"You don't know about it, then? I will tell you," she said, and went on, while her tiny finger was impressively pointing from lamb to shepherd, and from shepherd to lamb.

"That little lamb got far away from the shepherd and the fold and all the little lambs he knew. And he was dirty, not a bit clean, and his wool was all torn by the briers, and the thorns had hurt him, and he was hungry and thirsty and tired, and did not know where to go. He could hear the wolves growl, and he thought he could see their eyes looking at him as if they wanted to eat him up. You see he had run away, just gone away from the Good Shepherd and his mother and his home, when he did not need to. And now he wanted to get back, but he didn't know how; and then he began to complain and to bleat (that's his way of crying), and to run this way and that, but he didn't get on at all.

"At last he was quite tired out, and he thought he must give up and lie down and die where he was. Then the Good Shepherd heard his cry and came to him. The poor little lamb wanted to follow the Shepherd; but he was too weak--he could hardly stand alone. And then"--and here the little voice grew triumphantly glad--"then the Good Shepherd took him in His own arms, just as sweet and kind as if the naughty lamb had never run away, and carried him over the stones, and past the briers, and across the little streams, and up the steep hills, and through the dark places!

He carried him _all the way_ home, not just half-way and then let him drop. He carried him _all the way home_ to the fold, where his mother was, and there he was safe--safe--safe! Wasn't that a Good Shepherd?"

There was no answer.

"My mother told me all about it, and I like that picture best and that story best. You understand what it means?"

"Yes," said Johanson. There were tears in his eyes.

Elsa lifted up her loving hand to Johanson's face as it was bent over the book, and with her own little handkerchief wiped his tears; then she went out silently, which was probably the best thing she could have done under the circ.u.mstances.

The next day Johanson went to the pastor in his study. "I have not come to talk about _my_ fitness for confirmation," he said. "Little Elsa has taught me better. I have turned my face towards the Good Shepherd, and I believe He will carry me home. May I meet with the cla.s.s to-morrow?"

"Certainly," said the pastor, and the interview was ended.

Johanson sat among the candidates for confirmation the next day--among the boys and girls, like a battered old ship that had been dragged into the harbour beside the trim fresh vessels just starting with flying colours for a bright far-away land.

He did not mind the nudges and half-smiles among the rustic congregation, but answered the questions put to him with the others, in his strong man's voice, as simply and naturally as a child.

He knew he was safe in the hands of the Good Shepherd, who would carry him tenderly home, and his heart was full of humble joy.

The administration of the holy communion took place next day. The newly-confirmed with their friends were to "go forward," while the rest of the congregation were to remain in their seats praying for the young soldiers of Christ, now fully enlisted under His banner.

Johanson had taken a modest place at the chancel railing; but even there he was an outcast, for it was plain that no one was willing to kneel beside him.

The pastor's wife was bowed low with new food for prayer and thanksgiving. Little Elsa moved quickly from her mother's side up the aisle, and to the astonishment and almost horror of the congregation she knelt by Johanson, her little head not appearing above the railing; but she held fast to his left hand. He felt the tender familiar grasp, and it was to him like the Good Shepherd greeting him through one of His little ones.

At the close of the service, when all the authorized words for the occasion had been read, the pastor stepped to the front of the chancel, and said, in loud, clear tones,--

"And the father saw him afar off, and ran and fell on his neck, and kissed him." "Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out." "A broken and a contrite heart, O G.o.d, thou wilt not despise." "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

"I hope it was not amiss to say those words I did from the chancel to-day," said the pastor to his wife when at home and they were alone together. "They are not in the service, but I could not help it. I never felt so deeply before how freely and fully G.o.d forgives us--_us_ Christians as well as what we call 'poor sinners.' Yes, it came over me as it never has before, and somehow heaven seems nearer, and G.o.d more really my Father and Christ my Saviour. Do you understand me, my dear?"

