y had belonged to his mother, and during all his years of tramping
he had guarded it as his most precious treasure. He had worn it in a
little chamois bag suspended from a string around his neck, but had not
used it in many, many years. He came regularly one evening in each week
to make his confession and to have a little chat with me. As the summer
progressed I wondered more and more at this strange new acquaintance of
mine; this rough looking tramp with the manners of a gentleman and the
speech, except for a few lapses in the vernacular of the road, of a man
of considerable education. The oddest thing of all was the feeling I had
that somewhere, at some time, Jim and I had met before. Little tricks of
voice and expression would seem strangely familiar.

"The summer gradually faded into autumn, and one evening in late
September when I stood at the gate to say good-night to my tramp, he
remarked sadly:

"'This is good-by as well as good-night, Father. I have given up my
work here and am off early in the morning.'

"'Not the road again!' I cried, and the next second would have given
anything to recall the thoughtless words. A pained look crossed Jim's
face, but he answered quietly:

"'No, Father, not the road. Never again shall I return to that life. I
have saved my wages this summer and am going back into the world to
begin life all over again. This time, with God's help, I shall not make
such a muddle of it as I did before.'

"The next day he was gone, and many a night as I sat over my study-fire
reading or trying to work up my sermon for Sunday, my thoughts would
stray from the subject in hand and wander out into the world in search
of my friend the tramp. I would listen to the wintry blasts whistling
down my chimney and wonder where Jim was, and wonder still more at his
complete silence. Surely he might let me know if all were well with him.
Had he persevered? Or had he, perhaps, lapsed into his former ways, and
was he, even now, tramping the highways and byways?

"Winter passed and spring came; still no news of Jim. Another summer,
another fall, another winter. Silence, absolute silence on the part of
my tramp. Then, one evening in May, exactly two years from the day when
I first met him, Jim stood before me once again. I recognized him by the
missing right hand and the scar on the temple. Aside from those two
points and the old merry twinkle in his eye he bore absolutely no
resemblance to my tramp of two year