id="Page_40" class="x-ebookmaker-pageno" title="[Pg 40]"/>isfactory to Wikkey, but Lawrence, feeling that this was an opportunity that should not be lost, made a desperate effort and began again—

"It was wicked all the same; and though I did not see you do it, there was Someone Who did—Someone Who sees everything you do. Have you ever heard of God, Wikkey?"

"Yes, I've heard on Him. I've heard the Name times about. ('How used?' wondered Lawrence.) Where is he?"

"He is everywhere, though you cannot see Him, and He sees everything you do."

"Is he good?"

"Very good."

"As good as you?"

"A great deal better." Poor Lawrence felt very uncomfortable, not quite knowing how to place his instructions on a less familiar footing.

"I don't want no one better nor you; you're good enough for me," said Wikkey, very decidedly; and then Lawrence gave it up in despair, and mentally resolving that Reg must help him, he carried Wikkey off to bed.

CHAPTER II.

The following evening Lawrence found a letter from his cousin on his table.

"From what you tell me," Reginald wrote, "I should say that Wikkey must be taught through his affections: that he is capable of a strong and generous affection he has fully proved, so that I advise you not to attempt for the present much doctrinal instruction. ('Doctrinal instruction!' mentally ejaculated Lawrence; 'what does he mean? as if I could do that;' then he read on.) What I mean is this: the boy's intellect has probably, from the circumstances of his life, been too strongly developed to have left much room for the simple faith which one has to work on in ordinary childhood; and having been used chiefly as a weapon, offensive and defensive, in the battle with life, it is not likely to prove a very helpful instrument just now, as it would probably make him quicker to discern difficulties than to accept truths upon trust. I should, therefore, be inclined to place religion before him in a way that would appeal more to his affections than to his reason, and try to interest him in our Lord from, so to speak, a human point of view, without going into the mysteries connected with the Incarnation, and if possible without, at first, telling the end of the Gospel narrative. Speak of a Person—One Whom you love—Who might have lived for ever in perfect happiness, but Who, from love to us, preferred to come and live on earth in poverty and suffering (the poor lad will appreciate the meaning of those words only too well)—Who was all-powerful, though living as a Man, and full of tenderness. Then tell of the miracles and works of love, of his continued existence—though for the present invisible to us—of His love and watchfulness; and when Wikkey's interest is aroused, as I believe it will be, I should read from the Bible itself the story of the sufferings and death. Can you gather any meaning from this rough outline? It seems to me that it is intended that Wikkey should be led upwards from the human to the Divine. For others a different plan of teaching might be better, but I think this is the right key to his development; and, moreover, I firmly believe that you will be shown how to use it."

Lawrence remained for some time after reading his letter with his elbows on the table, and his head resting on his hands, which were buried in his thick brown hair; a look of great perplexity was on his face.

"Of course, I must try," he thought; "one couldn't have it on one's conscience; but it's a serious business to have started." Looking up, he met Wikkey's rather anxious glance.

"Is anythink amiss, Lawrence?"

"No, Wikkey—I was only thinking;" then, plunging on desperately, he continued: "I was thinking how I could best make you understand what I said last night about Someone Who sees everything you do—Someone Who is very good."

"Cut on, I'm minding. Is it Someone as you love?"

Lawrence reddened. What was his feeling towards the Christ? Reverence certainly, and some loyalty, but could he call it love, in the presence of the passionate devotion to himself which showed in every look of those wistful eyes?

"Yes, I love him," he said slowly, "but not as much as I should." Then as a sudden thought struck him. "Look here, Wikkey, you said you would like to have me for a king; well, He that I am telling you of is my King, and He must be yours, too, and we will both try to love and obey Him."

"Where is He?" asked Wikkey.

"You can't see him now, because He lives up in Heaven. He is the Son of God, and He might always have stayed in Heaven, quite happy, only, instead of that, he came down upon earth, and became a man like one of us, so that He might know what it is. And though He was really a King, He chose to live like a poor man, and was often cold and hungry as you used to be; and He went about helping people, and curing those who were ill, because, you know, Wikkey, He was God, and could do anything. There are beautiful stories about Him that I can tell you."

"How do you know all about the King, Lawrence?"

"It is written in a book called the Bible. Have you ever seen a Bible?"

"That was the big book as blind Tim used to sit and feel over with his fingers by the area rails. I asked him what it was, and he said as it was the Bible. But bless you; he weren't blind no more nor you are: he lodged at Skimmidge's for a bit, and I saw him a reading of the paper in his room; he kicked me when he saw as I'd twigged him;" and Wikkey's laugh broke out at the recollection. Poor child, his whole knowledge of sacred things seemed to be derived from—

"Holiest things profaned and cursed."

"Tim was a bad man to pretend to be blind when he wasn't," said Lawrence, severely. "But now, Wikkey, shall I read you a story about the King?"

"Did He live in London?" Wikkey asked, as Lawrence took up the old Book with the feeling that the boy should hear these things for the first time out of his mother's Bible.

"No, He lived in a country a long way off; but that makes no difference, because He is God, and can see us everywhere, and He wants us to be good."

Then Lawrence opened the Bible, and after some thought, half read, half told, about the feeding of the hungry multitude.

Each succeeding evening, a fresh story about the King was related, eagerly listened to, and commented on by Wikkey with such familiar realism as often startled Lawrence, and made him wonder whether he were allowing irreverence; but which at the same time, threw a wondrously vivid light on the histories which, known since childhood, had lost so much of their interest for himself: and certainly, as far awakening first the boy's curiosity, and then his love, went, the method of instruction answered perfectly. For Wikkey did not die at the end of the week, or of many succeeding weeks: warmth and food, and Mrs. Evans' nursing powers combined, caused one of those curious rallies not uncommon in cases of consumption, though no one who saw the boy's thin, flushed cheeks, and brilliant eyes, could think the reprieve would be a long one. Still for the present there was improvement, and Lawrence could not help feeling glad that he might keep for a little while longer the child whose love had strangely brightened his lonely lodgings.

And while