Six Boys and a Minivan

Every one wants to be loved and to belong. God has made us that way. We like to feel that we belong to each other, to our families and to our friends.

It is wonderful to love someone, but it is more wonderful to be loved. “Love is of God” and “God is love,” John tells us in his epistle, and He has so constituted us that we are capable of loving others and of enjoying their love to us.

Love is a most important element in happy living. Any person, from babyhood right on up to maturity and even old age, needs to feel that he is valued and loved. And yet how sad it is in these days of broken homes, separated parents, and scattered families, there are untold thousands of lonely and unloved people. In spite of the boasted progress of our so-called enlightened age and affluent society, a look of utter loneliness appears on the faces of multitudes. People the world over are looking for love and recognition.

When a home breaks up it is the children who suffer most, and many are starved from lack of love. Not having been loved, many young people feel they have missed out on something they deserve, and they retaliate against parents and society. What they crave they seek for elsewhere.

A boy, starved for love and affection, and feeling he does not belong, often may join a gang, hoping he may gain what he wants-friendship and recognition. This usually leads to undesirable behavior and trouble with the authorities.

This little book, Six Boys and a Minivan, is published with the hope that it will: encourage husbands and wives to love and cleave to each other; encourage parents to love, understand and encourage their children; encourage children to love and honor their parents.

Furthermore, this book shows how children, who find themselves in unfortunate circumstances, can overcome insurmountable obstacles if they have the Lord Jesus as Savior and Friend. Their lives can become meaningful and happy. “God setteth the solitary in families” (Psalm 68:6), and many, deprived of their parents, have found a home and love among the family of His dear children.

Young Christians can be much used of the Lord in working with young people and helping them find that good way which leads to life, peace, and happiness.

A Father to Care for You

Patrick burst through the sheltering boughs of the weeping willow to discover his sister sitting dejectedly at the foot of the tree.

“What in the world are you doing here?” he cried in astonishment, for fourteen-year-old Carol, though little more than a year his senior, was usually busy in the kitchen or caring for their invalid mother as soon as school was over.

“I have been hunting all over the place for you!” the boy exclaimed. “Come and play ping pong with me instead of moping in this gloomy place. I have just been writing a two-hour essay entitled ‘Eulogy on Dreaming!’ What could you say on that stupid subject?...What is the matter? Why don’t you speak?... You are crying! Whatever has happened?”

Receiving no reply, he went on somewhat impatiently: “You got nothing in arithmetic, I suppose? No need to despair. You are brainy enough in other things to make up for that.”

“Let me alone,” said Carol hoarsely. “It’s not that. I don’t want a game. I must finish my homework, and Mother will need me soon.”

“But tell me why you are crying,” insisted Patrick, really concerned at such an unusual event. “Some girl’s thing I suppose. You have fallen out with your dearest friend, that minx Colette? No? Then you were cheating, and the teacher caught you? Own up!”

“No, Patrick; don’t tease me. I will tell you all about it tonight-not now.”

“All right, I won’t bother you; but don’t cry any more. I had better go around to John Garnier; I forgot to take down the homework for tomorrow. Come, Ralph!”

Patrick let fall the long branches, whistled to his dog, and ran out of the garden slamming the gate behind him.

Carol also emerged and went slowly towards the house. She paused by the flower borders, well stocked with autumn flowers which she loved so dearly and had tended so carefully. Her great pleasure was filling the vases, and she gathered a lovely bunch of the rose-colored dahlias, bronze chrysanthemums and purple asters.

Just then a window opened, and a plaintive voice called, “Carol, someone is at the door. Go and answer it please; I cannot stand on my feet.”

With her bouquet in her arms, Carol ran up the terrace steps, through the dining room and into the hall. At the door she found a stranger carrying a heavy suitcase.

“May I speak to Mr. Garnier?” he asked.

“Mr. Garnier does not live here,” replied Carol in surprise.

“Oh pardon! I thought my friend had already moved. It is my mistake. Forgive me for disturbing you.”

The stranger turned to go, when an enormous sheep dog bounded upon him. Taken by surprise he let fall his bulging case, which burst open, discharging a torrent of little books on the path.

Carol rushed to pick them up, while firmly holding Ralph, who was growling angrily.

