's ? but HE don't wantthem."" He don't, does he ?." said Richard." Nor SHE don't, because she thinksthey have gone for the sausages."" That's a fact! " said Richard; "shethinks they have gone for the sausages."
A TEMPTATION. 27"Then they are just where theyought to be; you are the man to use'em."Daniel was older than Richard, anda boy who could persuade the otherboys to do much as he pleased."Come, for once let's have a littleof something good. Come, Richard,treat us! we have been all the waydown here with you," cried LewisEmory." I'll see," answered Richard.They talked on until they reachedthe lady's house."Here we are! " exclaimed Richard."Now go in and leave the sausages,and come out again. You need notSAY anything," counselled Daniel." Be a man and not care."Richard went in and laid down hisparcel in the kitchen, and not seeingany one, walked out again. ast as hegot to the gate, he heard "Richard! "called. Richard started and lookedaround. The lady stood in the doorwith a piece of bread and butter in herhand. "Here,Richard," said she, kindly," you do errands so nicely, take this."
28 RICHA-D HARVET.He hardly looked up while he went-back and took it from her hand. In-deed, he forgot to thank her, buthastened out of the yard." Got 'em ? " whispered both boys atonce, as he leaped through the gateway."Got 'em ?" they asked, eagerly.Richard nodded his head."And a piece of bread and butterinto the bargain. I dare say it was allshe meant to give you, though it isworth twopence'to go down there, andyou have got paid for it in spite ofher," said Lewis, chuckling."Now let's have a spree," criedDaniel, in high glee." Not now," said Richard: " I can'tgo down into the town again, becausemy father wants my spare time thisafternoon-let's have it after school.""Well," agreed Lewis," after school.""Ah; I don't know that," saidDaniel, slily twisting his head. "Iam afraid Richard will slip throughour fingers; and we must have ounshare of the prize, that's certain. Iam almost afraid to let Richard off tillnight."
A TEMPTATION. 29Are not bad boys always suspiciousof the honesty of others ? Yet Richardcould not complain of these suspicions,could he ? However, he did colour up,and looked almost angry as he ex-claimed, "If I SAID I would afterschool, I will; and you know I will,Daniel."" See that you do, sir, for we can letthe cat out of the bag if we havea mind to." This he added, look-ing behind him after they sepa-rated.Richard bit his lip and scamperedhomeward.It so happened that Richard's fatherwanted him, all the afternoon, to goand help him pile up the wood he wascutting for -a gentleman. When hecame home, quite towards the evening,for his father wished to finish the jobthat day, Sally said, "'faniel Farmerand Lewis Emory have been roundhere, swinging on our gate, ever sinesschool, to see you. They asked wh\you were not at school, and said theywanted you for something vERT parti-cular."
80 RICHARD HARVEY."What do they want you for, Rich-ard? " asked Mary."How do I know ?" snapped Rich-ard, taking his bowl of bread and milk.It was so unusual for Richard to snarl,that both his sisters looked up sur-prised. Nothing more was said; andas Richard was very tired and warm,before long he stole away to the attic,and undressing, threw himself downupon his little bed, almost beneath theeaves of the house. Though very tiredhe could not lie still, but tossed aboutamazingly. By-and-bye he got up,and put his head out of the small openwindow to catch a breath of cool air."How horrid hot it is!" mutteredRichard,-" I am suffocated!" Butthe little cool easterly zephyrs did notrefresh him, and he tumbled on the bedagain. Then he went into a doze, andsuddenly started up as if his heart hadstopped beating." Why can't I get to sleep?" mut-tered he, peevishly. He drew on histrousers and crept down to the door.No one but his mother was up, and heespied her through the crack of the
A TEMPTATION. 31door, stirring up bread for the morrow.She stopped and listened. He movedagain."Who's that?" asked his mother,turning round."It is I," answered Richard; "Ican't sleep somehow, and I thoughtI would go down and stand on thedoor-step.""Are you ill? " asked his mother.'"I am not ill, only I can't sleep,"said Richard.He opened the door and went out.The night was cool and still: there wasno light but the dim light of stars,and no noise but the faint hum of littleinsects, and a ripple from the watersin the creek. Richard stood andlooked out, and as he stood and lookedhe grew thoughtful and solemn."Ugh! a gnat!" and the bite andbuzzing interrupted his reflections." Richard, I am afraid you will takecold," said his mother."I am coming in," he answered;and in a few moments he made hisway back to his bed again.Do you know what was the matter
32 RICHARD I!ARVEY.with Richard? Ah, I see it; he hasgot a touch of that sorrow which hisgood grandfather warned him to be-ware of; and Richard began to thinkso himself, perhaps; for he said halfaloud, when he lay down a secondtime, " The very moment it is light I'llcarry those two pence back-they arenot mine, and 1 feel so. I have nobusiness with them, let Daniel Farmersay as much as he has a mind to.I am afraid I am keeping up someof uncle Michael's feelings; and I musttake a stand!"He struck his foot resolutely againstthe bed.With this resolution he went tosleep.The next morning, before breakfast,or about breakfast-time, Richard wasmissing. You might have seen himscudding up the lane, and hasteningthrough Mrs. Howard's small backgate-as if he were in the greatest haste."I want to see Mrs. Howard," saidRichard to the little girl in the kitchen."She's in the sitting-room-comein," answered Nancy.
A TEMPTATION. 33Richard went in, though there was acertain twitching about his mouthwhich betrayed a considerable degreeof agitation."Here are your two pence," beganRichard the instant he beheld the lady." The sausages were but seven pencea pound, and here's the two over."" Ah, you forgot them yesterday, didyou not, Richard ?-well, I am gladyou brought them now," said Mrs.Howard. "I am glad to find you anhonest boy.""I was afraid to keep them," an-swered Richard, blushing deeply, andworking his feet on the carpet, "be-cause if I did I should lay up sorrowfor myself.""True enough " said Mrs. Howard;"true enough! Yes, Richard, thegreat God has made such a close con-nection between sin and suffering, thatif you break any of His laws, which Hehas made for our good, you will be sureto suffer,-you will be sure to lay upsorrow in store-for sin has a strange"faculty of punishing itself.""How everybody says alike aboutc
34 RICHARD HARVEY.it," thought Richard, as he came away."It must be just so. Yes, I knowit is; I KNow. I know how I feltlast night. I could not lie still with-out starting. I know what it was-those two pence in my trousers pocketthat did not belong to me!" and hesped home with very different feel-ings from those of the last twentyhours: his bowl of bread and milktasted good now. No sooner had hefinished the last mouthful than a shrillwhistle was heard outside the window,then another. "There's Dan andLewis again," said Mary, looking out."They want you, Richard.""Can I see Richard ? " asked oneof them, approaching the window."He is. coming out in a minute,"answered Mary.Richard took up his straw hat andobeyed their summons." How are you, old fellow? " shoutedDan, clapping him on the shoulder."You don't leave us a second timewithout-""Hush! " said Richard. "Come, let'sgo down by the creek."
