“I am your shadow,” it replied, sighing. “I follow you wherever you go, but only appear when there is light about you. If you had not lighted that candle I would not have appeared, nor could I have spoken.” “Was it you who spoke at the lamp-post?” said Tom doubtfully. “Yes, it was I,” answered the shadow. “I wanted to save you then, as I do now, from committing a crime. Sit down, Tom, and let us talk.” Tom sat down, and the shadow sat down also. Then for the first time he caught a passing glimpse of its face, just like his own, only the eyes were sad—oh, so sad and mournful! “Thou shalt not steal,” said the shadow solemnly. “I don’t want to steal,” replied Tom sulkily; “but I’m cold and hungry. This shilling would buy me fire and food. I don’t call that stealing.” “Yes, but it is stealing,” answered the shadow, wringing its hands; “and you know it is. If you steal you will be put in prison, and then I shall have to go also. Think of that, Tom, think of that.” Tom did not say a word, but sat on the floor looking at the bright shilling in his hand which could procure him so many comforts. The shadow saw how eager he was to take the shilling, and, with a sigh, began to talk again. “Think of your mother, Tom,” it said softly. “She was the wife of a gentleman—your father; but he lost all his money, and when he died she could get no one to help her. Do you remember how she died herself in this very place, and how she implored you with her last breath to be an honest boy?” “Yes, I remember,” said Tom huskily; “but she did not know how cold and hungry I would be.” “Yes she did—she did,” urged the shadow. “She also had felt cold and hunger, but she never complained. She never stole, and now she has her reward, because she is a bright angel.” “I don’t know what an angel is,” said Tom crossly; “but if she’s all right, why doesn’t she help me?” “She does help you, Tom,” said the shadow; “and it was because she saw you were tempted to steal to-night that she asked me to help you. She cannot speak as I do, because she is not a shadow.” “Well, help me if you’re able,” said Tom defiantly; “but I don’t believe you can.” The candle on the floor had burnt very low, and as Tom said the last words his shadow bent nearer and nearer, until he again saw those mournful eyes, which sent a shiver through his whole body. It stretched out its arms, and Tom felt them close round him like soft, clinging mist; the candle flared up for a moment, and then went out, leaving Tom in darkness altogether. But he did not feel a bit afraid, for the soft arms of the shadow were round him, and he felt that it was carrying him through the air.