She rarely addressed him that way. When she did she meant something serious. Bart's timorous face shrank before her sharp, fierce gaze.

"Bartholomew, I want you to promise never to sell rum. Put your hand on this Bible!"

"Oh, I--I never will sell."

"And you won't drink it? Promise!"

"Never!"

It was like Hamilcar of Carthage taking his son Hannibal to the altar, and there making him swear eternal hatred to Rome. Then Bart went softly out of the room.

Into some refuge he desired to steal, tell G.o.d that he, Little Mew, was weak; that he wanted to be taken care of; that he did wish to get help somehow for his father--help to be better--and he wanted to remember granny. Up over the steep, narrow, worn stairway he stole into his little bedroom, that, small and humble, had yet been a precious refuge to him, and his bed had been a boat bearing him away across waters of forgetfulness of poverty and hunger to the restful isle of dreams. If he could only forget now! He could pray, and if prayer does not make forgetful it makes restful. He leaned against his bed and told all his trouble to G.o.d--told him of his desire for his father, how much he wished G.o.d would make his father a new heart; how he wanted help for himself, that he might be kind and patient. It was touching to hear his boyish outcries, as kneeling he pleaded for one so weak, so lost, as his father. Then he went downstairs again. The moment his feet were heard on the stairs, Bart's father, who had been lying in the dark on the side of the bed nearest to the wall, arose, sighed, and went down also. Bart was standing in the little entry leading to the kitchen.

"Bart--I--want to be--" The father stopped.

It was not so much anything he said, for he said nothing definite, but it was his tone that encouraged Bart, and he listened eagerly.

"I want to be a good father to you, Bart; G.o.d knows I do."

What? Bart had never heard such language before from this parent with agitated voice and frame. Bart caught instantly at a hope that had just begun to take shape. Would his father go to the temperance meeting with him?

"Father, your ship, they say, won't sail to-morrow; and if it don't, will you go to the temperance meeting with me to-morrow night?"

"Bartholomew, if my ship don't sail, then I will go with you."

He turned and went upstairs again.

"O Bart," exclaimed granny, "let us pray that G.o.d will keep the winds off sh.o.r.e and not let Thomas's ship get to sea!"

The next day the winds still were unfavourable, and Bart and granny looked at one another with happier faces than they had been carrying ever since Thomas Trafton's return.

"Granny, the wind is not fair yet," Bart would exclaim, after eying the vane on the nearest church steeple. Granny would then take her turn, and go out, her ap.r.o.n thrown over her head, and watch the vane. At last they could say, "The ship won't go to-night."

When ever before had that vane been watched to see if it indicated a wind that would keep Thomas Trafton at home?

"Hear me say my verses once more," Bart whispered to his grandmother; and a.s.sured that his contribution to the evening's exercises was in readiness, he went with his father to the temperance meeting. Bart's place was among the speakers, and they filled several pews, their bright, hopeful faces lifted above the railings of the pews like flowers above the garden-bed. Bart's father was in the rear of the church. Bart was afraid to leave him at that distant, unguarded point; but he had promised Bart faithfully to stay, and not go out. Was ever any attendant at a meeting in a more discouraged, helpless mood than Thomas Trafton? He had been thinking, somewhat as he was accustomed to think when off at sea and away from temptation, that never again would he touch liquor; but could he keep his resolution if he made one? He felt burdened with a weighty desire, burdened with a sense of shame, burdened with a conviction of weakness, burdened every way and always.

The meeting began. Mr. James Tolman conducted it, but only to call the names of those partic.i.p.ating in it. The recitations were varied.

Several had quite pretentious speeches, and others gave only a modest extract from some appeal in poetry or prose. There were those who simply had Bible verses, and in this section Bart Trafton had a place.

His verses were on the sin of intemperance. When his turn was reached he came to the platform quite readily, and then turned toward the audience. He looked once, saw great, bewildering rows of faces, and all his courage left him. He could not look again at those hundreds of staring eyes. He dropped his head, blushed, and every idea he had taken with him to the platform seemed hopelessly to have left him. Like birds, those verses had flown away, and how could he possibly call them back from that sudden flight? However, he did catch one bird. He could think of one word--"Wine!" He resolved to begin with that. A decoy bird will sometimes bring a flock about it, and if he said that one word he might think of the others. "Wine--" he screamed. Then he waited for the rest of the flock. He shrieked again, "Wine!" Once more, "W-w-wine!"

People were now smiling to see that timorous, blushing, stammering lad on the platform, and some of the children broke out into an embarra.s.sing t.i.tter. Bart, turned in helpless confusion to Mr. Tolman.

"Forgot it," he whispered,

"Say something," said Mr. Tolman, in an encouraging tone.

Something? What would it, could it be? Bart gave one timid glance at the t.i.ttering, gaping rows before him, and feeling that he must say something, gave the first words that came into his mind. Annie Fletcher had taught them to him. Bart's voice was sharp and high, and it pierced all the s.p.a.ce between Thomas Trafton and the platform, and the father plainly heard the boy.

"'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.'"

Some of the people wondered what that had to do with intemperance.

Thomas Trafton did not wonder. He heard nothing else. He did not notice whether Bart stayed on the platform or left it; he did not notice who followed Bart; he heard only those verses. The pew was an old one, and when improvements had been made in the church, this pew was not touched, but, being so far away from notice, was left undisturbed in all its odd and antique furnishings. Thomas Trafton never forgot the exact place where he sat and heard through his son's voice this short gospel that came down from G.o.d's lofty throne of love. He would in later days come to this old pew and gladly occupy it and recall this night of the temperance meeting. He would hear again the invitation given in his boy's piercing voice, and again would be repeated, though not as vividly, his experience that night; for he had an experience. It seemed to him as if while sitting there burdened and weary, yet willing, longing to find relief, One came to him,--One who had in his brow the print of thorns, and in his side the mark of a spear, and in his feet the scar of driven nails. Thomas Trafton met his Saviour there, and into peace and strength came the soul of the once drunkard.

Not long after this the west wind blew, its strong wings beating fast and sweeping Thomas Trafton's vessel far away to sea. Very few knew of his surrender to G.o.d, which brought a victory over his appet.i.te. The minister of the church, Mr. Potter, knew, and Dave Fletcher knew.

XIII.

_WHAT TO DO NEXT._

When Dave Fletcher became a clerk with Mr. Tolman, he knew he was taking the place of another who might come back in three months, and back he did come.

"Sorry, David, I haven't a place for you," said Mr. Tolman.

"Well," replied Dave, "if there isn't a place here I must find one elsewhere."

But where? He knew that his father did not need him at home, as he had already made plans for all needed farm-work.

"I don't want to go home and be just a burden, hanging round," reflected Dave. "Then I must find work here."

He talked over the situation with d.i.c.k Pray.

"What would I do, Dave? Well," said d.i.c.k, putting his hands deep down in his pockets, "I should advertise and--wait."

"I mean to advertise, but I think I had better stir round also."

"Just as well to say you want something--say it loud and strong, you know--and then let others ask what is wanted."

d.i.c.k did like to sound a trumpet, giving as loud a blast as possible, and then let the world run up and see what "Lord d.i.c.k" wanted.

"Oh, I shall advertise, and stir round also, though I don't just fancy it, and I can't say what will come from it."

And what did come the first day?

Nothing.

The second day?

Nothing.

The third day?

Nothing.

"It is getting to be fearfully tiresome," said Dave the fourth day. "I have inquired in all directions, but I can't seem to hear of anything.