A TEMPTATION. 35"I have not got the two pence,"continued Richard, when they wereout of hearing of the house; "I car-ried them back to Mrs. Howard thismorning.""You are a little chicken-heartedfool," exclaimed Dan; "and I shouldlike to plunge you into the water to'get a little courage into you."And Dan looked as if he felt justready to do it, to make some amendsfor his disappointment."I should like to do so too," addedLewis, looking very cross. "He is notworth a magpie.""I had rather go into the waterthan STEAL! " said Richard, steadily." Bow-wow-wow! " cried Daniel,mocking." Cock-a-doodle-doo!" crowed Lewis."I wonder who Richard takes himselfto be ? "" I take- myself to be an HONESTBOY," declared Richard, reddening alittle." More nice than wise," said Daniel." Come, Lewis, let's be off. PoorRichard does not. know how to
36 RICH1AD HARVEY.manage anything-poor Richard Weshall know next time when to keepour hands on him-poor Richard! "And with this mock pity and scornthey left him to his reflections onthe bank of the creek."Now they will for ever keeplaughing at me, and Dan will bealways against me, setting the otherboys against me too," thoughtRichard, as he threw a chip into thewater." No matter no matter nomatter! " was his second thought.No matter, I have nothing to be sorryfor; nothing, at least, but being sofoolish as to think pf taking the two-pence at all;" and he threw in an-other chip to see the circling eddies.True enough, Richard; what mattersthe jeers or ridicule of wicked com-panions, provided you do EIGHT?Then you will have sunshine in yourheart in spite of what anybody cansay or do. Keep there, and you areyour owT friend, and it is a great thingto be on friendly terms with yourself.As soon as you do wrong, you will find
RICHAERD'S FIRST PLACE. 37that you become your own enemy, be-traying yourself into a thousand folliesand inconsistencies.Richard then ran down by the gully,and jumped upon the rock, which neverchanged its place. Richard stampedupon it with his feet: it stood as firmas ever."I must be like you," mutteredRichard-" but I was near doingwrong, was I not, though? I musttake a stand, a right stand! " shoutedRichard, all by himself, stampingagain.Whether all these antics gave himnew strength I do not know; at anyrate, they showed him to be inearnest.CHAPTER III.RICHARD'S FIRST PLACE.ROM that time Richard Har-vey had to bear a kind of per-secution from the boys whoused to be his playfellows.They called after him; they pelted
38 RICHARD HARVEY.him with stones; they annoyed him asmuch as they possibly could." Here comes the HONEST BOY,"was the shout as soon as he appeared."Here's the coward, who is afraidof being found out! "They crowed, barked, pulled hishair, and indeed tried so many waysof tormenting him, that Richard wasobliged at length to fight Dan-thebiggest and most spiteful of the set;and as he managed to beat him, hethus put a stop to the malice of hispersecutors. They could no longercall him "coward;" and they stoodin awe of the lad who had conqueredthe greatest bully in the street, andfought in a good quarrel.Richard had taken a stand, and he -meant to keep it.One day Mrs. Howard's little maidcame running up to the Harveys'door." Is Richard at home," she asked." Yes," answered his mother, "he'sjust come from school."" Oh, please, then, Mrs. Howardwants to see him for a minute."
RICHARD'S FIRST PLACE. 39Richard liked Mrs. Howard. Hehad acted justly by her, and we alwayslike those who bring back the thoughtof a good action. So he made hastealong with Nancy, and soon reachedher house.Mrs. Howard was in her little par-lour, and with her sat a stout, good-looking woman, whom Richard hadoften seen at church. She was thehousekeeper at the house of a'widowlady, who lived about half a mile outof the town." Richard," said Mrs. Howard, as hecame in and made his bow, "Mrs.Nunn has just been asking me if Iknow of a boy who could go to Short-lands-Mrs. Winford's place-to helpin the farmyard.""Yes; to look after the pigs, andtake the cows to water, and make him-self generally useful," said Mrs. Nunn."It is two and sixpence a weekwages."" And I think you are just the boyfor it," added Mrs. Howard.Richard looked delighted. He wasvery fond of animals, and two shillings
40 RICHARD HARVEY.and sixpence a week, all to himself,seemed to him quite a small fortune." Oh! thank you, ma'am! ".he said."I have been telling Mrs. Nunnwhat an honest boy I have found you,""added Mrs. Howard; " and I hope youwill never give me cause to regret thatI recommended you.""I'll try not, ma'am," said the boy,earnestly," That's right! make a stand againstall wrong-doing, and keep it, Richard.""When am I to come, pleasema'am ? " said Richard to Mrs. Nunn."To-morrow morning at six o'clock,"she replied.And Richard ran home, delighted athis good fortune.The next day he set out for his newplace. It was a bright sunny morning.High up in the air the lark was sing-ing as if it were quite wild withdelight. The hedges on each side of theroad were decked with long trails ofhoneysuckle, and bunches of dog-roses,and Richard determined to pick a nicenosegay of them when he went backhome. The air was so sweet and plea-
RICHARD'S FIRST PLACE. 41sant, and everything looked so cleanafter the dirty town, that Richard felthe could not be thankful enough toGod for giving him work in such"pleasant places."By-and-bye he came to the door intothe stable-yard at Shortlands. Heopened it a little timidly, and went in.Several men were standing inside, andone, dressed in a smock frock, came upto him, and said,-"Are you the lad that's a-cometo help me in the farmyard ? "" Yes, I am," said Richard."Well, come along, then, and I'llshow thee what to do."He led Richard down to the farm-yard, which was behind the kitchen-garden, and the road to which, fromthe stables, was through t pretty wind-ing path, overhung with trees, be-neath which grew quantities of lilies ofthe valley and bluebells. The air wassweetly scented by them, and to Rich-ard, who had never been in any placelike a wood before, the grounds seemedjust like fairy-land."Now," said Edmunds, as they
42 RICHA D HARVEY.reached the yard, " you see them pigs.You are to clean the sty every day,and scrub the pigs theirselves weryoften, for missus likes to see her pigsclean, and I think the dumb creatureslikes it too. And .you're to feed thepoultry and the pigs, and drive thecows to the pond, ard cut up the hayand chaff in the choppin'-machine, anddo any odd jobs you're told; and TomBell, the boy who does the weeding,and helps in the gardens, will helpyou now and then."Edmunds went on telling Richard agreat deal more about his work, andthe boy listened attentively, for it wasall new to him, and he feared lest heshould not be able to do it as he ought.Nor, indeed, do I think he would, ifit had not been for Tom Bell, who soonran down to make friends with thenew boy; for town children are, ofcourse, a little stupid at country labour.However, Tom, who had been used to afarm all his life, was very ready to showRichard what to do; and though nowand then he laughed at the town boy'smistakes, it was so good-naturedly
RICHARD'S FIRST PLACE. 43that Richard did not mind it, butlaughed with him.When twelve o'clock came the twoboys sat dawn under a tree to eat theirdinners-which they had brought withthem. Very pleasant it was, too; justlike a picnic. The hot sun shone downupon the wide green meadow, all dottedover with sheep, but it was cool underthe spreading arms of the old oak, theroots of which made both seats andtable forbthem, while the birds sangdelightfully on the branches high abov.their heads." I call this first-rate," said Richard,as he cut his cold pork and bread." It's like' being in the garden of Eden,I think."Tom laughed." What a funny fellow you be!" hesaid, "I don't think nothin' of it.The town and the shops be a sight *finer.""Oh no! " cried Richard, "this ismuch better. I wish father and motherlived quite in the country, I do, thoughwe have got a garden."" And I wish father and mother
