“How sweet, how heavenly is the sight When those that love the Lord In one another’s peace delight, And thus fulfill his word!” There was one part of Tom’s Sunday-school and evening-school work which I think he never took into consideration when he was endeavoring to calculate, as he was very fond of doing, the extent of its influence and the number of people to whom it had been the means of doing good. I say, I think he never discovered the amount of good it did to two loving hearts at home--Miss Mason and Martha. After the commencement of his evening-school, he had written every week, either to his sister or his teacher, and when the modestly written accounts were read by those for whom they were written, it did them a world of good. “Brother Tom is doing so much, Miss Mason,” said Martha, one day, as she stood by Miss Mason’s sitting-room fire, with Tom’s last letter in her hand, “I feel as if I was not doing anything.” “We must just sit still and be thankful, until our work comes, Martha,” replied Miss Mason. “God will send it to us if we ask him. You had part of yours when Tom was sick, and this that he is doing is only an outgrowth from that.” “This that Tom was doing” was a great deal. No one who saw him bending over Mr. Sutherland’s books hour after hour, copying the roughly-written accounts, would have imagined that his name was spoken everywhere over the plantation with praise and love. A very modest-looking colored boy he was, plain of face, with only those dark, earnest eyes to make him beautiful. A grave mouth, not much given to smiling, but which never wore any look of discontent or distrust. Hands used to work, but grown tender of late when the work had been only the long hours of writing. His feet were bare; there was no need of shoes and stockings, and there was no inclination for them, for Tom’s money went to buy what was needed at home; so they rested on the soft carpet of the library and the carpetless floor of Aunt Margaret’s cabin alike. To a stranger going into Mr. Sutherland’s house of a morning, and watching the still figure at the desk in the library, the contrast between the boy and his surroundings would have been striking. There was nothing fine or stylish about Tom. His dress was very plain, whole and neat, but coarse and ordinary. There was nothing elegant about him, yet all things around him were so.