"Yes, yes," she said--"yes, dear; and you too seem nearer to me than ever before."

The pastor answered, tenderly and solemnly: "It is you, wife, you and Elsa, and that poor Johanson, who have somehow opened my eyes. I have seen before, but seen darkly. May G.o.d lead me to the perfect day!"

CHAPTER VI.

PAINFUL DISCLOSURES.

Something about the strange inmate had affected the mad poet, long a dweller in the poorhouse, as unusual in that establishment. These fancies he had versified, and having written the result down on a half-sheet of paper, he folded it into a narrow strip, and then twisted it into an almost impossible knot, and handed it to the person nearest concerned.

Johanson read with astonishment:--

"It striketh me That you should be A gentleman, And drive a span, Live high, drink wine, Ask folks to dine, And make a dash.

With poorhouse trash You should not be-- With folks like me."

In return, the reply was promptly put under the poor poet's door:--

"Of who I am, or where belong, Please do not whisper in your song."

These communications were followed by a few days of unusual silence between the neighbours. The mad poet did not like being answered in rhyme. Of versification he considered himself the inventor, and as having therefore an exclusive right to use it, in conversation or on paper.

At last Johanson made up his mind what course to pursue in the matter.

He went to the poet in a friendly way, and said to him, "I take you to be a gentleman who knows how to keep a secret, and does not mention what he can guess out concerning other people's matters. I know your principles about your post-bag. I have heard that you never even read the address of a letter to be sent off, or the post-mark of one to be delivered. Now I call that a high sense of honour."

"Just decency It seems to me,"

broke in the poet.

Johanson did not seem to notice the interruption, but went on: "Now you keep anything you suspect about me, anything you can't understand in my ways, just as secret as if it were written on the back of a letter. You will, I am sure. So now let us shake hands upon it." They did, and were established as better friends than before.

The weather had become extremely cold, but the poorhouse poet went on his rounds, persisting in being dressed as in the autumn.

It had been snowing all night, and the cold was excessive. Johanson was awakened by an unusual chill in the air. A long point of snow lay along the floor of his room, as it had drifted in under the not over-tight door. He dressed and hurried out. The vestibule was one snow-bank, and the outside door was wide open. He pushed his way into the poet's room.

It was empty. It was plain that the poor fellow had been out on his usual rounds, and had not returned to put up the outer bars, as was his nightly custom; for the old locks were not to be relied upon. He probably had not been able to force his way through the heavy drifts and the wild storm which was still raging.

The cellar-master was a late sleeper. He woke now to see Johanson hurrying about, evidently making ready for a trip.

"What are you doing? You are letting the cold in here, sir," said the old fellow, only half awake.

"The poet is missing. He didn't come home last night. I shall go and look him up. Have you any whisky? You have, I know. I saw Gull bring you in a bottle last night. Let me have it, will you?"

"Yes; a pull will keep you up," was the answer.

"I don't want it for me," said Johanson hastily; "it has pulled me down low enough. I'll never taste it again. But that poor fellow, he may need it, if I find him."

"You are not going to risk yourself out looking for _him_!" said the cellar-master, now fairly awake. "_You_ are right down crazy. Quiet yourself. He'll be coming in soon, and making rhymes about his trip. You don't look over hearty. I should think you would be afraid to risk it."

"Afraid!" said Johanson. "Have you ever been in a tornado? Have you been in an earthquake? Have you been out in a blizzard, with no house within miles?"

"No, no, no!" was the threefold reply.

"I've tried them all," said Johanson, "and I am not afraid of a little snow. Lend me your stick, and I'm off."

Off he was, but not to return through the long morning. Towards noon, a party who had been out with a snow-plough and a sledge came back, bearing two bodies carefully covered.

The poet was still and white. He had been found lying under a rock, in a tiny natural cave. On a ledge near him, in some lightly-sifted snow, he had traced with his finger:--

"I must be ill, I've such a chill.