:44 RICHARD HARVET.lived in the town," said Tom. "Soyou see folks is never content, asmother says."S"That's a pity, too," said Richard,thoughtfully. And while he ate hisdinner in silence, he thought- of Tom'swords, and of the ingratitude of notbeing satisfied with the place God givesus in the world. Richard was a ladwho thought a great deal about every-thing; while Tom, merry and good-natured as he was, never thought atall.The boys were allowed- a whole hourfor dinner, as Tom told his companion,"and when they had finished their mealhe stretched himself on the grass, andasked Richard if he wouldn't like anap. Richard laughed as he said hewasn't sleepy; he should like to walkabout and look at the hedges."But you mustn't bird's-nest here,"said Tom." I ain't going to," replied Richard."I wouldn't do it if I might."" Well, I ain't going to walk in thesun when I needn't," said Tom, andtaking, a knife out of his pocket, he,
RICHAR1D'S FIRST PLACE. 45began whittling a stick, at which occu-pation Richard left him, to wander'himself all round the meadow by thehedgerows, which were full of wondersfor him.By-and-bye, in a hole beneath thebrambles, he saw a bunch of bluebells,'beneath which lay something white;peering more attentively into the cor-ner, he found that it was an egg.He picked it up at once, and carriedit in his hand, till by-and-bye he sawEdmunds coming to the farmyard;then he went up to him and gaveit to him, saying,-"Please, I found that egg in thehedge yonder."" Oh " said Edmunds, taking it."How came that, I wonder? Thefowls are never let into that meadow.How could a hen have laid away,there? That's right, my lad, keepyour eyes always open."And Edmunds looked pleased withhis new assistant.At last Richard's work was over,and he gladly set off home. He hadso much to tell of all he had seen in
46 RICHARD HARVE-itthe "grand place," that his mothersaid it was as good as going therefor a day herself to hear him; andRichard did not fail to thank Godthat night, when he said his prayers,for his delightful new place.Some days passed on. Richardlearned more and more of his work,and as he did it with all his might,he earned a great deal of praise fromEdmunds, who, being a man well onin life, was fully able to appreciate agood helper.The boy's love for animals madehim kind and gentle even to the pigs,who soon learned to know him, andgrunted a welcome whenever they sawhim. The fowls would run after himin a long string j hen he entered themeadow where they grubbed for food;and the cows, too, showed a decidedliking for the gentle lad.Tom and he were great friends. Itwas impossible not to like Tom. Hewas so merry and good-tempered-ever ready to give a helping hand toRichard, and to instrdet him in mattersof which he was ignorant. Richard
RICHAID'S FIRST PLACE. 47grew quite fond of him, and Tom seemedto return his affection.. When theirdinner was over they used to sit to-gether, and Richard, who was a goodscholar for his age, would read to Tom,who dearly loved listening to him, andwas quite charmed at hearing " Robin-son Crusoe."One day, however, it rained heavily,and Tom proposed that they shouldtake their dinner into the hay-loft forshelter.Richard was quite ready to do so(having first asked Edmunds's leave),and they mounted into it together.The cutting-machine was there, andTom had been busy at it that morning.They sat down on some hay anddined with great glee, Tom volunteer-ing a song, which he sang very well."While he was singing, Richard'sever-observant gaze had strayed roundthe loft, and remarked something lyingunder a pile of hay which his foot hadaccidentally moved on entering.He jumped up as Tom ceased sing-ing, and went to see what it was."Why, Tom! I declare here is anL
48 RICHARD HARVE1.egg!" cried Richard; "how could ahen get in here ? "Tom grew very red in the face." Oh, never you mind," he said,trying to snatch the egg away from theboy; "it ain't no concern of yours.That's my egg, and I left it here till Iwent home.""Oh! " said Richard."Now mind, Dick, you don't go andtell old Edmunds," added Tom, ratherirresolutely; " you went and gave himan egg of mine the first day you camehere.""Was that egg yours? " criedRichard. "Dear, why didn't you sayso ? ""'Cos he wouldn't ha' let me had-it,"replied Tom, sulkily. " He's an ill-natured old feller. One surely mighttake just an egg now and then; nobodywould miss it, or could ever want it.""But if it wasn't your own egg, itwould be stealing to take it," saidRichard."Stealing !" said Tom, scornfully;"" why, it is such a very little thing,'tain't worth a penny."
RICHARD'S FIRST PLACE. 49" But it's as bad to steal a little thingas a big one," said Richard, stoutly." No, it ain't," said Tom ; " there's adeal of difference. Very honest folk* won't mind priggin' just a trifle nowand then. 'Tain't worse to take an eggthan to rob an orchard, and no boycalls that stealing.""I do," said Richard. "And Ithink it is wicked, unjust thieving, too.The boys who would rob an orchardwould as soon rob a house, in myopinion. I would not join in such athing, nor I would not take even anegg. I have made a stand againsteverything dishonest, and I'll keep toit.""Well, anyhow, don't peach on me,"said Tom, rudely; "and give us theegg.""No, I won't," said Richard, "if Idid I should be as bad as yourself. Iwon't tell of you, but I shall put theegg in a hen's nest, and let Edmundsfind it."Tom remonstrated earnestly againstthis plan, but Richard was firm. Hemade a stand, and he kept it.D
50 RICHARD HARVEY.From that day the boys were notsuch good friends as they had been.Tom felt a little ashamed and a littleafraid of Richard, and was shy ofhim, and Richard's good opinion of hiscompanion had been sorely shaken.However, for some time afterwardsRichard never detected any dishonestyin his young friend, and his confidencein him began to return.The autumn came. The ruddyapples hung on the boughs, and bentthem with their weight; and the grapesin the hothouse were hanging in luxu-riant clusters from the vines. Oneday, while Tom was helping Richard,two fine large apples fell out of hispocket. Seeing Richard's eye rest onthem, he said, looking confused,-" They be two apples I picked up inthe orchard just now. We may havethe windfalls."" No, we may not, without leave,"said Richard, shortly."You don't mean to say as youwouldn't pick up an apple or 'a fewfallen mulberries under the old tree ?"exclaimed Tom.
RICHARD'S FIRST PLACE. 51" No, I wouldn't. They ain't mine;and when God spoke from MountSinai He did not say you may stealthings that are not valuable. Now,Tom, you and I have been good friends,and I love you as if you were mybrother, and I won't see you do wrongwithout telling you of it. If you beginby picking an apple here, and an eggthere, you'll end by growing a con-firmed thief, and may be will be put inprison by-and-bye. Do MAKE A STAND,Tom, against the beginning of evil."And Richard's voice was pleadingand earnest in its tone.Tom seemed to be convinced; but hewas not quite sincere in the promiseshe then made Richard. There was alurking thought that " Dick " was tooparticular; that to pick up and pocketan apple now and then was no suchgreat fault.One day Tom was away from thefarm. He had been sent with thegardener to bring back some shrubs forthe grounds from the nursery garden;and Richard was required to take hisplace in various little offices; amongst
52 RICHAID HAEvEY.others he was sent to help Mrs. Ed-munds, the dairy-woman, churn, andafterwards press the butter in thepressing machine.Richard was quite delighted withthe dairy. It looked so cool, and fresh,and pretty with its great pans of milk,set to cream. And he was pleased tolearn how to use the machines.Mrs. Edmunds said that he was avery handy lad, and praised him, forhis attention, and his endeavours todo what she told him. By-and-bye alarge tray was covered with pats ofbeautiful yellow butter, and Mrs. Ed-muids bade him carry it up to the cookto put into the larder, and to sendaway to the tradesmen who bought itof them.Very proud of his burden, Richardentered the kitchen with quite an airof importance. The cook was stand-ing by the fire basting a sirloin of beef." You are just in time," she said toRichard, "come here."And she took one of the beautifulpats of butter from the tray and threwit into the dripping-pan.
