It was joy, yet the letters home were the best part of it. There were hours abroad and at home when the work was all done--house, field, and school tasks all completed--when the pressure on Tom’s mind seemed more than he could bear. That which lay heaviest was the care he felt over these souls who for five or six hours every week were committed to his care. Teach them he did, well and faithfully, but it was the work for Jesus which he was in constant fear that he should neglect. He grew so morbid over it that whenever he heard a man in the field swear or speak wrongly, he always questioned whether if he, Tom, had done his duty this would have happened. His success was far beyond his knowledge. He was so constantly in the habit of dropping a word for Jesus, because “out of the abundance of his heart his mouth spake,” that the people learned to expect that when they came to him in odd minutes for assistance in their tasks, there would be a word of holy cheer given them before they went away. They learned to have a strange reverence for this boy. It was some little time before Tom discovered that Mr. Sutherland knew of all this, but the master had heard the boy’s name in so many directions that at length he became interested to know how far his popularity extended. A few inquiries gave him all he wanted--enough to astonish him at any rate--and then Tom heard of it. One day at noon Tom stood in the field, leaning against the branch of a tree, resting himself and softly singing, when up came one of his evening scholars with an appeal for help. “I knowed you knowed,” he said, apologetically, “so I brought it to find out.” Tom took it with a little weary sigh, which he did not allow to reach his lips, and gave the required help. As he handed back the book he asked, with a smile, “How are you getting on now, Uncle Gilbert?” “Only toler’ble, Tom,” he returned; “old feller’s aches and pains right smart bad sometimes.” “The Lord Jesus will take the pain away, because you will not feel it when you are bearing it for him. Have you asked him, uncle?” “I reckon, Tom, the Lord thinks old Gil no ’count.” “You are as useful as I am, Uncle Gilbert, and I once asked God for patience, and he gave me enough to last me through a long illness. Look to him, uncle.” So Uncle Gilbert went away, and after a few minutes’ very grave thought, Tom turned around to take up his hoe and found his master at his elbow. His hand was at his cap in an instant. “You do your teaching at all hours of the day, Tom?” he said, pleasantly. “Yes, sir, they are anxious to learn,” replied Tom; and then, gathering courage, he added, “I have been wanting to ask you for a long time whether you had any objection to the school which I hold every evening at Aunt Margaret’s.” “No, not in the least,” replied Mr. Sutherland, “although I must say I was surprised to find that you had undertaken it, when I knew you had your hands full already.”