"The day of his trial, his direst temptation, came! For twenty-four hours he had not tasted food. A cold, bleak night was fast approaching. One after another of his books had gone to get a piece of bread. Now nothing was left but starvation or--the boy dare hardly breathe it to himself--or dishonesty! "He must have food somehow. Loitering about the depot, watching a chance to earn a few pennies, he saw a gentleman alight from a carriage, take out his pocketbook, pay the driver, and return it, as he supposed, to his pocket. "It was almost dark, yet the eager eye of the hungry boy saw what had escaped the driver's. "There, in that gutter, lay the surety against suffering for that and many coming nights. "He was about to rush forward and secure the prize--the lost pocketbook--but caution whispered, 'Be sharp! you may be seen.' And then, with the cunning and slyness of an old thief--thus suddenly taught by keen suffering--he sauntered along, crossing the gutter, stumbled and fell; then put out his hand, covered and secured his treasure, slowly arose, and feigning a slight lameness, he retraced his steps towards the depot, entered the waiting-room, which he felt sure would be unoccupied at that hour. Getting behind the warm stove and close to the dim lamp, he opened the pocketbook--gold! notes! tens, twenties! over a hundred dollars met his gaze! When had he seen so much? His--all his! Had he not found it? Possibly he might have overtaken the owner and restored it, but what was the use of throwing away good luck! But already Conscience was at work. Turning over the notes he found a little silken bag. Opening it, he drew forth a miniature painting of a beautiful little girl, and on the back was written: "'Our darling! three years old to-day.' "It was a lovely, angelic face. The boy was fascinated, spellbound by it. Long he gazed. He grew very uneasy. His bosom heaved convulsively. There were signs of violent emotion, and then burst forth the words: "'I have not stolen it. Who says so? I found it!' "Again he looks almost wildly at the picture; then whispers hoarsely: "'She says, "Thou shall not steal!" Can this be stealing? No--no, it is not. It is luck. I am growing nervous from long fasting. Oh, Heavens, how hungry I am! Bread, bread! I must have bread or die!' "Taking out a few small coins, he closed the pocketbook, putting the little miniature in his bosom; then walked as swiftly as his failing strength would allow; reached, and was about to enter, an eating-house. At the door, he hesitated; and, drawing forth the little picture, looked again at the baby-face. Now, to his eye, she has grown older; and the face is so sad, with such an appealing look, which speaks to his inmost heart. "The blue eyes were no longer the laughing ones of childhood; but, oh! yes, it was really so--his mother's lovely, sad face was before him! The same sweet, quivering lips, which seemed whispering so earnestly: "'Thou shalt not steal!'