RICIARD'S FIRST PLACE. 53"Dear me," said Richard, " does ittake all that butter to cook with ?"" To be sure it does, in grandhouses like this," replied the woman."There, put the tray down, andstay, here's a bit of apple pie for you.Sit down and eat it."Richard, to whom the cook appearedquite a grand lady, obeyed her, andeat the pie, wondering, nevertheless, ifshe had leave to give away the victuals.Then Richard went back to the farm-yard.He was full of the beauties of thedairy, and as Edmunds was kind tohim and let him talk, he began chat-tering away to him about the beautifulbutter he had seen made, ending bysaying,-"It seemed quite a pity to throw itinto the pan.""Throw it into the pan! Whatdoes the boy mean ? " cried Edmunds.Richard related what the cook haddone.Edmunds uttered a loud and angryejaculation."I never heard the like," he ex-
54 EICHARD HARVEY.claimed. " Tain't no wonder, then, thatmissus says her cows don't pay fortheir keep. I'll take care she shallknow why the butter runs so short."" Why, wasn't it right to use it forcooking ?" asked Richard."Of course not, my lad; of coursenot. 'Twas as bad as stealing the but-ter. She made it into dripping, don'tyou see? and that is her parquisite.Well, I never!"And Edmunds, when the day's workwas over, went up to the Hall, to tellthe housekeeper what Richard hadseen.You may be sure the housekeeperwas very angry with the cook, and toldher mistress, who, instantly makingclose inquiries, discovered a great dealof dishonesty in the kitchen. In someof this little Tom had been an agent;but, as he was very young, Mrs. Win-ford did not like to discharge him witha slur on his character, and so ruin himfor life.She sent for the boy, and talked longand earnestly to him, begging him toconsider how great a sin it is to break a
RICHARD'S FIRST PLACE. 55direct command from God. She alsopointed out to him the danger incurredin this life, also, of earning a bad name,and so being cast amongst worthlesspeople, and never being able to rise inthe world and win a respectable placein it.Tom cried very much, and told Rich-ard afterwards that he had resolvednever to cheat again, nor to see othersdo so, without trying to preventthem.Mrs. Winford was very pleased withthe character for honesty which Ed-munds gave his farm-boy, and she sentfor Richard, praised him, and gave hima very handsomely bound Bible.I need not tell you, I am sure, withwhat pride Richard carried it homeand showed it to his family; norhow pleased old grandfather was atthis testimony to the honesty of hisfavourite grandson.
56 RICHARD HAUrEY.CHAPTER IV.RICHARD AND HIS FRIEND.7 jICHARD continued to dovery well at Shortlands. Heever bore in mind and actedon the text,-"Whatsoever thy hand findeth todo, do it with thy might."He made a stand against the begin-ning of sin. He strove to speak thetruth always, even in the smallestmatters. He worked faithfully to thebest of his power. He was strictlyhonest. Temptations often came inhis way, but he made a strong standagainst them; and he was kept byGod from their power and influence.You will say there never was soperfect a boy as this, a lad withoutfault. But I did not say he had nofaults; nay, he had. He was verypassionate; by no means as good-tem-pered a boy as Tom Bell, and his firm-ness at times approached to stub-bornness. I think sometimes he wasnot as .good-natured as he might have
RICHARD AND HIS FiIEND. 57been. He would have had more in-fluence over Tom if he had had morepatience in things that were reallytrifles.But he was a brave, resolute, honour-able boy. Time and trial would doubt-less soften all that was harsh, abouthim.The years went on. Richard andTom were just fifteen, when the par-ish clergyman summoned the youth-ful members of his flock to take onthemselves the vows made at theirbaptism for them.Richard was pleased at the thoughtof taking his Christian profession pub-licly on himself.Tom shrank from it.The boys talked it over as they satunder the old oak, one summer day,eating their dinner." I don't want to make no promises,"said Tom; " it's my godmother, oldBetty Morris, that has to answer formy wrong-doin's now."" How can you talk such nonsense ?"exclaimed Richard; "you know verywell that you will have to answer for all
58 RICHARD HAREEY.your faults. If you know a thing iswrong, and do it, of course you willhave to bear the blame.""But I can't say my catechismnow," replied Tom, " and it's so hard tolearn over again.""I'll help you," said Richard; "we'llsay a bit every day till you know it.It will bring it back to my own mindtoo."" Oh, but I don't want to be con-firmed now," said Tom. " Time enoughwhen I'm growed up.""How do you know you ever willgrow up ? " asked Richard. "We can'tcount on a day or a year, for certain,you know.""Well, if I ain't never confirmed, Idon't see as it matters," said Tom.Richard paused, and then said, in atone of reverence,-" But the GREAT BLESSING you wouldlose, Tom! You may not go to theHoly Communion without being con-firmed first.""Oh, I wouldn't dare do that!"said Tom, looking frightened; "I ain'tgood enough."
RICHARD AND HIS FRIEND. 59"No one is good enough," said.Richard, "but our LoRD will acceptus as we are, if we mean to try to bebetter. And it is to help us along,Tom."Tom looked very doubtful, but atlength Richard persuaded him to tryand re-learn the catechism; and everyday a single question and answer was(with considerable difficulty) impressedon the elder boy's memory. Richardwas astonished at finding how littleTom knew of religion, how ignoranthe was of a Christian's duties and of aChristian's hopes.He knew the commandments butvery imperfectly, and he had learnedthat he had a God and Saviour; buthis chief idea of religion was the re-peating over and over again that hewas "a miserable lost sinner,", towhich words Richard felt sure that heattached very little meaning."It is no use to keep saying thatyou are a great sinner unless you meanto try and be good, Tom," he said oneday, impatiently. "Don't you see thatat baptism folks promised we should
60 RIOHARD HARVEY.be good soldiers of Christ. Nowsoldiers don't talk, but fght; so letus up and be doing."And Richard took great pains toshow Tom what he had promised atbaptism, and all the great blessingswhich God had then promised him."And you, Tom," he said,-"youwill, and did promise that you wouldn'tobey or seek to please the world, theflesh, or the devil."" Now what do that mean? " askedTom, who had so much improved as toexpect to understand, and not to learnmere words like a parrot,-" what dothat mean ? ""It means that you won't care toomuch for this world; for its riches andsplendour, and for being great.""But, Richard, you say it's right totry and get on in the world," said thepupil."Ay, to be sure, if we do so honestly.I take it to mean, that if our gettingon here would be likely to binder ourgetting to heaven, we must give it upat once. We mayn't get on by anymeans or in any way that would be
