d a
message from Mr. Carey to his aunt had detained him still longer, so that
by the time he reached the cricket-ground the game had begun. One of the
older boys called to him to make haste; but Arthur seemed in no haste,
and, unlike his usual way at this time, he seemed to be in deep
meditation.

"Come, make haste," said his companion. "Why don't you come on?"

But still Arthur stood; for something had made him pause. It was Edgar
North's listless figure, half sitting and half lying under a large tree in
a field a little distance off, with a very discontented, unhappy face.

"I think I won't play to-day, I've got something else to do; I'm going for
a walk."

"What on earth is that for?" said the older boy; "I thought you were wild
for this game to-day."

He was not so very sorry, however; for Arthur was playing on the opposite
side, and he knew by experience, that his vigorous little arms made a
great difference sometimes.

"Well, please yourself. What shall I say when the others ask about you?"

"Say I have gone out for a walk."

"All right," said the other, and he walked away.

It was not without a very great struggle that Arthur had been able to say
this. It was not without more than one earnest prayer, that he had been
able to resist the strong temptation. He had been feeling very happy that
morning in thinking of his mother's text: "Whose I am." And his heart had
risen in gladness and thankfulness to the Lord who had bought him; and now
there was a golden opportunity before him of doing something to prove his
love, and of letting it be true of him "whom I serve." Edgar North was not
happy, and the others had left him all by himself. It must be very bitter
to him to see from a distance the wild enjoyment of their game, without
being able to take any part in it. Arthur knew how he would feel it
himself, and a thought came across his mind that he could make it less sad
for Edgar; that he could offer to go for a walk with him; and that this
kindness to another would be pleasing to his Master. But then glowing
thoughts of the game's enjoyments came across his mind; his hands and feet
were burning to run to the cricket-ground, and take part there, with all
the energy of his young spirits, while the picture of a solitary walk with
Edgar North came before his mind in very gloomy contrast. Then a voice
seemed to speak in his heart: "I love you, my own. I gave myself for you.
Follow me."

The tears came into Art