"No, but--they really ought to have a better teacher than I,--some one who knows how to interest them." "But, Miss Perry, the choice lies between you and no one." And, while she still hesitated and looked distressed, Mr. Parker bent forward a little, and said softly,-- "'Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these My brethren, ye did it not to Me.'" The lady rose quickly, and gathered her mantle about her. "I will go, Mr. Parker," she said, speaking quickly, as if afraid her courage would fail her. "Since there is no one else, I will do the best I can; but oh, I am afraid!" Down the long room, past the rows of neatly-dressed, attentive children, Mr. Parker led her to the seat near the door. "Now, boys," said he, "this is Miss Perry. Suppose you see if you can't all be gentlemen, and treat her well." Miss Perry sat down in the teacher's chair, her heart all in a flutter. She taught a class in her own Sabbath school hundreds of miles away,--five rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed little girls gathered around her every Sabbath; but they were little girls whose mothers had taught them to love their lessons, to listen respectfully to what their teacher said, to bow their heads reverently in prayer; and more than that, they loved her, and she loved them. But these boys! Still she must say something: six pairs of bright, roguish eyes, brimful of fire and fun, were bent on her. "Boys," she said gently, "have you any lessons for me?" "Not much," answered Bob Turner, who always spoke first. "We don't get lessons mostly. Don't come unless it's too hot to go fishing or berrying." "Tip comes 'cause he's too lazy to go past the door," "I don't!" drawled out the boy they called Tip; "I come to get out of the sun; it's hotter than sixty down home." "Never mind, boys," said their frightened teacher; for they were all laughing now, as though the funniest thing in the world had happened. "See here, since you have no lessons, shall I tell you a story?" Oh yes, they were willing enough to hear a story, if it wasn't stupid. "I'll tell you something that happened to a boy when he was about thirteen years old. His name is Robert; he told me this story himself, so you may be sure it's true. "He said one evening he was walking slowly down the main street of the village where he lived"-- "Where was that?" asked Bob Turner. "Oh, it was away out west. He said he felt cross and unhappy; he had nowhere in particular to go, and nothing to do. As he walked, he came to a turn where two roads met. 'Now,' thought he, 'shall I turn to the left and go home, and hang around until bed-time, or shall I turn to the right and go down to the river awhile?' "You see, Robert hadn't a happy home,--his mother was dead, and his father was a drunkard. "While he stood thinking, a boy came around the other corner, and called out,-- "Going home, Rob?' "'Don't know,' said Robert; 'I can't make up my mind.'