RICHARD AND HIS FRIEND. 61displeasing to God. 'The flesh' meanswe must not indulge our appetites likethe beasts; as drunkards do, you know.The devil is renounced or given up,when we won't do wicked things, toplease him, like stealing and lying, andspeaking ill of folks, or bearing malicein our hearts.""It's a deal to promise," said Tom."Yes, so it is; but GOD can makeus strong enough to do it, for that ispart of what HE promises to us. HEwill make and keep us His children, andgive us His Holy Spirit to keep us good,and help us to fight against the devil.And besides, Tom, He promises us, forour Lord's sake, a glorious home inheaven when we die, where we shallhave everything we wish for, or canenjoy. Grandfather is always talkingabout that blessed place, where hehopes to go soon,-' Jerusalem, thegolden,' the beautiful country, Tom,where we shall see the Lord in Hisglory, and never feel sorrow, or pain,or hunger, any more."" I wish I were like you, Dick," saidTom, earnestly; "I would like very
62 RICHARD HARVEY.much to go to that beautiful heavenlycountry.""Try to be Christ's soldier, then,and MAKE A STAND against sin, theworld, and the devil. Let's fight sideby side, Tom, and help one another."And Richard put out his hand. Tomtook it and squeezed it warmly. Rich-ard's good example had had a wonder-ful effect on Tom.The confirmation was over. The twoboys had knelt at God's altar, and pub-licly taken on themselves the vowswhich their godfathers and godmothershad made for them when they werebabies. The bishop had laid his handson them and blessed them, and withawed and softened hearts they hadasked God to help them to keep theirvows; to cover them with His shieldagainst the attacks of the evil one, andto help them in the daily duties oftheir life.I think both boys hoped that theyshould be a great deal better after con-firmation, but it did not prove quite asthey thought. Sally, Richard's sister,provoked him very shortly afterwards
RICHARD AND HIS FRIEND. 63into a furious passion, of which he wasquite ashamed when he came to him-self; and Tom was tempted to aoceptsome turnips from a boy who had (hewell knew) just stolen them. Richardwas very grieved at his own folly, andlamented it to his grandfather. Theold Christian told him that it wasto be expected, from the example ofOUR LORD himself, that the devil woulduse his strongest temptations at such atime; "For after our Lord's baptism,was He not led into the wilderness tobe tempted of the devil ?" he said."Do not be out of heart, my boy.Pray to God for more help, and fixyour soul firmly on the rock whichcannot be moved, even Christ."Poor Tom had no such help as Richardhad. He was ashamed to mention theturnips to Richard; he tried to persuade'himself it was no fault at all.L
64 RICHARD HARTEY.CHAPTER V.TOM BELL'S TROUBLES.| jNE day shortly after this im-portant event in the lives ofour two boys, Richard observedthat Tom was very cross, andevidently thinking of something whichquite took his thoughts away from thework he was doing. When they satdown to dinner together he had not aword to say, and he looked so very un-happy that Richard felt quite anxiousabout him." Is anything the matter, Tom ?Ain't you well ?" he asked at length.Tom suddenly burst into tears, andcouldn't speak for sobbing." Oh, Dick," he said at last, " it's nouse to try to be good; I can't! "" Nonsense Everybody can be, whotries and asks God to help him," saidRichard. "What's it all about ?"And Tom then, at Richard's entreaty,told his troubles to his friend. BeforeRichard came Tom had been friendswith a very bad young lad, who having
TOM BELL'S TROUBLES. 65once caught Tom taking home three orfour turnips in his pocket, after feedingthe sheep, had constantly threatenedhim that he would tell Edmunds that hewas a thief, and had thus made poorweak Tom quite his tool and slave. Forhim Tom was compelled to steal eggsand apples, and even grapes. His ty-rant exacted them from him."The last time I gave him someeggs," sobbed Tom, "I told him that Iwouldn't never give him no more; thatI wouldn't take anything again, for Icouldn't go with you, Dick, to theLord's table by-and-bye because of it,and I don't want to give my soul toBen Drewet. And he said, says he,' If you doan't bring me two or threeeggs by to-morrow I'll tell Edmundswhat a thief you are.' Oh dear, ohdear, Dick, what shall I do ? " sobbedTom."Do!" said Dick, slapping his handhard down on his knee, "why, MAKE ASTAND against him. You've told me;now tell Edmunds. He's a godly man,and will have pity upon a poor lad likeyou. TELL HIM ALL. Then when Ben
66 RICHARD HARnEY.goes with his tale, Edmunds will knowhow to serve him. I'd thresh him if Iwas you."Tom shook his head. Ben was amatch for any man in the parish; a biglad of seventeen-he couldn't threshhim! But he took Richard's adviceabout telling Edmunds, though withgreat fear and trembling.Edmunds listened patiently enough."Now you see, my lad," he said,".how dangerous it is to do wrong inlittle matters; you were a thief whenyou took the turnips, and that madeyou a worse thief, and a slave too.Make a stand, as Dick does, againistthe beginnings of sin, and you needfear no man. Be honest for the future.Keep your hands from picking andstealing, and I ain't afraid but whatyou'll do well yet."Ben Drewet was very angry when hefound that Tom had revealed all andescaped him. He became the boy'sbitter enemy from that time, and toldall manner of falsehoods about him inthe village.You see, even if one is sorry, and
TOM BELL'S TROUBLES. 67tries to behave better, one cannot escapethe consequences of any one sin, how-ever small. If you sow weed-seeds,weeds will grow from them; and willgive you a great deal of trouble to rootthem up again.Tom for many a year had to sufferfor that turnip supper which he hadstolen.However, he clung to Richard; andfinding support in his friend's strengthof character, he grew gradually honestin small matters as well as great."Unless a boy is careful to watchagainst small "pickings," he will findhis moral sense grow very dull, andwill scarcely see where honesty begins.Tom had a sad habit of loitering athis work. He had a good deal ofweeding to do, and he was very apt tobegin his work in earnest, and workhard, while Grey the gardener was insight, but as soon as his back was turnedhe would rest from his work to throwstones at birds, look about him, orgossip with any one who passed by.His faithful friend Richard spoke tohim of the sin of thus wasting time
68 RICHARD HARVEY.when he was not watched. " It is dis-honest, Tom," he said."Dishonest! well," cried Tom, "Inever heard such a fellow! what do Isteal now?"" Your employer's time, for whichyou are paid; you have no right to playwhile you are paid to work, that's whatgrandfather says. The time ain't yours,and if you don't work in it, you steal itfrom your master. I don't think it'shonourable," added Richard, warmly.Tom listened, not quite convinced;but he never afterwards idled duringwork-hours without feeling his con-science reproach him, which was betterthan not perceiving right and wrong.A good, wise friend is, you see, almosta second conscience,CHAPTER VI.A HAPPY CHRISTMAS.T was Christmas eve. Richardand Tom were both employedby Mrs. Winford to cut downholly, and gather ivy and laurel'boughs, and generally assist the young
