And Bay answered, resting his arm, as he spoke, lightly on Edward's shoulder, to express the tenderness which he felt, "No you won't, my dear fellow; when you get up there, in the glory of the Redeemer's presence, and meet your father face to face, you will not remember to be sorry that you did not see him _buried_." Meantime Bob had come, and been set at work. He did not board at Mr. Minturn's. Edward had heard that matter arranged with a little sigh of relief; his precious hour with Ray, then, would be undisturbed. Bob was doing very much better than anybody who knew him would have imagined he _could_ do; he seemed to have made up his mind to behave himself, sure enough. Yet his being there was a trial to Edward in several ways: he had a great horror of being called "Tip;" that name belonged to the miserable, ragged, friendless, hopeless boy who used to wander around the streets in search of mischief, not to the young man who was a faithful clerk in one of the finest stores in Albany, besides being a teacher in Sabbath school, and a very fair scholar in Latin and algebra. But Bob Turner could not be made to understand all this; and though he stared at the neat black suit which Edward wore, and opened his eyes wide when Mr. Minturn went and came in company with his old companion, and honoured him in many ways, he still called him "Tip," in clear, round tones, that rang through the store a dozen times a day. But there was nothing which Ray could not smooth over, so Edward thought, when one evening he flounced into the library with a very much disturbed face. "I wish that fellow knew anything," he said angrily. "What is the matter now?" Bay asked, meeting the bright, angry eyes with a quiet smile. Edward laughed a little. "Well, I can't help feeling vexed; Bob screeches that hateful little name after me wherever I go. I despise that name, and I wish he could be made to understand it." "How did you happen to be called Tip at first?" "Why," said Edward, turning over the leaves of his dictionary, "my little sister Kitty made it up before she could talk plain. How she ever got that name out of Edward, I don't know; I'm sure I wish she had been asleep when she did it; but that's what she called me, and that's what I've been ever since." "And did Johnny, the little boy that died, ever call you so?" Edward's eyes began to grow soft. "Often," he said gently; "and it was about the only name he could speak; he was a little fellow."