"That is the way God does with us. So you see it isn't a bad thing to be pitied with love. If you ever think again of what your uncle said, just turn away from it and know that Love is taking care of you every minute. God is always here, waiting to bless us." "I'd--I'd rather see Him," said the boy. "Your friends are His messengers," said Mrs. Lowell. "What--what friends have I?" "Me, for one," replied his companion. As she leaned toward him with her spontaneous grace, he met her affectionate regard with his piteous eyes. "Did God--did God send you to--to me?" "I'm sure He did," she returned slowly. "Then--then can I--take one of your pencils?" Mrs. Lowell looked down at her writing-tablet. "Certainly," she said, passing the whole affair to him. A remarkable transformation took place in the boy's face. He took the folding case with its complete outfit and his companion regarded him in surprise. His eyes lighted and color came stealing up over face and brow. He looked over his shoulder apprehensively, then back at her. "You won't tell him?" he said. "Who? Your uncle?" "Yes. He would beat me." "Why? Doesn't he like you to write letters?" The first smile she had ever seen on the boy's face altered it now as he looked at her, and her heart beat faster in a mystified sense that some cruelly bolted door had been pushed ajar. "You can have that portfolio for your own, Bertie," she said. "No, no, he'd kill me." "What can you mean, dear child?" The boy started up from his cushion and perched on top of the rock, glancing along the shore. Mrs. Lowell leaned forward and saw his hand with the pencil move swiftly here and there on the blank sheet. She said not a word, but watched the slender young face with the new alertness in the eyes. The tide was making its splendid slow retreat, the gulls were wheeling and crying, and white as their wings the daisy drifts were beginning to appear on the uplands. Activity, growing, unfolding, all about her, the watcher felt this waif to be part of it. One of God's little ones who could not be kept in bondage. At last the boy came down again and gave her his work. She looked at it in amazement. The curve of the shore, the groups of spruces, a distant cottage, the light clouds on the blue were all sketched in with a sure touch. "Who taught you this, Bertie?" "Nobody--but I watched my mother. She was an artist. She let me draw beside her. She knew I could. She said so. I'll show you. You won't tell?" "Never." The boy drew from his pocket a small folded paper. He took off the paper and revealed oiled silk. He unfolded this and a small pen-and-ink sketch came to view. It was of a woman's face, slightly smiling. There was expression in the long-lashed eyes, eyes like the boy's own. The hair waved off the forehead. Bertie held the treasure for Mrs. Lowell to see, but did not relinquish it. "Is this your mother?" "Yes." "Who did it?" "I did." "When, Bertie, when?"