“How clumsy of me!” cried the gentleman. “Let me pick them up if you will hold your dog.”

“No, no!” said Carol. “I must help you. It was Ralph’s fault. He is young and does not know how to behave. I thought he had followed my brother as he always does.”

When all the books were put back, Carol and the old gentleman had a good laugh. Before leaving he insisted on giving her, “as a souvenir of the accident,” a New Testament out of his stock. Carol admitted that she had never read it, and did not think it would interest her very much.

“It is the Word of God,” said the stranger, looking earnestly at her. “Keep it, read it, and learn to understand it. You will find happiness in it, a loving Savior and a heavenly Father to care for you.”

Carol ran to her room and threw the little book into a drawer. How could one find good news or happiness in words written long ago? The only news that could console her now would be to keep their home, have father and mother reconciled, and a return of their old happy life when Mother was well.

The grief from which Patrick had aroused her again swept over her. As she had entered the house on returning from school, she had heard her father say, “Everything is settled. I have found a purchaser; the house is sold. As you know, we can no longer live together. My employer has offered to send me to America, and I have accepted. So you will be freed from my presence until the divorce is arranged.”

There had been not a word of protest from her mother. Carol had heard her father turn to the door and had escaped to the garden to avoid meeting him.

Now in her room her thoughts turned back to her parents. For a long time her father had been constantly away, pre-occupied, indifferent to his family. Her mother, constantly ill, had neglected the household. As soon as she returned from school, it was Carol who had to tidy the house, wash the dishes, and prepare supper while her mother lay in a dark room with a wet cloth over her eyes. The doctor came and went but did not seem able to do anything. Then the child thought of her father. How proud she had been of him, his strength, his intelligence; and yet she never seemed to be intimate with him. And now, for months past, hardly ever did he show any interest in his children or spend any time with them. The only thing that could draw a smile from his hard face was her success at school. Did he really love Patrick and herself? How could he abandon them, and sell the house where they had been born? House sold, family broken up, Mother sick-it was too much!

Carol opened her books and plunged herself into a geometry problem, trying to forget the cares which rested too heavily on her young shoulders. Soon her mother called her again. “Find something for your supper and Patrick’s,” she said. “Father will be out, and I cannot eat anything. I shall try to sleep now, so be very quiet.”

Carol went to the kitchen, where a mountain of used dishes awaited her. She set to work in a spiritless way, and as Patrick arrived, she was drying the last plates.

“As usual, you come when the work is done,” she reproached him bitterly. “Boys have a lovely life. It is always I who have to do this job while you amuse yourself. At least you can help me find the solution to this problem in my math. I have lost an hour with this detestable work and still have to finish my homework.”

“All right, if you will translate my German for me.”

“Well! I like that! Come on, we will have supper first. I have not cooked anything. I hope this will be enough for you. Tell me what you have been doing.”

“We spent our time on problems, John and I. He is a brainy fellow, never one to fool around. Today he was quite excited because his father is going to buy a house in our neighborhood, it seems. Now tell me why you were crying in your tree this afternoon.”

He will have to know it soon, thought Carol. I had better prepare him. Aloud she said, “I cried because Dad is going to America.”

“To America! Why, what for?”

“I do not know. When I came home today I heard him telling Mommy that he did not want to stay with us and that he has sold the house.”

“Sold the house! That is too much,” cried Patrick indignantly. “Why couldn’t we stay here in his absence?”

“I do not think we could afford it.”

“Is Dad not going to take us with him?”

“No, we should be a burden, no doubt; and Mommy is not well enough.”

“When is he coming back?”

“I do not know. I believe he will be gone for a long time.”

Patrick’s rosy face grew pale. “He has been away almost all the time lately, and now he is leaving us altogether! It does not make any difference to him, I suppose.”

Carol’s lips tightened; she did not reply.

“John Garnier told me that his father goes out with them every Sunday. He is a bit strict, but he is always fair. I would like it better if Dad scolded me sometimes, if only he took some notice of us. Once we used to go out for an excursion together, but now ... ”

“Daddy may have worries that we do not know of, Patrick, for he gets worked up over the least thing. In any case, we must try to help poor Mommy; she must be feeling dreadful. We will not increase her trouble by our moaning. Let us go very softly to see if she is asleep, shall we? We will take her a cup of tea.”

