The Old Castle and Other Stories | Page 7

for a little with him and read to him. Georgie read aloud very well, and
with great spirit, and Alick was delighted with an amusement which
was quite new to him. The hour Georgie was allowed to give him
passed most delightfully, and when Georgie rose to go away, he was
eagerly asked to come back the next day.

The next, and the next, and many succeeding afternoons, Georgie spent
by Alick's bedside, reading or chatting to him; and when he was able to
use his arms, playing with him at chess, draughts, or any such game
that Alick liked. That tender pity which God had put into Georgie's
heart for the poor wicked boy, he kept fresh and warm from day to day;
and Georgie never grudged the time or trouble which he gave to
Alick,--never lost patience with him, however fretful and unreasonable
he might be, but was ever ready to do what Alick wished, whether he
himself liked it or not.
One afternoon they had played for a long time at a favourite game of
Alick's, but one which Georgie thought very tiresome.
"Well, that is one of the nicest games in the world," said Alick,
stretching himself back upon his pillows when the game was done.
"Isn't it? Don't you like it?"
"No," said Georgie, looking up with an amused smile; "I don't like it
much."
"Why then did you play so long without saying that you did not like
it?" Alick asked, much surprised.
"Because you like it. I wanted you to have what you like," Georgie
answered simply; and having put away all the things, he stooped over
Alick and asked him very kindly, nay, I may say very lovingly, if he
thought he should have a better night, if he thought his pain was less
than it had been.
"Yes,--no,--I don't know," Alick said, looking earnestly up into
Georgie's eyes. "But, Georgie, I say, why do you care so much?"
"Because I am so very sorry for you," burst from Georgie's very heart.
"You well may," muttered poor Alick, glancing down at his useless,
shrunken limbs. But this time there was no anger in his thoughts.
"It is not for that, not at all for that," Georgie cried eagerly, as if

guessing that pity for his infirmities might be painful.
"For what then?" Alick asked, looking at him keenly.
"Because you do not know, you do not love God," Georgie answered
with deep feeling. "O Alick, how heartless, how dreary it must be!" and
the tears rose to his eyes, and ran down his cheeks without his knowing
it.
His words, spoken in that tone of intense pity, thrilled Alick to the heart.
This was the meaning of all those looks of tender, yearning compassion
which Georgie so continually cast upon him. And was it then such a
terrible thing not to know God?
Georgie's "how heartless, how dreary!" sounded again in his ears, and
seemed to answer the question. He said nothing to Georgie nor to any
one; but all night long these words came back and back to his mind. He
could not get rid of them. They were pressed down into his heart by the
recollection of all that exceeding tender pity which Georgie's eyes had
so long expressed for him, and of Georgie's loving, patient kindness,
during his illness. And ever deeper and stronger grew the sense that his
life was in truth, and ever had been, more heartless and dreary than
Georgie could imagine.
Next day, when Georgie came to his bedside, Alick looked him full in
the face and said:--
"Georgie, can you teach me to know God?"
You may imagine how Georgie's heart leaped with joy at the question.
Often had he longed to speak to Alick of his God and Saviour, but
hitherto he had been afraid to do it; not afraid of what Alick might say
to or of him, but afraid to hear him speak against the Lord whom he
had so often blasphemed. Now his mouth was opened, and in simple,
boyish speech, he poured out his heart to Alick, and told him all he
knew of Christ's love in taking upon himself the sins of those who were
his enemies. And God's Spirit going with the words he taught Georgie
to speak, Alick's heart was touched, and the poor boy was brought to

take Christ as his Lord and his God.

THE SIXPENNY CALICO.
One day a new scholar appeared in school, and as usual was the mark
of public gaze. She was gentle and modest-looking, and never ventured
to lift her eyes from her books. At recess, to the inquiries, "Who is
she?" "What's her name?" nobody could satisfactorily answer. None of
us ever saw or heard of her before.
"I know