"Hush! don't tell him! don't tell him! but look here!" He turned himself on his face and through the rags of his jacket and shirt my friend saw the boy's flesh was bruised and the skin broken. [Illustration] "Why, boy, who beat you like that?" "Father did, sir." "What did your father beat you like that for?" "Father got drunk sir, and beat me 'cos I wouldn't steal." "Did you ever steal?" "Yes, sir, I was a street thief once." "And why don't you steal any more?" "Please, sir, I went to the mission school, and they told me there of God and of Heaven and of Jesus and they taught me, 'Thou shalt not steal,' and I'll never steal again, if father kills me for it. But, please sir, don't tell him." "My boy, you mast not stay here; you will die. Now you wait patiently here for a little time; I'm going away to see a lady. We will get a better place for you than this." "Thank you sir, but please, sir, would you like to hear me sing a little hymn?" Bruised, battered, forlorn; friendless, motherless; hiding away from an infuriated father he had a little hymn to sing. "Yes, I will hear you sing your little hymn." He raised himself on his elbow and then sang: "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Look upon a little child; Suffer me to come to Thee. Fain would I to Thee be brought, Gracious Lord, forbid it not; In the Kingdom of Thy grace Give a little child a place." "That's the little hymn, sir; Goodbye." The gentleman went away, came back again in less than two hours and climbed the ladder. There were the chips and there was the little toy with one hand by his side and the other tucked in his bosom underneath the little ragged shirt--dead. -John B. Gough. SIX MONTHS' RECORD Very tiny and pale the little girl looked as she stood before those three grave and dignified gentlemen. She had been ushered into Brother Gordon's study, where he was holding counsel with two of his deacons, and now, upon inquiry into the nature of her errand a little shyly she stated that she desired to be baptized. "You are quite too young to be baptized," said one of the deacons, "you had better run home, and let us talk to your mother." She showed no sign of running however, as her wistful blue eyes traveled from one face to another of the three gentlemen sitting in their comfortable chairs; she only drew a step nearer to Brother Gordon. He arose, and with gentle courtesy that ever marked him, placed her in a small chair close beside himself. "Now, my child, tell me your name, and where you live." "Winnie Lewis sir, and I live on ---- Street. I go to Sunday school." "You do; and who is your teacher?" "Miss ----. She is very good to me." "And you want to be baptized." The child's face glowed as she leaned eagerly toward him, clasping her hands, but all she said was, "Yes, sir." "She cannot be more than six years old," said one of the deacons, disapp rovingly.