A HAPPY CHRISTMAS. 69ladies, her daughters, who were deco-rating the church.Ivycomb Church, which stood justoutside Shortlands Lodge gate, was afine old edifice covered with ivy, as be-fitted the name of the village in whichit stood. There was a lych gate alsointo the churchyard, which you veryseldom see now-a-days. A lych gate isa roofed-over gateway, under which thecoffins at funerals used to be placed informer ages while the clergyman readpart of the burial service.It occurred to Miss Blanche Win-ford that it would be nice to decoratethis lych gate, and she asked the twQboys to come and help her. They werequite willing to do so, and you wouldhave greatly admired their work hadyou seen it when it was finished, withits great trail of ivy and arches of scar-let holly-berries.The young lady, who greatly desiredto help her poorer brethren, talkedkindly to them of the feast they wereabout to keep." It is the festival of holy childhood,".she said; "and children ought espe-
70 RICHARD HARVEY.cially to rejoice in it. I am young my-self," she added, modestly, "but I hopeto-morrow to go to the Holy Commu-nion for the first time; I trust you willboth be there, boys.""I shall, Miss," said Richard. ButTom was silent, and looked frightened.As he and Richard left the churchyardwhen their task was done, he said, " Ibe 'most afraid to go now, Dick."" Take good courage," replied Rich-ard; "make it the turning-point ofyour life, Tom, and come. I am goingto stay with grandfather, and fatherand mother; do you come with us."Tom gave a consent at last-not anunwilling, but a timid one.Poor fellow! he had no help in hishome. His parents had never thoughtof accepting the great good God thusoffered them-they were worldly peo-ple. And I grieve to say that his elderbrothers strove to laugh him out of hisintention. But Richard's words, "Takea stand," rang in his ears, and thoughhe could not help feeling irritated andfretted, he kept firmly to his purpose,and refrained from unkind or angry
A HAPPY CHRISTMAS. 71replies to the taunts he had to bear inconsequence.Christmas day rose bright, and clear,,and cold. The sun's rays glittered uponthe purest snow. The old church towerwas all wrapped in it, and the trails ofivy over the lych gate were adornedwith diamonds of ice, and a silver frost-work which no jeweller could imitate.Tom Bell went to meet Richard andhis grandfather on their road to church.It was not the town church which theold man generally frequented, but asRichard wished to go there (for itsclergyman had prepared him for confir-mation), the Harvey family set out towalk to it with him.They had a kind greeting for TomBell when he met them. And a happyparty they were; all bent on keepingChristmas in the best manner, bythanking GOD for the past year's mer-cies, and asking help from HIM toserve HIM better in the year that wasto come.Grandfather stopped at the lych gate,and leaned on his stick for a minute."I never saw anything more beautiful
72 RICHARD HARVEY.nor that," said the old man, "all glit-tering like dewdrops of a morning.This do seen like 'Jerusalem the golden'itself to-day."And then with happy hearts theywent on to the church. It was wellfor Richard that he sought help andstrength thus early from God, for greattroubles were awaiting him in the newyear.Miss Blanche Winford, the younglady who had spoken so kindly to theboys on Christmas eve, was taken veryill about the beginning of the year, andas they feared consumption for her, thedoctor ordered her to Madeira at once.So Mrs. Winford was obliged toleave her beloved English home, andtake all her family to the warm islandwhich is only too well known to Englishpeople.This change sadly affected Richard.The house was shut up, and left underthe care of the gardener and his wife.The cows were sold, and the land letout for grazing till Mrs. Winford'sreturn.Of -ourse poor Richard received his
A HAPPY CHRISTMAS. 73discharge, and went home. It was asad loss for him,-a comfortable placeand good wages, and work that he liked.None of the neighbouring farmerswanted a lad just then; but Richardwas quite sure of getting a good placeby-and-bye, because he had an excellentcharacter, and everybody spoke of himas " honest Richard Harvey."Just about this time his excellentgrandfather received the summons tohis heavenly home. It was not exactlyby an illness, though the poor old manwas full of aches and pains from rheu-matism; it was old age gently sinkinginto the grave.It was a great sorrow at first toRichard when he knew that he mustlose his dear grandfather."There is one good thing, however,in my being out of work," he thought,"I can nurse him all day long."And so the boy did, only leavinghim at times to go and earn a penny ortwo by running errands, that he mightbuy something nice for the invalid.He read a good deal to the old man,who was never so happy as when lis-
74 RICHARD HARVEY.tening to the promises made to him inGod's holy Book, which were now sonear fulfilment; and he constantlytalked to his best-loved grandson of thatblessed country which was every hourgrowing more near to him, and thebright light from which shone (for him)almost visibly through the shadow ofthe valley of death.The end came. It was a very happyone. Miss Blanche had given Richard,on Christmas day, a text painted byherself for his own, and another for hisgrandfather's bedroom. Richard hadvery proudly nailed them up in theirrespective places. The text given tothe old man was one from Zechariah," BEHOLD, AT EVENTIME IT SHALLBE LIGHT " And on those words hadthe aged eyes rested every morningwhen the grandfather woke, for therays of the morning sun fell full onthem. Very often he repeated themsoftly to himself. They comforted himgreatly.One evening, about sunset, he saidthem over very softly to Richard, whowas sitting beside him, adding, "It is a
A PAINFTL DECISION. 75very true text, Richard. I know itmore and more every day." Then hefeebly caught his grandchild (by thehand. " Take a stand, Richard," hegasped, feebly; "take a stand."And with those words the old saintpassed away to his rest. Do you thinkRichard ever forgot them ?CHAPTER VII.A PAINFUL DECISION.OOR Richard found it ratherdifficult to get a place, thoughhe had such a good character.Mrs. Winford's was the only"great house " in the immediate neigh-bourhood. The small farmers roundhad hands enough, and the little townhad not much work to offer. Therewould be haymaking and harvestingwhen the year grew older, but just nowRichard could get nothing to do.He was a fine-spirited, manly boy,and it grieved him to be a burden onthe small means of his father and mo-ther. So he went on errands, and strug-
76 RICHARD HARVEY.gled hard to get something to employhim.The roads were being mended." I will break stones," thought Rich-ard, "for work I must."So he was to be seen seated by thewayside on a heap of pebbles, breakingthem, and singing gaily at his task.One day, as Richard's father wasreturning from work, he met Mr. Bent,who kept the " Blue Boar " tavern, notfar off."How do you do, Harvey?" saidhe; "I am quite grieved to see thatfine boy of yours breaking stones onthe highway. How did that comeabout ?"" Well, you see, sir," said Harvey,"times is very hard, and our Dick's aboy who won't take from nobody if hecan help it. So as he couldn't get aplace, he will,do what he can.""A fine lad," said Mr. Bent; "andwith such a character for honesty!Well, I tell you what, Harvey; I want alad in the bar; if Richard likes tocome I'll give him good wages, and hisdinner every day."
