made a bad failure with every recitation. His mind seemed to be too
pre-occupied with some other matter to absorb book knowledge.

The boys loitered around the playground, waiting to see the end of it
all. Tom sat with his hands supporting his head, and his elbow on the
desk, morose, sullen and disappointed.

"I wonder if he suspects anything," he muttered; "I don't see how he
can, for nobody told him. It's queer he has never opened his desk all
the afternoon. I never knew him to do anything like that
before--Gracious alive!"

Just then Tom felt as if some one had jabbed a burning needle into his
neck. Almost at the same instant came a similar dagger thrust on the
top of his head, where he always wore his hair short. Uttering a gasp
of affright, he leaped from his seat, with a score of fierce hornets
buzzing about his ears. The terrified glance around the room showed
that the teacher had slipped noiselessly out of the door, but, before
doing so, he had raised the lid of his desk to its fullest extent.

The next moment Tom bounded through the door, striking at the insects
that were doing painful execution about the exposed parts of his body.
It was not until after a long run that he was entirely freed of them
and was able to take an inventory of his wounds.

It was a lesson the lad never forgot. In the final contest between him
and his teacher, he was conquered and he admitted it. Mr. Lathrop made
a study of his character, and having proven himself physically his
master, set out to acquire the moral conquest that was needed to
complete the work. It need hardly be added that he succeeded, for he
was a thoughtful, conscientious instructor of youth, who loved his
work, and who toiled as one who knows that he must render an account of
his stewardship to Him who is not only loving and merciful, but just.

A YOUNG HERO.

Reuben Johnson leaned on his hoe, and, looking up at the sun, wondered
whether, as in the Biblical story, it had not been stationary for
several hours. He was sure it was never so long in descending to the
horizon.

"Wake up, Rube," sharply called his Uncle Peter, smartly hoeing another
row a few paces behind him, "doan be idlin' your time; de sun am foah
hours high yit."

The nephew started and raised his implement, but stopped. He was
staring at the corner of the fence just ahead, where sat the jug of
cold water, with the Revolutionary musket leaning against the rails.
The crows