The two children crept on tiptoe into the darkened room. Under the shaded lamp, they could see Mrs. Demier’s face more worn and troubled than ever. She was sleeping; so Carol, with finger on lip, placed the tea on the table, and they crept out, noiselessly closing the door.

“It is Dad who has brought this trouble and sorrow on us,” exclaimed Patrick bitterly. “Dad, our father, who should have cared for us.”

The words of the stranger echoed in Carol’s memory. “A heavenly Father to care for you.” What did it mean?

Moving

The moving van had come to take away the last pieces of furniture of the Demier family. Carol and her mother were busy attending to its arrangement in the new home, an apartment consisting of two bedrooms and a living room on the fourth floor of an apartment building.

Patrick had remained behind, moving about like a shadow in the deserted house. Hurriedly leaving the empty rooms so full of memories, the boy rushed into the garden. The fountain kept on playing, insensible of human changes. The lawns were not mown; the paths were full of weeds. What had been the use of taking care of a garden when one was going to leave it forever? The old swing swayed gently in the breeze. A touch of red at the top of the apple tree arrested Patrick’s attention: a forgotten apple, one of those beautiful glossy ones of which Dad used to be so proud. To think that John Garnier and his brothers and sisters would be enjoying all this now! They would gather the flowers that Carol had planted; they would hide in her tree, the tall weeping willow, they would strip the old cherry tree of its fruit, so delicious that one could not stop eating once one had started; they were going to play, laugh and romp in this garden which till now had been his. No, never could he be reconciled to it. From this day his friendship with John Garnier was finished ... . Grasping a branch with both hands, Patrick shook it until the apple fell on the grass, picked it up and pocketed it.

Slowly he went back towards the house and sat down on the bottom step of the terrace close to the old pear tree whose leaves the autumn was turning red. Why must they leave this dear home for an apartment, cramped and cheerless, without garden, without soul? Where would he be able to play now? Where could he invite his chums? There was scarcely enough room for themselves in those skimpy rooms, encumbered with their large old-fashioned furniture. They had had to sell the ping pong table, the croquet set, and worst of all, to part with Ralph, the inseparable companion of his happiest hours.

He knew only too well the answer to all these questions - Carol had told him of Dad’s leaving them; that had been the source of all their sorrows. He recalled how Dad had left them soon after that. He had embraced Carol and himself hurriedly, promising to send them postcards and to bring them some day to join him if he liked the new country.

“We will not forsake Mommy,” Carol had replied coldly.

His face stern and set, their father had left them, without a backward look.

“This desertion was treason,” thought Patrick, his young heart full of bitterness. “Deserted by our own father! Who can we depend on now?”

A swift rush on the gravel path, a joyous bark, and Patrick found himself overwhelmed by a big wet tongue that licked his face and hands with ecstatic devotion.

“Ralph! Where did you spring from? Come, steady now! You must have escaped from the farm. Were you so longing to see us again?”

“Wuff, wuff!” was the eloquent response of the great sheep dog, jumping wildly about Patrick, mad with joy and excitement.

“What will your new master say, Ralph? Poor fellow, you will have to go back to him. What should we do with your great body in our tiny apartment? You will be happier in Mr. Berger’s big house.”

A doleful whine and a new assault of caresses succeeded in disarming Patrick. The boy stood up; it was getting cold, and lengthening shadows fell on the abandoned garden. Casting a last look on his earthly paradise, Patrick went out with Ralph at his heels. “You shall spend the night with us. Come on, then!”

Threading a maze of streets, Patrick soon found himself in front of an apartment building, dingy and yellowed with age. He opened a door, ran up several flights of stairs, and breathlessly entered his new home.

“Here is a visitor,” he cried, letting in the dog who, rushing around the half unpacked trunks, bounded upon Carol. Taken by surprise, she dropped the teapot she was holding, while the joyous barks of Ralph, all unconscious of the havoc he was causing, brought Mrs. Demier into the room.

“What are you thinking of, Patrick, to bring back this dog?” she cried in exasperation. “Instead of helping, you only make us more work. Go outside at once, you and your dog!”

“It was not I who brought him; he came back by himself,” said Patrick shamefacedly. Ill at ease in the confusion of the crowded room and the sense of disapproval, poor Ralph did not know where to put his feet, and shrank into a corner with a desolate whine.

