He looked at Joe again and was reminded of the softened look of deep purpose the night Joe had told him beneath the vines of his intention to serve Christ, and now standing in the presence of the boy again and remembering it all vividly, as he had not done before, there swept over him the thrill of delight again that a soul had been saved. His heart, long unused to such emotions, felt weak, and he sat down and motioned the boys to do the same. It would seem that the sight of the picture had braced up the two to whatever mission theirs had been, for their faces were set in steady purpose, though it was evident that this mission was embarrassing. They looked at one another helplessly as if each hoped the other would begin, and at last Joe plunged in. “Mr. Stanley, you ben so good to us we thought ’twas only fair to you we should tell you. That is, we thought you’d like it, and anyway, maybe you wouldn’t take it amiss.” John Stanley’s heart was kind, and he had been deeply interested in this boy once. It all came back to him now, and he felt a strong desire to help him on, though he wondered what could be the nature of his errand. Joe caught his breath and went on. “You see she don’t know about it. She’s heard so much of you, and she never heard that, not even when they was talking about the den and all at the store, she was just lookin’ at the picture and Him,” raising his eyes reverently to the picture on the wall, “and we never thought to tell her afore, and her so set against it. And we thought anyway afterward maybe you’d quit. Some do. We all did, but that was her doin’s. But we thought you’d like to know, and if you had quit she needn’t never be told at all, and if you hadn’t, why we thought maybe ‘twouldn’t be nothin’ for you to quit now, ‘fore she ever knew about it.” The slow red was stealing up into the face of John Stanley. He was utterly at a loss to understand what this meant, and yet he felt that he was being arraigned. And in such a way! So humbly and by such almost adoring arraigners that he felt it would be foolish and wrong to give way to any feeling of irritation, or indignation, or even offended dignity on his part. “I do not understand, Joe,” he said at last, looking from one to another of the two boys who seemed too wretched to care to live longer. “Who is she? And what is it that she does not know, and that you want me to ‘quit’? And why should it be anything to her, whoever she is, what I do?” “Why it’s her, Miss Manning—Margaret Manning—our teacher.” Joe spoke the name slowly, as if he loved it and revered it; “and it’s that we want you to—that is, we want her to—to like you, you know. And it’s the—the—I can’t most bear to say it, ‘cause maybe you don’t do it any more,” and Joe looked up with eyes like a beseeching dog.