"Auntie, I often try to picture Jesus in his humble home at Nazareth. I wish we knew more. When he returned with Joseph and Mary after the visit to the Temple, and was always obedient to them, I sometimes wonder if they kept him back from going about his Father’s business, because they did not understand; and if he played on the hillsides with the other village boys, and no one knew until he was a man, that he was Jesus the Christ." "There are many legends of his boyhood, dear, but they are only legends. We cannot accept anything except what is narrated in the Gospels. You must read Canon Farrar’s ’Life of Christ.’ That will help you to understand that the Apostles were, without doubt, divinely instructed to record so little of the boyhood of Jesus. There is a copy in the library. I will look it out for you." "Thank you so much, Auntie. I shall be glad to read it." Then clinging both arms round her neck, as she stooped to kiss him, he said: "I do love your coming to my room like this, Auntie. I always keep awake till you come." "I, too, enjoy our little talks, dear. You often give me a beautiful thought to take away with me: something I have not thought of before." The boy lay awake a long time after Mrs. Mandeville left him, thinking joyfully of the work that had come to him, wondering how he should open the pages of that wonderful book, as they had been opened to him. "Teach me, Father-Mother God, the words of Truth that will help him," he prayed. Finally, he fell asleep with the words on his lips of the boy Samuel: "Speak, Lord, for Thy servant heareth." CHAPTER VI.--FIRST WORK IN THE VINEYARD. "Would you like me to read to you for a little while this evening, Mr. Higgs? My aunt has given me permission, if you would like me to," Carol asked modestly as he entered the old man’s cottage the following Sunday evening. Mr. Higgs was seated as usual at the open door, watching the villagers pass by on their way to church. "Thank you kindly, young gentleman. I’ll be glad to hear some of the words of the Book. I just keep it close by me. It don’t seem Sunday without. But my eyes fail me, and I just sit and ponder over some of the Psalms I can well remember. After the service sometimes a neighbor’ll pop in and tell me the text Rector’s been preaching about. A mighty fine preacher is Rector, but often I used to say to my Missus--she’s dead and gone these five years--his thoughts are like birds, they fly over our heads, and we don’t seem able to lay hold of them. If he’d just tell us something simple to help us day by day. I’d be glad now if I could remember some of the sermons I’ve listened to, year in, year out. But there, it’s all gone, and I’ve got no more understanding of the Bible than when I was a boy. It’s ower late to think about it now, and me turned seventy."