Tip Lewis and His Lamp | Page 9

understand that prayer: he felt as though he was not saying what he meant. He commenced again,--
"Oh, Jesus, I want"--Then he waited a minute. What did he want? "I want to be different; I'm a wicked boy. I want to go where Johnny is when I die. Do show me how!"
Did Jesus ever fail to hear such a prayer as that,--simple, earnest, every word of it felt? Never--and He never will.
Tip rose up from that spot feeling that something was different. Ay, and always would be different; the Saviour had reached down and taken hold of the young seeker's hand, and would for ever after lead him up toward God.
CHAPTER V.
"Thy word is a lamp to my feet."
The Sabbath morning sun awoke Tip from a heavy sleep. He lay still a few moments, thinking who he was. Things were different: he was not simply Tip Lewis, a ragged little street boy, any longer; this was the morning when he was going to start out under a new motto, with Jesus for his guide.
He was going to Sabbath school. He had not been since the morning that Miss Perry had taught the class, and told the story which was to be a blessing to him through all his future life. His evil spirit had been strong upon him during the three Sabbath mornings that had passed since then, and persuaded him to stay away from the school, but this morning he was resolved to go. He had a secret hope that he should see Miss Perry again, for he did not know that she was hundreds of miles away from that village, and would probably never be there again; all he knew was, that a gentleman had brought her to the door, and introduced her to the superintendent as Miss Perry; that much he heard as he sat gazing at them.
This morning he judged by the sun that it was pretty late, yet he didn't get on very fast with the business of dressing: he sat down on the foot of the bed, and looked sorrowfully at his jacket; he even turned it inside out to see if it wouldn't improve its appearance, but he shook his head, and speedily turned it back again.
If he "only had a collar," he said to himself,--"a smooth white collar, to turn down over the worn-out edges,--it would make things look so much better." But that was something he had never had in his life, and he put on the old ragged brown jacket with a sigh. Then he put on his shoes, and took them off again: the question was, which looked the best,--shoes which showed every one of his toes peeping out on the top, or no shoes at all? Suddenly a bright idea struck him: if his feet were only white and clean, he thought they would certainly look much better. Down he went to the rickety pump in the back yard, and face, hands, and feet took such a washing as they had never received before; then the old comb had to do duty. Tip had never had such a time getting dressed; but, some way, he felt a great longing this morning to make himself look neatly; he had a feeling that it was ever so much more respectable to be neat and clean than it was to go looking as he had always done. Still, to carry a freshly-washed face and hands and smooth hair was the very best he could do; and, if he had but known it, these things made a great improvement.
He made his way half shyly into the mission seat, for the truth was he did not know just how the boys would receive his attempt at respectability; but he had no trouble, for several of his companions had seen his face when he took his last look into that little coffin the day before, and they felt sorry for him.
No Miss Perry appeared; and it seemed, at first, that the mission boys were to have no teacher. It was a warm morning, and the visitors' seat was vacant.
But there was at last a great nudging of elbows, and whispers of "Look out now!" "We're in a scrape!" "No chance for fun today!" And only Tip's eyes looked glad when Holbrook halted before their class, with "Good morning, boys." Then, "Good morning Edward; I am glad to see you here to-day;" and the minister actually held out his hand to Tip. Mr. Holbrook never called him Tip; he had asked him one morning what his real name was, and since then had spoken it, "Edward," in clear, plain tones.
It was a restless, wearying class. It required all Mr. Holbrook's wits and wisdom to keep them in any sort of order, to gain any part of