In this more quiet time Mrs. Clement gave me a little of their history. When Johnny’s school days closed, several years after my time, he tried in various places for a situation, but failed completely. The world seemed harsh and dreary to the widow and her son, the future without any prospect on which to rest a hope. Without friends or influence, what could they expect? Just then a letter came that like the wand of a fairy swept away all the clouds and darkness. It appeared that years before Johnny was born, his father had befriended a lad by helping him to a situation in Bombay, where he commenced at the bottom, and by diligence and honesty rose step by step, until he became one of the partners of the firm. He had lost track of his friend, but on the evening of the day on which he was admitted to the firm, he was recalling the past, and thought of the time when he was a homeless orphan, and almost friendless, and of the one to whom he owed his position and the success of his life. From that moment he could not rest until he had found his benefactor. He wrote letters to him, not knowing that he was dead. One of these letters reached the widow. The writer gave an outline of his life, told of his gratitude, and that if in any way he could do a favor to the one to whom he owed everything, he was not only ready, but anxious to do it. It was like a debt, and almost a burden to him, and he could not be happy until he had discharged it, or shown his willingness to do so. This letter came as a message from Heaven to the widow and her son. She wrote and explained everything, with the result that Johnny got a situation, and in the course of time became a partner of the man whom, as a lad, his father had befriended. This was most natural, and such incidents would oftener happen if people would pay their debts of gratitude, and put their religion into deeds, and not so much into words. “So, Mr. Japhet,” said the mother, sitting with her cup of coffee in her hand, forgetting to take a sip of it, “you have our history. I say _our_ history, for in it all, Johnny and I have been one. He was all I had, and I think I was everything to him, though many bright eyes have tried to win him away from me, I have him still.” “Don’t be too sure, good mother,” said Johnny, “Don’t you know that Cupid’s arrow, if the right one be used, may pierce the hardest heart. Didn’t it your’s once?” “John, John!” she said very gravely. I noticed she always called him Johnny, except when she gave him a reproof, and this was always so kind that it must have given him more pleasure than otherwise. He then took her hand, as he sat by her side, just as if he had been her lover. And he was. Blessed is that boy, whose first love is his mother, and happy is the mother of such a boy. I have often thought, yet it may be one of my crude notions, that a boy or man who truly loves a good mother can never go wrong.