A PAINFUL DECISION. 77Harvey thanked Mr. Bent, and wenthome.Richard did not hear his father's newswith quite as much pleasure as Harveyhad expected. He looked grave. "Iwonder," he said, " if grandfather wouldhave liked me to go to a public-house? "" Why, there's no harm in a public-house," said his father; " what does theboy mean?"Richard did not answer directly. Hewas thinking. He did not like the ideaof serving at a public-house, because itwas from being for ever in one thatUncle Mike had come to his sad end.He recollected his grandfather sayingso. But still that was the abuse ofthe thing. He would not touch a dropof any spirits, nor wine, nor even beerthere, he was determined. And thenhe looked at his mother's pinched face,and at his young sisters, and thought,"I will go. God's providence offersme this help. If I find it likely tomake me grow wicked, I can leavedirectly." So Richard accepted theplace.His sisters were greatly pleased at
78 RICHARD HARVEY.his rise in the world, as they thought it,and used to call him "the young inn-keeper;" and Richard felt glad andproud to be able to help his family.Every Saturday night he went outand bought a lot ce provisions for hismother, and had a shilling or two tospare besides.He went back to his home quiteladen with good food and useful things,and Richard shopped so well that hismother let him do it, and never sup-posed that she could spend the moneyto more advantage.But even this pleaaure of helping hisdear ones could not reconcile Richardentirely to his present way of life; forevery day and every hour showed him,that it was for the abuse, rather thanthe use of God's good gifts that people.frequented public-houses.Richard was not always without acompanion in the bar.After school, John Bent, Mr. Bent'seldest son, used often to come there,lounging about, helping himself to bis-cuits, and talking with Richard. Oneafternoon Mr. Bent went out, leaving
A PAINFUL DECISION. 79the boys together. Two portly brandy-barrels, in the shape of two middle-agedmen, sat on a bench near the door,nodding and dozing over their after-noon glass. Richard was rinsing andwiping some tumblers, when an old.countryman entered. "What have yegot here? " he asked, raising his eyes,and making up a strange face."Anything you want," answeredRichard.Then a young man entered, dressedlike a farmer, trying to steady himselfup to the counter." Hey, father, is that you ? " heasked." Brandy," the old man tried to say." Whiskey!" shouted the young man.Richard stood grave and silent, with-out answering their calls."Come!" they both cried at once,"wait on us-quick !"Richard bestirred himself, and waspouring some spirit out of a decanter,when the noise of a suppressed sob atthe door caught his attention.A. young boy was peeping in, cryingbitterly. When Richard handed over
80 RICHARD HARVEY.the glass, the lad rushed in, and, seizinghis father by the coat-tail, cried outpiteously, " Don't, father don't youpromised mother! Don't, father! wesha'n't get home."His elder brother turned suddenlyaround and gave the child a hard kickwith his heavy boots. " Get out!Take that! Be off with you!It made Richard's blood run cold tosee such cruelty.The little boy picked himself up, andwent the other side of his father. John"Bent looked on with evident delight." Come, father," whispered the boy;"do come! "Down the father swallowed anotherglass, muttering something, which no-body understood. " Come, father, dearfather !" persisted the child, anxiously.The elder brother looked furiouslyround: his red face and wild eyesalarmed Richard." Get out! " he shouted to the littleboy, who shrank crying from the up-lifted arm. " Come, more grog! " andhe shoved his glass towards Richard.As Richard took it and looked down
A PAINFUL DECISION. 81into it, the thought that "there wassorrow in the glass " struck him veryforcibly, especially as the sobs of thelittle boy fell upon his ear.After a while they all went out, tedrunken father and his drunken son,and the grieved little boy. John Bentfollowed them, talking with and laugh-ing at them. "Ain't it rare sport,though !" he cried, on coming back tothe shop. "They will find it toughwork to get home. Why, Richard, youlook as solemn as a parson," he added,marching up to the counter, whereRichard stood in quite a brown study." I feel miserable," said Richard." You feel miserable! what shouldyou feel miserable for?"" Because it is so dreadful to see theeffects of drink," answered Richard.Just then another customer entered,who kept him busy. John went off.That evening, about dusk, Richardsaw the young man lying on someboards near the wharf. Soon after hemet the father reeling through thestreets, with his little boy holding hishand, looking sorrowful and anxious.
82 RICHARD HARVEY.Richard thought he should never forgetthat look, as he beheld it by the brightlight of a shop window. How they gothome, or whether they ever reachedhome that night, he never knew; butas it grew colder and darker, he thoughta great deal about them, and of thepoor little grieved boy." They are laying up sorrow for them-selves," thought Richard many times." Yes," he added; " and ain't I help-ing them? It is I who sell it to them."Richard had witnessed some sad scenesin this tavern long before he went intoit, and it was always unpleasant for himto be round there. He knew what theinn was, therefore it was that he couldnot smile or be very glad when hisfather told him that Mr. Bent wantedhis services. He had witnessed, too,some painful scenes since he had beenthere, until he felt and feared that hewas making "uncle Michaels" of peo-ple. Richard was not at ease: thisafternoon's work was not fitted to makehim more so; and he went home thatnight feeling, as he had said to JohnBent, "very miserable."
A PAINFUL DECISION. 83A great struggle was going on inRichard's bosom. The point was, tostay or not to stay in his place, a pointwhich he very soon settled after a littlemore reflection. But then arose all theadvantages of staying : the help hecould be to his family; the great thingit was considered for Mr. Bent to wanthim; and " what they would say " if heleft. By'" them," he meant his fatherand sisters, the boys, and everybodywho knew him. On the other hand,uninfluenced by everything except theplain matter of fact before him, hethought he was helping to make drunk-ards of people; twist it which way hecould, it would always face about thatHE, boy as" he was, had some personalresponsibility in the matter.Richard never was a boy to stiflehis convictions of duty ; therefore heusually arrived at clear and decidedviews of what that duty was; and uponthese views he 'always tried to act.Richard now had reached clear viewsof what he considered duty, in regardto his connection with Mr. Bent'splace. He wanted to QIrT IT but it
84 ICHARD HARVEY.was a great question, and one whichcost him many severe struggles, whetherhe should actually do so or not. lHecould no longer consult the only personwhom he ever consulted upon any suchsubjects-his revrQed grandfather; butit was by the light of his example andinstruction that Richard still continuedto judge and to act. Every day hisunwillingness to remain increased;every day did he feel more keenly thewickedness of selling strong drink,until at length, come what would, heresolved to quit it; he was determinedto have no part or lot in such business.Having thus resolved upon leavingthe inn, Richard lost no time in carry-ing it into effect; and accordingly,choosing a convenient opportunity, hetold Mr. Bent that he wanted to leavehis employment." Why, Richard, does not the placesuit you P Have I not given you wagesenough ?"Richard told him that these mattershad nothing to do with it." What then ?" inquired Mr. Bent.It was a hard struggle to answer, but
A PAINFUL DECISION. 85the right got the mastery at last, andthe boy told Mr. Bent that he did notlike serving out the drink, and that itmade him feel wretched. Mr. Bentwas astonished. He looked as if a clapof thunder and flash of lightning hadsuddenly come upon him; he stood sofixed and amazed, gazing upon Richardfrom head to feet. Then his eyes fellupon the floor, and he walked into theback parlour."It's out, and I am glad of it!"thought Richard, breathing freelyagain, and going in an opposite di-rection up to the dusty window.Customers came in soon, to the re-lief of both parties.At night Mir. Bent said, "You cango, Richard, whenever you please-Saturday night, perhaps.""Well, I am adrift," thought theboy as he walked home; and a peculiarsense of loneliness came over him.He did not expect his parents wouldexactly blame him, and yet he dreadedto tell them, because he knew theywould not feel just as he did. " Getwork when you can, and ask no ques-
86 RICHARD HARVEY.tions," had been his father's maxim;but Richard's moral sense had beenaroused, and he could not help askingquestions. He longed for his grand-father to encourage and comforthim.Is there any one who says, " I can'tbelieve any boy would take such astand" ? RIcHARD TOOK IT. Howmany boys in similar conflicts, in thegreat moral conflicts that every boy hasto pass through in these days, resolvesto stand as firm ?"They won't say anything if I getwork," thought Richard. But whereto get it began to occupy his mind.The remainder of the week passedaway, and Saturday night came again,when he was to leave a good place-good in some respects it certainly was-without having found anything elseto do. Richard felt much when thepay and parting came. He hopedsomething might yet turn up. Itflashed upon him at midnight, as helay awake thinking it over, that whoknew but Mr. Bent would give up sell-ing spirits ? and as he lay there, it.11
A PAINEUL DECISION. 87seemed the most likely thing in theworld.Ah, no, people do not change soeasily; it costs a great deal to passfrom bad to good habits.-Saturday came, and Mr. Bent paidoff the grave, anxious, yet noble boy athis side."- You have done well, Richard, thesefour months," he said, mildly, handinghim his wages, " very well. I shouldbe glad to have kept you, very glad!I hope you will get a better place thanI can offer you."Even by the light of the dim, un.snuffed candle on the desk, two largetears might have been seen rollingdown Richard's cheeks." ThaniT you thank you, sir,"Richard stammered as he took thenioney. " Thank you! You've al-ways been as kind as could be to me."Dashing away the two large tears,he. took up the last of his earningsthere, and walked away.Then coming back again to the deskfrom the door, he said,-" Good-byesir; good-bye, sir."