Carol spoke gently to him: “You see, Ralph, you are no longer happy in our home,” she said, pushing her fingers into his thick hair.

“If you do not need me, I had better take him back tonight to Mr. Berger’s,” proposed Patrick; “he will understand now that he must not come here again.”

“Take that dog away at once,” said Mother, picking up the pieces of her best teapot. “Between Ralph and you we shall soon have nothing left whole! Besides, we shall not have time to eat before eight o’clock.”

Glad to escape from the upheaval and to enjoy a long outing with his dog, Patrick hurriedly departed. Mounting his bicycle, he quickly gained the suburbs of the town, Ralph bounding along by his side. To reach the little village of Fairfield the road led uphill, getting steeper all the time, until Patrick had to dismount and walk, his eyes fixed on the colorful woods bordering the road or green meadows where autumn mists were creeping. At the top of the hill he paused for breath and to look around. The busy town below him at the edge of the lake was already preparing for sleep with lights twinkling from many streets and dwellings. Patrick hastened his steps, coaxed Ralph along a footpath across fields, and, guided by a flickering lantern, made his way into the farmyard. The farmer’s eldest son, a tall young man with an open intelligent face, received the boy with a mischievous smile.

“I am not surprised!” he said; “I guessed that this rascal Ralph had gone back to you. But this is to his credit; he is faithful and intelligent, too. I felt so sorry when he kept whining and pulling on his chain; so I thought I would unfasten it for a moment. He was quicker than I and disappeared before I could seize him.”

Ralph growled and showed his teeth when he saw that he was to be made a prisoner again. By dint of much coaxing and reassuring words, Patrick got him to his kennel, beside which was the dish of food that he had not touched during his two days there.

“Goodbye, Ralph! Don’t run away again, old fellow. Promise me, and shake hands on it!” Whining gently, the dog put his great paw in Patrick’s hand; then he lay down with his head on his paws and fixed his eyes on the boy’s every movement.

“He won’t be unhappy long with us,” said the young farmer. “I think it is harder for you than for him. We’ll take good care of him, and he will soon get used to us. Come and see him whenever you wish.”

There was so much kindliness and quiet strength in Philip Berger’s manner that Patrick was almost tempted to say, “Keep me here with you, too!” But instead he answered, “Thank you. I’ll be glad to come, but not too soon, so that Ralph will have time to get used to you.”

Mounting his bicycle, Patrick spun down the hill towards home. Though it was only seven o’clock, darkness had fallen, and the boy suddenly felt the loneliness of this country road, lightened only by the feeble glow of the light on his bike and the starry sky. Rounding a sharp curve, he saw in the distance four figures coming towards him. A moment later, he thought it must have been imagination, for the figures had vanished: before him lay only the deserted road, bordered by trees and fields. Despite the lateness of the hour, Patrick could not resist the desire to know where the night prowlers could have disappeared. There was no path between the fields: had they hidden in the trees? He stopped and looked in all directions; straining his eyes, he distinguished among the dark shadows the vague shape of a hut or shed half hidden by trees at some distance from the road - the dwelling, no doubt, of the mysterious wayfarers.

“I will have to return in daylight to examine that shanty,” thought Patrick. “I cannot think who would want to live there!”

Pedaling with all his might to make up for lost time, he soon reached the welcome lights of the town. The long ride had calmed his troubled mind, and it was with less bitter feelings that he made his way to his new home.

“After all” he thought, “if I do have to live in this chicken house, I can still have the country, the woods, the fields, and the open road. I’ll go as often as possible to the Berger’s farm.”

The Jolly Outlaws

“Simon, what are you doing this afternoon? Come out somewhere with me!”

“Impossible, Patrick; I’ve promised to meet a chum.”

“Alright, I’ll go with you. I don’t feel like sweating over moldy old books on a half holiday.”

Simon Conty looked uncomfortable. “Listen, you can’t come with me. I’m awfully sorry, really. It’s something I can’t explain to you. Hum ... . It’s something very special, you know.”

“Go by yourself then, you sly-fox! I don’t require your company.” Patrick turned abruptly and went home hastily. Throwing his satchel in the narrow passage, he rushed into the kitchen, grabbed some sugar and nearly half a loaf of bread, and descended the stairs at breakneck speed. “A good job Carol hasn’t got home,” he thought; “if only I have time to make my escape before she arrives, or she might make me do some work! It’s a long time since I went to see Ralph; perhaps he has forgotten me.”

