“Indeed, I do. Everything good comes from the Father of lights. Every one that walks in any glimmering of light walks so far in HIS light. For there is no light—only darkness—comes from below. And man apart from God can generate no light. He’s not meant to be separated from God, you see. And only think then what light He can give you if you will turn to Him and ask for it. What He has given you should make you long for more; for what you have is not enough—ah! far from it.” “I think I understand. But I didn’t feel good at all in the matter. I didn’t see any other way of doing.” “So much the better. We ought never to feel good. We are but unprofitable servants at best. There is no merit in doing your duty; only you would have been a poor wretched creature not to do as you did. And now, instead of making yourself miserable over the consequences of it, you ought to bear them like a man, with courage and hope, thanking God that He has made you suffer for righteousness’ sake, and denied you the success and the praise of cheating. I will go to your father at once, and find out what he is thinking about it. For no doubt Mr—-has written to him with his version of the story. Perhaps he will be more inclined to believe you when he finds that I believe you.” “Oh, thank you, sir!” cried the lad, and jumped up from his seat to go with me. “No,” I said; “you had better stay where you are. I shall be able to speak more freely if you are not present. Here is a book to amuse yourself with. I do not think I shall be long gone.” But I was longer gone than I thought I should be. When I reached the carpenter’s house, I found, to my surprise, that he was still at work. By the light of a single tallow candle placed beside him on the bench, he was ploughing away at a groove. His pale face, of which the lines were unusually sharp, as I might have expected after what had occurred, was the sole object that reflected the light of the candle to my eyes as I entered the gloomy place. He looked up, but without even greeting me, dropped his face again and went on with his work. “What!” I said, cheerily,—for I believed that, like Gideon’s pitcher, I held dark within me the light that would discomfit his Midianites, which consciousness may well make the pitcher cheery inside, even while the light as yet is all its own—worthless, till it break out upon the world, and cease to illuminate only glazed pitcher-sides—“What!” I said, “working so late?” “Yes, sir.” “It is not usual with you, I know.” “It’s all a humbug!” he said fiercely, but coldly notwithstanding, as he stood erect from his work, and turned his white face full on me—of which, however, the eyes drooped—“It’s all a humbug; and I don’t mean to be humbugged any more.” “Am I a humbug?” I returned, not quite taken by surprise.