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always want to keep on the good side
of everybody.”. A girl who had not
taken any part in the conversation
until then, said: “Is it necessary to
be that way to have friends? If so,
I would rather not have them.”
I agree with her. I had rather be
friendless than deceitful, but I do not
think that telling the truth will make
any one dislike us. I believe in the
long run, we will be thought more
of for telling and acting the truth.
Since I was a tiny girl I have never
kept anything a secret from my moth
er. I always feel better by telling
her everything. If I do wrong I al
ways confess it to her; if I am in
trouble I always tell her and get her
advice.
The other day a girl told me of a
quarrel she had had with a friend and
asked me what I would do. “Do?” I
replied. “I would ask my mother’s
advice immediately.” She looked at
me in amazement and replied: “Why,
do you do that? I would die before
I’d mention it to my mother.”
“Very well,” I replied, “but if you
don’t be careful some one else will
mention it to her, and you had best tell
her anyway.” But she would not. The
next day she came to me crying:
“What’s the matter, Sarah?” I asked.
“Mrs. Brown has told mother and
told her in such away that she is very
angry.”
I knew it would be so, but I said
nothing.
“Oh! What a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive.”
With much success to our page,
I am Sincerely,
Perry, S. C. AGNES TYLER.
“PORTRAIT OF A GENTLEMAN.”
By Rev. E. H. Andrews.
“No. 18 —Portrait of a Gentleman,”
said the auctioneer, referring to his
catalogue; and the assistant, with his
long, pointed stick, indicated the pic
ture so described, where it hung upon
the wall —the bust portrait of a very
unprepossessing old gentleman, in a
military uniform. A general titter
went round the room.
“What a face!” exclaimed one.
“Look at his nose!” remarked an
other.
“I can count three warts!” observed
a third.
“As ugly as they make ’em!” criti
cised a fourth.
“I’ll wager the painter didn't sur
vive it!” surmised a fifth.
“What am I bid?” asked the auc
tioneer.
“Five shillings!” ventured some one.
“Five shillings!” exclaimed the auc
tioneer, contemptuously. “Why, the
frame alone is worth a pound!”
The auctioneer had not overstated
its value. The frame had cost up
wards of two pounds; fifty had not
paid for the painting. Ten shillings
was bid, then fifteen, then a pound.
The bidding stopped.
“Ought to fetch at least five
pounds,” said the auctioneer. “Here
is a rare chance for some American
gentleman in search of ancestors for
family portrait galleries! Going for
a sovereign!” He raised his hammer.
Just then a voice cried: “Five
pounds!”
There were murmurs of astonish
ment and looks of curiosity. Who
would give five pounds for the por
trait of an ugly old man? Even the
auctioneer could scarcely believe his
ears. Nevertheless, he promptly
knocked down the picture to the bid
der. A moment later there was a stir,
among the outer circle of onlookers,
and a little old woman, in faded
black, elbowed her way to the door.
There were tears in her eyes and her
cheeks were wet. A sob escaped her
as she gained the door, and she had to
feel her way down the stairs.
Once in the street, she walked rap
idly, stopping at a druggist’s, a ba
ker’s and a grocery store, and procur-
ing medicine, a loaf of bread and
some candles. She entered a dingy
house, in a dingy street, and began
toilsomely to ascend the rickety steps.
A woman came into the hall, and a
harsh voice called after her: “Have
you got it?”
“Tomorrow 7 ,” w 7 as the answ’er.
“Tomorrow! It’s always tomorrow 7 !
I can’t wait any longer. I must have
the money or the room. There’s oth
ers wanting it as can pay.”
The woman was coarse and merci
less, but she, herself, w 7 as poor, and
had her living to make.
“I will certainly pay you tomorrow.
I —l have sold (the old lady’s voice
quavered) the picture.” And she
stumbled on up stairs. Four flights of
steps brought her to an attic room,
the door of which she opened hur
riedly, but noiselessly.
“Grandma, is that you?” inquired a
feeble voice from the interior of the
room. The room was in semi-dark
ness, notwithstanding the fact that it
was but little past noon. A sick child
lay upon the bed.
“Yes, dear, ’tis grandma.” The lit
tle old lady went quickly to the bed
side, not stopping to lay aside her
hat and shawl. “How is grandma’s
boy now?” ..
She felt his burning forehead and
fondled his burning hands.
“Grandma, I had such a dreadful
dream. I thought I saw Jesus cruci
fied, and the wicked Jews and Romans
throwing stones at Him on the cross.
Only—only Jesus looked like grandpa,
in the picture.”
His thoughts wandered, and he was
silent. Then he went on: “Tell me
about grandpa again. * * * Why he
was called a hero. * * * About his
killing the Indians and riding up on
his war-horse just in time to save the
great general. * * * And about the
king giving him a medal. * * * What
did the king say, grandma? * * *
‘You’re a brave man, Graham!’ Wasn’t
that it, grandma?”
In asking the questions he told the
story himself.
“Yes, grandma’s boy; grandpa was
a brave soldier, and he served his
country faithfully and well. He was a
dear, good man, besides.”
Again there was silence, during
which time he seemed to be thinking.
Then he asked: “Grandma, do people
like heroes—really love ’em, I mean?”
“Yes, dear; sometimes they make a
great to-do over them —ride them
through the streets of the city in
grand carriages, and build triumphal
arches in their honor. Sometimes
mothers name their little new babies
after them.”
“But, grandma, do they really love
them? —I mean like you do me, and
God does the world, and grandpa did
his country?”
“No, dear; I’m afraid not. People
soon forget kind things and brave
deeds.”
Again he was silent. Then: “Grand
ma, I want to be a hero, like grandpa.
Turn me so I can see him in the pic
ture.”
The grandmother started. "Not
now,” she said quickly. “It’s too dark
to see it now, and grandma’s boy must
take his medicine and try to be quiet
He will be a brave hero then.”
The dose of medicine was patiently
swallowed, the little body presently
became still. Then the hollow eyes of
the wasted grandmother sought the
wall where the picture had hung—the
picture of one whom England had at
one time delighted to honor. It had
been described “Portrait of a Gentle
man”, had been jeered at and sold at
public auction to enable her to pay
the rent, buy medicine for the sick
boy and bread and light for them both.
The grandmother laid her weary
body beside the boy upon the bed, and
God gave His beloved sleep. While
the tired woman slept, there earns a
stranger to the house—a well-dressed
(Continued on Page 16.)
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13