Patrick rode hard in order to get warm. It was near the end of November; more than a month since he had been over that ground. He found Philip’s father getting ready to saw some wood in the yard and lost no time in asking about Ralph.

“What a pity! Sorry to disappoint you, my boy; but Philip had to go to town and took the dog with him. They’ve become such good friends that wherever Philip goes Ralph wants to go, too.”

“Oh well! I must go back again,” said Patrick, visibly disappointed. “I brought some sugar for Ralph. Please give it to him with my best wishes,” he added, smiling.

“Try to come again soon,” said the farmer. “Philip is not often away, there’s too much work here for him to go out much. And you - anything interesting to tell me? Nothing but school, I suppose? What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I don’t know yet,” replied Patrick. “I’d just love a job with travel and adventures; airman, reporter or something like that.”

“Hum!” said the old farmer, looking earnestly into the boy’s face; “we have many dreams when we are young like you, but actually there is One who chooses our path: the only thing we must do is to let Him guide. He never makes a mistake.”

“What do you mean?” asked the boy, quite puzzled. “No one can decide for us.”

“One can choose for himself, it is true,” said Mr. Berger, putting a large log on his sawing horse. “One can go his own way, but it is not the way to find happiness. It is much better to be guided.”

“By whom? I don’t understand you.”

“Don’t you really know the One who holds your life in His hands?”

“You mean God, I suppose,” said Patrick, reddening a little.

“Certainly: God the Father and Jesus Christ. Have you put your hand in His? You are never too young to give Him your heart.”

Amazed by these unfamiliar words of the farmer and ill at ease, Patrick only wished now to get away.

But the kindly expression of Philip’s father kept him spellbound.

“Listen, my lad: for over fifty years I have belonged to Him, and I have never regretted it. He calls us one by one; it won’t do to turn a deaf ear. ‘Today, if you will hear His voice, harden not your heart’” (Hebrews 4:7).

A gust of wind made Patrick shiver; he wanted to get moving. At this moment a voice called: “Dad! the tea is ready!”

“Stop, don’t hurry off. Come and drink a cup of tea with us,” urged Mr. Berger. “I have kept you talking and you look frozen.”

Inside the big farmhouse kitchen Patrick made the acquaintance of Mrs. Berger, a good deal younger than her husband, full of energy and good humor; he also met their three other sons, Claud, Luke and Raymond, two of them were his juniors.

“You’ll find room there,” said the pleasant hostess, pointing out a vacant place on the bench; “I’ve just baked some fresh currant loaves. Come, help yourself. I know what boy’s appetites are! Take plenty.”

How delightful it was in that warm, old-fashioned kitchen with its low ceiling, its walls darkened by time, and its rustic furnishing! A large gray cat was sleeping on a cushion. On the long oaken table steamed an enormous earthenware teapot. Was it the sound of the fire rumbling in the stove, the hot cup of tea, or the hearty welcome of the Berger family which cheered Patrick most? He could not have said, but it was a long time since he had had such a feeling of security and peace. He certainly felt in no hurry to depart.

After the meal Raymond, the youngest boy, offered to show him the stables and cowsheds. By the time he had explored everything the sun was near its setting. Patrick went in to thank his new friends before leaving and promised to come again.

On his way home he was seized with the desire to make a detour in order to have a closer look at the mysterious hut which he had noticed when he took Ralph back to the farm, and to find out if it really was inhabited. Leaving his bicycle against a tree, Patrick struggled along an overgrown path, through many tangled bushes, and came at last to the tiny dwelling, almost hidden by thick black fir trees. While walking round it, he was suddenly aware of a streak of light from a crack in the door. Then a murmur of muffled voices reached him. Putting his ear to the door, he listened. An exclamation, louder than the others, made him jump; he knew that voice, without a shadow of doubt! Another voice, like that of a leader broke in, and soon silenced the others.

“I have something to propose this evening. Our gang now consists of five members; that’s not quite enough, but we must be very particular in choosing new members. But it’s time to find a name and a code. Each of you suggest something.”

