I am making my story too long, and can only tell you in a few words that Tom's sacrifice was accepted. A friend took little Dick to the city free of expense, and Tom's money paid for the necessary operation. The poor crooked fingers were very much improved, and were soon almost as good as ever. And the whole village loved Tom for his brave, self-sacrificing spirit, and the noble atonement he had made for his moment of passion. A few days after Dick's return came Tom's birthday, but he did not feel in his usual spirits. In spite of his great delight in Dick's recovery, he had so mourned over the matter, and had taken Tiger's loss so much to heart, that he had grown quite pale and thin. So, as he was permitted to spend the day as he pleased, he took his books and went to his favorite haunt in the woods. "How different from my last birthday," thought Tom. "Then Tiger had just come, and I was so happy, though I didn't like him half so well as I do now." Tom sighed heavily; then added more cheerfully, "Well, I hope some things are better than they were last year. I hope I have begun to conquer myself, and with God's help I will never give up trying while I live. Now if I could only earn money enough to buy back dear old Tiger." While Tom was busied with these thoughts he heard a hasty, familiar trot, a quick bark of joy, and the brave old dog sprang into Tom's arms. "Tiger, old fellow," cried Tom, trying to look fierce, though he could scarcely keep down the tears, "how came you to run away, sir?" Tiger responded by picking up a letter he had dropped in his first joy, and laying it in Tom's hand:-- "My Dear Child: Tiger is pining, and I must give him a change of air. I wish him to have a good master, and knowing that the best ones are those who have learned to govern _themselves_, I send him to you. Will you take care of him and greatly oblige "Your old friend, Major White." Tom then read through a mist of tears-- "P. S. I know the whole story. Dear young friend, 'Be not weary in well-doing.'" WHAT COUNTS. Did you tackle the trouble that came your way, With a resolute heart and cheerful, Or hide your face from the light of day With a craven face and fearful. O, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce. A trouble is what you make it. It isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, But only, HOW DID YOU TAKE IT? You are beaten to the earth? Well, what of that? Come up with a smiling face. It's nothing against you to fall down _flat_; But to LIE THERE--that's disgrace. The harder you're thrown, the higher you'll bounce, Be proud of your blackened eye. It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts, But, HOW did you fight, and WHY? And though you be down to death, what then? If you battled the best that you could, If you played your part in the world of men, The _Critic_ will call it good.