As his talk progressed, he grew eloquent, and louder and louder became his tones. My eyes were riveted upon him. In every feature of his handsome face there was reflected a mind, a will, a determination that nothing could break. He arose to his feet and continued, pointing his finger at me: "Only to-day there crept to the door of my house a poor boy driven thither by hunger; he was given food by my command. Having satisfied for the time being his craving, he went away happy. Hardly had he left the village, when a rabble gathered about him and persecuted him. They threw mud at him, pointed at him their fingers in derision, and laughed rudely at his poverty, and you, a son of E-sta'-ma-za, joined the tormentors and smiled at the poor boy's tears." I winced at this accusation. He could accuse me of almost anything; but of this I was not guilty. A hesitating small voice at the door said, "He did not join them!" It was the little boy that came after me who spoke. I was grateful for this defence, but, as though he had not heard it, my father continued. "By your presence you aided and encouraged those wicked boys. He who is present at a wrong-doing, and lifts not a hand to prevent it, is as guilty as the wrongdoers. The persecution of the poor, the sneer at their poverty is a wrong for which no punishment is too severe. I have finished. Go, and think of my words." Those at the door made way for me; I passed out and entered my mother's room. She looked up at me with a kindly smile; but I flung myself down on her bed, buried my face in the pillows, sobbing. My mother did not speak, but went on with her work. When I had regained my composure, she bade me come and sit beside her. I did so. She put an arm around me, and said in a caressing tone, "What is it that makes my little boy cry?" I told her. She sat in silence for a while, and then spoke: "Your father is right; you must be guided by his words. You had a chance to do good; you let it slip away from you. That poor boy came and sat at the door, the humblest place in your house; he did not beg, but the eyes he turned upon your father and on me told a tale of suffering. At your father's bidding, I placed food with my own hands before the boy; when he had finished eating he arose without a word and, taking with him what was left of the food, he went out, giving me a look that bespoke his gratitude. My boy must learn to be good and kind. When you see a boy barefooted and lame, take off your moccasins and give them to him. When you see a boy hungry, bring him to your home and give him food." The mild words and the gentle touch of her hand were like ointment to my wounds. When she had finished speaking, I put my arms around her neck and kissed her. On my way back to the Mission I saw a lad standing at the fork of the paths. It was little Bob. "Come, hurry!" he said; "I've been waiting for you." Together we returned to the school.