Patrick, more and more intrigued, held his breath and pressed closer to the crack in the door.

“I propose ‘The Knights Without Fear,’ said one ... ” “And without Reproach? No, that is scarcely us. We must have something more modern.”

“The Black Hands.”

“Hackneyed!”

“The Pirates of the Wild Woods.”

“Too Long.”

“The Invisible Eye.”

“What about ‘The Jolly Outlaws’?” suggested the leader. This was unanimously approved.

“And the password?”

“Open sesame?”

“No! J.O.S. for ‘Jolly Outlaws Society.’”

A loud sneeze plunged the hut into startled silence. Then the door burst open and five big lads set off after Patrick, who headed towards the road. He was about to jump on his bicycle when an iron grip closed on his collar. Cornered and assailed on all sides, he was led back to the hut, and five pairs of indignant eyes stared at him under the flickering light of the lantern.

“Why! Is it you?” cried Simon, recognizing his school-fellow, who was holding off three older boys.

“Let me go! You have no right to keep me,” cried Patrick, struggling valiantly. “Come, Simon, speak to them!”

“You are a spy!” said the leader. “According to our law, you should pay dearly. Confess! What were you doing here?”

“I wanted to make sure if the hut was inhabited. I heard a noise inside, and I listened. This hut is not yours, I bet.”

Simon made a sign to the leader who went outside with him. “Guard the prisoner,” he said to the remaining three; “we are going to decide on his fate.”

Patrick, judging that all resistance was useless, since he was one against three, sat down and inspected the hut by the light of the two lanterns suspended from nails. Thick cobwebs decorated the ceiling; the only furnishings were some old cases turned upside down and a worn-out stove where the fire was dying out. This cabin, Patrick learned later, had been the home of a road mender. After his death, the land had been bought by a speculator, who hesitated to pull down the hut in hopes of finding a lover of solitude disposed to offer him triple the price that he paid! This explains how the hut became the rendezvous of a secret gang.

The door opened and the leader, followed by Simon, burst with a gust of icy wind into the little dark room.

“This is what we propose,” said the elder boy. “Choose! Either you agree to join our gang and sign this paper; or we tie you up and you spend the night here shivering, all alone. I just mention that the rats would keep you company!”

“That doesn’t frighten me,” said Patrick; “show me this paper and tell me what you do.”

“We don’t confide our secrets to outsiders. Here is the page to sign on.”

Patrick read: “The signatory solemnly promises:

to become one of the band called “Jolly Outlaws Society.”

to tell no one, not even his parents, of their doings.

never to betray a fellow member.

to obey all orders given.

to have the same friends and the same enemies as his allies.

to present himself once a fortnight (except for very important reasons) at the place of meeting indicated.

to contribute fifty cents a month towards the expenses of the society.

Much impressed, Patrick said again; “I want to know what you do; I can’t promise without considering it.”

“Come on, sign it!” said Simon; “you’ll be awfully glad to be one of us, as you love adventures and detective stories. For weeks I’ve been longing to invite you. We just play tricks on those who deserve them, and punish milksops - like John Garnier. We have great fun, my word! Life is never dull when we’re all together.”

The wind whistled in the old stove pipe where the last embers burned feebly. One of the lanterns was out. Patrick, pencil in hand, read over the conditions of membership, while the other boys grew impatient. He seemed to hear Mr. Berger’s voice saying, “One can choose, it is true, and go his own way, but it is not the way to find happiness.” What would Philip do in his place? If only he could have stayed at the farm!

“You don’t do anything bad?” he ventured.

The reply was mocking laughter; “Ah, the young saint! The precious innocent! We must let him go back to his mother!”

“He will be contaminated in our company!” “Shut up!” said Simon angrily. “Patrick is not a noodle. I know him. At school he knows how to fight; he never shows the white feather. He will make us a good comrade.”

Dad is gone, thought Patrick; the house is sold; I’ve lost Ralph. There’s nothing interesting at home now. To be one of a secret gang is a chance I shan’t get again. “I’ll sign,” he said quickly; “there, it is done!”

“Good!” said the chief. “We’ll introduce ourselves. My name is Cyril. Here are Bob, Charles and Andrew. At our next meeting we’ll set our plans working. Simon will give you the orders. Now go! one by one, so that no one notices us. So long, my merry men!”