88 RICHARD HARVEY." Good-bye, Richard;" and the inn-keeper had anything but feelings ofsatisfaction or comfort as he bade theboy good-bye. After Richard wentout he threw himself upon the woodensettle and REFLECTED. Perhaps it wasthe first time for many years that hehad suffered himself to REFLECT. Mr.Thomas Bent reflected."It is unpleasant! " muttered he."It is the worst cut I have had yet.If everybody acted like that Richard,there would be no doing business!He did well, there's no mistake!"How long he reflected nobody knows.We do not know the history of hisconflicts between the convictions ofduty and the love of gain, though hisconduct must lead us to suppose thathe succeeded in stifling and betrayingthe one to the perverting influence ofthe other.' He could not, like Richard,give up ALL for the right. Ah, no:you must BEGIN right, begin to acthonestly up to what is right IN YOUTH ;for it seldom or rarely happens thatyou have the POWER to change whenyou are older, so strong is the force of
A PAINFrL DECISION. 89wrong habits in either thinking or act-ing. It is now whispered that Mr.Bent himself is going the way of manyof his customers. Self-ruined, it isfeared, is beginning to be written onhis face.But where is Richard? Richardwas last heard of going out of the innwith a sad heart. When he got homehe put his money into his mother'shand, saying, "This is the last payfrom Mr. Bent's-I've left there.""What !" said his mother; "whatis that, Richard?""The last!" exclaimed his sisterSally; and she stopped wiping thedishes.His father, who was holding thebaby-for there was always a babyin the Harvey cottage,-stared at hisson as if his ears had made a mistake." I said this was my last money fromMr. Bent's-I have left there," re-peated Richard.Then, sitting down on a stool andtaking a long breath, with a flutteringheart, he told them all that he haddone, with the reasons of his conduct.
90 RICHARD HARVEY.He ended, and there was a silence.SNo one spoke either words of encou-ragement or disapprobation. Richardsat upon the stool, and leaned his fore-head upon his hand. His father rockedthe baby, and Sally wiped the dishes,and his mother sat quite silent. Hewished they would say something-only one word-either for or against;he did not care which. Indeed, healmost wished for an opportunity ofdefending his position, because he knewit would be strengthening himself.But never a word; until at last thesilence became so insupportable thathe arose and went out at the backSdoor."Well," he thought, "I have doneit, come what will, and I know I shallnever be sorry for it-but-but--"then he thought of his poor mother,and his father, and the little ones.He felt anxious and concerned, andtook a rapid turn or two before theback door under the apple tree. Henever described all his feelings at thisgreat crisis of his life, though theywould interest every one who feels at
A PAINFUL DECISION. 91all interested in those great moralturning-points, which almost everystrongly marked boy must pass throughin the formation of his character.Monday morning came, and althoughRichard arose early he had no work togo to. As he opened the door to goout, the autumn chill and the deadstalks about the potato patch re-minded him that winter was in thedistance, coming on apace. At break-fast it seemed to him there never wasso little said. "What are you goingto do to-day, Richard ?" asked hisfather."I do not know, sir; but I mean totry to get something to do."Nothing more was said, and after hehad brought in some sticks to heatSally's water for washing, he wentdown into the town." I am determined to do something,"was in his heart.Monday,Tuesday, Wednesday passedaway, and Richard got nothing to do.Once in a while he was almost temptedto give up and go back to Mr. Bent's."I am eating and not earning," he
92 ICHARD HArTET.thought every time he sat down totheir frugal table; and then the ideathat his parents or sisters blamed himwas very painful; not that they hadsaid so, but he seemed to read it intheir silence.Courage, Richard! courageOn Thursday he heard that Dr. Vosewanted a boy to come and live withhim, to take care of his horse and cow.That was just what Richard coulddo. He sped through the streets, andquietly knocked at Dr. Vose's officedoor.No: he had engaged a boy. "Thurs-day is going to be like them all," saidRichard, as he turned disappointedlyaway. " No-no-is going to meetme at every door."Two hours afterwards, as Richardwas carrying a fish in one hand and abasket in the other to a gentleman'shouse-for he had picked up someerrands-a horse was reined in justbefore him, and a gentleman put hishead out of the chaise. The gentle-man looked at Richard, and Richardat the gentleman. It was Dr. Vose.
A PAINFUL DECISION. 93"Are you not the boy who came tomy office this morning?" asked thedoctor." Yes, sir," answered Richard, stop-ping. "I heard you wanted a boy, andcame to offer."" What is your name ?""Richard Harvey."" What, are you grandson of oldRichard Harvey? I knew him longago. You are of a good stock, Richard.""Yes, sir," answered Richard, withgreat satisfaction; for he had neveryet seen any one that came up to hisgrandfather." You want a place, do you ?""Yes, sir." And Richard said thisvery earnestly." Come to my office in about half anhour-can you ?"" Yes, sir."Away the doctor drove. As onemay well suppose, Richard was true tohis engagement; and he felt as if hewould like to jump and leap all theway.The result of the interview was thatDr. Vose engaged him to come and
94 RICHARD HARVEY.live with him-" to come and try, atleast,and see how they liked each.other"-the parents of the other boy havinginformed him that forenoon that theyhad a good situation for their son,where he could learn a trade."I will talk more about your wagesby-and-bye," said the doctor, who wasthen interrupted by a visitor. " I willcome down and see your father andsettle it."Richard went home to dinner in verydifferent spirits from those in which hewent out after breakfast." There is some use, at least, in do-ing all you can, even if you do get dis-appointed at first. My going to thedoctor's opened a way." Such wereRichard's cogitations as he boundeddown the lane."Where there is a will there is a way,boys, you may depend upon it.It may seem strange that neitherHarvey nor his son mentioned to Dr.Vose the reason of his leaving Mr.Bent's; but Harvey is a man of thefewest possible words, seldom speakingunless spoken to* and as the doctor
A PAINFUL DECISION. 95never happened to ask the reason whyhis son had left his place, he saw nogood in telling it. It came out in thisway however." So I see you have got Bent's boy,"whispered a gossiping friend, as he andthe doctor stood together on the side-walk before the office."Bent's boy It is Richard Har-vey; though he was living with Bentawhile, I think his father said.""He's something of a boy," noddedthe friend. " Did you never hear howhe came to leave Tom Bent's ?""No," answered the doctor, becom-ing interested. "No. Why?"His friend being one of those peoplewho, by some means or other, come toa knowledge of many little things hap-pening around them which others donot know, told the doctor, and told himmore correctly than he often told astory." That is excellent !" cried the doc-tor-" excellent! I always thoughtthere was something about the boy.A fact is it ?""A fact," responded his friend.
96, RICHA.RD HARVEY." That is what I call taking a stand,"-said the doctor. "Ah, if we had moreof the same kind of stuff in the world,the world would be a great deal betteroff, in my opinion. That's Richard, isit? I see I can trust him." Andthe doctor seemed as pleased as couldbe.CHAPTER VIII.RICHARD'S REWARD.ICHARD had been ten monthswith Dr. Vose. His sisters,and sometimes his mother,thought he did not receiveenough for his services, and they seemeddisposed to grumble. Indeed, Sallycould never get over his not continuingto be an innkeeper, at least as long ashe could.Some time in the summer a nephewof Mrs. Vose's, from the city, came tovisit them, a boy about Richard's ownage. He had not been there long be-fore he appeared to fancy Richardgreatly-at least, if we may judge bythe favours he wished to bestow upon