in order, to give the reading anything better than a very desultory
attention. But Jake's slow, droning voice was not calculated to arouse
interest. "I dunno," he said, glancing up sidelong at the man. "Mebby
he--I don't think he likes it--much."

"Oh, you set him at the right stories, and he will. Don't you like
stories of shipwreck?"

"You bet!"

"Well, get him to read to you about Paul; he had some wonderful
adventures on the sea. And there's a better story than that there,
about some people who were nearly shipwrecked, and a Man on board saved
them. And how do you think He did it? Why, He got up and stopped the
storm and the waves."

The child nodded. "Daddy read us that one night," he said.

So the Book remained in John McIntyre's shanty, and often, when some
other story was finished, the boy would bring it out. The books of
Esther and Daniel, the tales of Samson and Gideon, and the wonderful
stories of the Savior Himself, all had to be gone over again and again.
And one night John McIntyre read of love's great sacrifice, when the
skies grew dark and the earth trembled with the agony of Calvary.

Tim lay on the floor, staring up at the reader. John McIntyre's
sorrowful voice had brought home to him some inkling of the
stupendousness of that tragedy.

"What did they kill Him for?" he demanded sharply. "He never did
anything bad, did He?"

"No." John McIntyre's voice was almost inaudible.

"Couldn't He have stopped them if He had wanted to?"

"Yes," hesitatingly.

"Why didn't He, then?" scornfully.

Why? There had been a day when John McIntyre could have given a ready
answer. He would have told the boy it was God's love and man's great
need that held the Savior there; but he had long ceased to believe in
that love, and he was silent.

Tim waited a while, and then tried another question. "Where is Jesus
now? Is He in Heaven?"

"I suppose so--yes."

"That's where our mother is--an' your boys, too, eh?"

"I suppose so," faltered the man.

"Were they very bad boys?" asked Tim in an awed whisper.

"No." The answer was almost fierce.

"Oh, then they'll be in Heaven for sure, won't they?"

"Yes."

"Are you _dead_ sure?"

"Yes, sure." The man drew a deep breath as he answered.

The boy lay silent, evolving a new question. It came at last.

"Say! all boys and girls have to have mothers, don't they?"

"Yes."

"Then your boys must 'a' had one, too, eh?"

"Yes."

"Is--is