"If ye abide in Me, and My word abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will,
and it shall be done unto you."
Edward got up one morning feeling years older than he had only the
morning before,--older and graver, feeling a great responsibility resting
on his shoulders; for he was The weary frame, racked with so many pains,
was at last at rest. Kitty had written just a line, telling the sad
story, but it did not reach him until nearly a week after; and with it
came Mr. Holbrook's,--a long letter, full of tender sympathy, telling all
about how, in the afternoon of an early spring day, they had laid his
father by Johnny's side.
Edward read on eagerly, until he came to this sentence: "My dear boy, I
have a most precious message for you. I was with him only an hour before
he died, and at that time he said to me, 'I want you to tell Tip that God
has heard his prayer, and saved his father; and that I shall watch for
him to come to heaven, and bring all the rest.' And, Edward, I haven't a
shade of doubt but that your father is with his Redeemer; you must let me
quote again a verse which I once gave you: 'I love the Lord, because He
has heard my voice and my supplications.'"
And at this point the letter dropped from his hand, and Edward shed his
first tears for his father.
It was curious, the different ways that Mr. Minturn and his son had of
expressing sympathy.
"Oh," Mr. Minturn said, when he was told, "why in the world didn't they
send for you?"
"Because, sir, my father died very suddenly, and my mother thought I
could not afford to come so far for the funeral."
"Afford! as if that would have made any difference. Did they think I
would let it cost _you_ anything?"
Edward showed Mr. Holbrook's letter to Ray after that; and when it
had been read, expressed the feeling which had been much in his heart
ever since the news came, and which had been strengthened by Mr.
Monturn's words:
"I shall always be sorry that I could not have gone to the funeral."
And Bay answered, resting his arm, as he spoke, lightly on Edward's
shoulder, to express the tenderness which he felt, "No you won't, my dear
fellow; when you get up there, in the glory of the Redeemer's presence,
and meet your father face to face, you will not remember to be sorry that
you did not see him _buried_."
Meantime Bob had come, and been set at work. He did not board at Mr.
Minturn's. Edward had heard that matter arranged with a little sigh of
relief; his precious hour with Ray, then, would be undisturbed.
Bob was doing very much better than anybody who knew him would have
imagined he _could_ do; he seemed to have made up his mind to behave
himself, sure enough. Yet his being there was a trial to Edward in
several ways: he had a great horror of being called "Tip;" that name
belonged to the miserable, ragged, friendless, hopeless boy who used to
wander around the streets in search of mischief, not to the young man
who was a faithful clerk in one of the finest stores in Albany, besides
being a teacher in Sabbath school, and a very fair scholar in Latin
and algebra. But Bob Turner could not be made to understand all this;
and though he stared at the neat black suit which Edward wore, and
opened his eyes wide when Mr. Minturn went and came in company with his
old companion, and honoured him in many ways, he still called him
"Tip," in clear, round tones, that rang through the store a dozen times
a day. But there was nothing which Ray could not smooth over, so Edward
thought, when one evening he flounced into the library with a very much
disturbed face.
"I wish that fellow knew anything," he said angrily.
"What is the matter now?" Bay asked, meeting the bright, angry eyes with
a quiet smile.
Edward laughed a little. "Well, I can't help feeling vexed; Bob screeches
that hateful little name after me wherever I go. I despise that name, and
I wish he could be made to understand it."
"How did you happen to be called Tip at first?"
"Why," said Edward, turning over the leaves of his dictionary, "my little
sister Kitty made it up before she could talk plain. How she ever got
that name out of Edward, I don't know; I'm sure I wish she had been
asleep when she did it; but that's what she called me, and that's what
I've been ever since."
"And did Johnny, the little boy that died, ever call you so?"
Edward's eyes began to grow soft.
"Often," he said gently; "and it was about the only name he could speak;
he was a little fellow."
"Well, Edward, I should not think it would be such a very disagreeable
name to you, when your father, who is gone, always used it, and always in
kindness, you told me; and it is the only name by which little Johnny can
remember you. There are two things to be thought of in this matter," Ray
continued, after a moment, finding Edward not disposed to speak: "one is,
if you hope to do anything with this old companion of yours, you must be
ready to take worse things from him than a quiet, inoffensive little name
like that; he will learn your right name, perhaps, in time. And the other
is--What is Bob Turner's right name, my friend?"
Edward's face flushed, his lips quivered into a little smile, then he
laughed outright.
"It would be ridiculous to call _him_ Robert!" he said, still laughing.
"Ray, here's my exercise, if you want it now."
And Ray heard no more complaints about the offending little name.
"Say, Tip, just go home with me to-night," Bob coaxed one evening, as
Edward, having been detained late at the store, was leaving just as Bob
was closing the shutters. "Mr. Ray's head is so bad you won't have any
plaguy lessons to-night to hinder you. Every single fellow in the store
but me is going to the theatre, and I am awful lonesome up there alone."
"It is a wonder you are not going too," said Edward.
"No, it ain't. I can keep a promise once in a while, I reckon. That
Ray Minturn can do anything with a fellow, and I was fool enough to
promise him that I wouldn't go. Come, go up home with me; do, that's a
good fellow!"
"No," said Edward decidedly, "I can't."
"Now, Tip Lewis, I think you're real mean; you don't never come to see me
no more than if I was in Guinea. You act as if you were ashamed of me,
and I keep my word and behave myself, too; and you're a mean,
chicken-hearted fellow, if you're ashamed to notice me now-a-days, just
because you board in a big house and dress like a dandy."
"Poh!" said Edward; "what nonsense that is! I'd look well being ashamed
of any one that Minturn talked with. But, Bob, I can't go to-night, nor
any other night just about this time; because I made a promise that I'd
do something else, at exactly half-past eight, and that nothing in the
world should hinder me if I could help it; and it can't be far from
half-past eight now."
Bob eyed him curiously. "Tip, you're the oddest fellow born, I do
believe," he said at last "Is it lessons?"
"No, it's nothing about lessons."
"Couldn't I _help_ you to do it?"
"Yes," said Edward, after a thoughtful silence; "you _could_ help me
better than any one else, only you won't."
"Well, now," Bob answered earnestly, "as sure as I'm alive, I will, if
you'll tell me what it is; I'll help you this very night."
"Do you promise?" asked Edward.
"Yes, I do, out and out; and when I promise a thing through and through,
why, _you_ know, Tip Lewis, that I do it."
"Well," said Edward, as he tried the door to see that all was safe before
leaving, "then I'll tell you. Every night, at exactly half-past eight, I
go to my room and ask God over and over again to make you want to be a
Christian."
Not a single word did Bob answer to this; he took long strides up the
street by the side of Edward in the direction of Mr. Mintern's, never
once speaking until they had reached the door, and stood waiting to be
let in; then he said, "Tip, that's mean."
"What is?"
"To get a fellow to promise what he can't do."
"I have not. Don't you want to be a Christian?"
"No; I can't say that I'm particular about it."
"But that's too silly to believe. You need a friend to help you about as
badly as any one I know of, and when you can have one for the asking, why
shouldn't you want Him? Besides, I didn't say _make_ you a Christian,
anyhow; I said make you _want_ to be one. You can pray, that _I'm_ sure;
any way, you promised, and I trusted you."
Bob followed him through the hall, up the stairs, to his neat little
room, and whistled "Hail, Columbia," while he lighted a match and turned
on the gas.
"My! you have things in style here, don't you?" he said, looking around,
while the bright light gleamed over the pretty carpet and shining
furniture.
"Yes," said Edward; "everything in this house is in style. Bob, it's
half-past eight."
"Well," Bob said good-naturedly, "I'd like to know what I'm to do; this
is new business to me, you see."
"I'm going to kneel down here and pray for you, and you promised to do
the same."
Edward knelt at his bedside, and Bob, half laughing, followed his
example. But Christ must have been praying too, and putting words into
Edward's heart to say. By and by, in spite of himself, Bob had to put up
his hand and dash away a tear or two. He had never heard himself prayed
for before.
That evening was one to be remembered by Bob Turner, for more than one
reason. Bay sent for both of the boys to come to his room; he was sick,
but not too sick to see and talk with Bob whenever he could get a chance.
He made the half-hour spent with him so pleasant, that Bob gave an eager
assent to the request that he would come often. More than that, he kept
his word; and as often as he passed Edward's door, towards nine o'clock,
he stepped lightly, for he knew that he was being prayed for, and there
began to come into his heart a strange longing to pray for himself. One
evening he discovered that Ray, too, prayed every night for him, and the
vague notion grew into a certainty, that what they two were so anxious
about for him, he ought to desire for himself.
"Ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you."
Edward had taken this promise into his heart; he was trying to live up
to the condition to abide in Christ, and in due season God made His
promise sure.
"I wish," Bob said to Ray one evening when the weary head was full of
pain,--"I _do_ wish I could do something for you."
"You can," Ray answered quickly,--"something that I would like better
than almost anything else in the world."
"What is it?" Bob's question was sincere and eager.
"Give yourself to Christ."
Bob heard this in grave, earnest silence.
"I would," he said after a minute, "if I knew how."
"Do you mean that?"
"Yes, I do; I'm sick of waiting, and I'm sick of myself."
"If I should tell you how, would you do it?"
"Yes, I would," spoken evidently with honest meaning.
"Kneel down, then, here beside me, and say to God that you want to be a
Christian; that you are willing to give yourself up to Him now and for
ever, to do just as He tells you."
Bob hesitated, struggling a little, and at last knelt down. There was
silence in the room, while three sincere hearts were lifted up in prayer;
and surely Christ bent low to listen. When Bob would have risen, Bay laid
one hand on his arm, and, steadying his throbbing head with the other,
said solemnly,--
"Blessed Redeemer, here is a soul given up to Thee. Do Thou take it, and
wash it in Thy precious blood, and make it fit for heaven. We ask boldly,
because Thou hast promised, and we know that Thy promises are sure."
"Edward," Ray said the next evening, as they sat alone, and were silent
for a little, after Bob had left them, and gone home rejoicing in the
hope of sins washed away, "what was that verse that your minister at home
quoted for you in his letter?"
"I love the Lord, because He has heard my voice and my supplication,"
Edward repeated it with brightening eyes.