A Change of Friends

“Patrick, what does this mean? Your report is disgraceful. Apart from one B for math, all the marks are below half. What a difference between Carol and you! Look at this report of your sister’s; her grades are all A’s and B’s and one A for conduct. You ought to be ashamed to cause me more trouble, as if I hadn’t enough without this. It’s a fine present that you bring me!”

Patrick, with flushed cheeks and sullen brow, remained obstinately silent.

“You are naturally cleverer than I am,” contributed Carol; “if only you’d study a little, instead of roaming about with Simon. Since you’ve chummed up with him, it’s spoiled you for homework and trying to be top of your class. You did ever so much better when John Garnier was your friend, didn’t you?”

“Don’t speak of John to me!” cried Patrick; “he’s a smart fellow. The teachers all favor him; it’s not surprising he gets good grades. Besides, do you think I’d want to go and see him in possession of all that belonged to us? I’ve made him understand that I’ve broken with him, and I’m not sorry; Simon is much more fun.”

“That is no excuse for being slack in your work, and now failing in the term’s exams,” said Mrs. Demier. “Here I am working to the limit of my strength to keep you and pay your school bills, and you can’t even take a little trouble to study. When school re-opens I shall limit your outings to the half holidays, and I insist on your working during vacation.”

Necessity had given Mrs. Demier unsuspected strength. The despair into which she had been plunged for several months had given place to a degree of energy, somewhat feverish, it is true; but the work and the satisfaction of ensuring the wellbeing of her children had cured her of the discouragement and apathy in which she had sunk, and her health improved. She had taken on her former work of saleswoman in a large dress shop in the neighboring town. When she came home exhausted each evening, she just managed to swallow the meal that Carol had prepared, then went off to bed. She did not come home during the day, so the young people ate at a restaurant.

Patrick had suffered secretly from these changes. His hours of study did not always correspond with his sister’s, and he had a horror of finding himself alone in the deserted apartment. He never felt at home there; a feeling of being abandoned made him get out of it as quickly as possible, leaving books and exercises to their sad fate. Since becoming a member of the clandestine league, he invented a thousand pretexts to escape still more often. Being very intelligent, he had succeeded in keeping up appearances for a time in those subjects where reason and memory served him. However, his teachers noticed with concern his attitude of idleness and apathy.

Carol also had changed. At school the happy frolicsome child was transformed into a cold reserved girl, who seldom took part in the lively games of her classmates. Studious and diligent, she ranked with the best pupils in her class, and it was only scholastic successes which brought a fleeting smile of triumph to her serious face.

One day she happened to overhear a conversation which had wounded her deeply.

“My parents won’t let me invite Carol home now,” said her former friend in a sour voice; “her parents are divorced, they are ruined; her mother goes out to work! They are no longer in our circle.”

“There’s nothing dishonorable in work,” retorted Clare Garnier, John’s sister, with indignant voice. “It would be mean of us to drop Carol; she already has enough trouble, without our turning our backs on her.”

Carol slipped away so as to hear no more. Colette’s contempt and Clare’s sympathy were alike-odious to her. She did not want anyone to befriend her out of pity, and the fickleness of her best friend was revolting to her. From the day after this conversation Carol showed herself distant and icy towards Colette and ignored Clare’s advances. She had only one aim now; to surpass her companions and gain a scholarship in order to continue her studies. This would be her reaction to their scorn and pity.

=============================

One evening late in December, discontented with himself and with nothing to look forward to, Patrick wandered aimlessly in the busy streets. The nasal sounds of a barrel-organ attracted him; then for a long time he stood with his nose pressed against the window of a toyshop. An airplane kit, was the object of his consuming desire. He sighed hopelessly: no one would dream of giving him one, or anything else, that holiday season. His mother had too many other things to buy; Carol was saving up for a new dictionary. His father did not care about them; he had only troubled to send one card in three months.

“I could at least ask the price,” he said to himself. The shop was full and the busy assistants hurried from one buyer to another. “What is it you want?” one of them asked him.

“I’d like to know the price of the airplane kit in the window.”

“A dollar seventy-five. Here’s one; I’ll pack it up for you.”

“No, no,” said Patrick with an embarrassed air, fingering his only dollar; “I just wanted to know the price.”

The salesman gave him an icy look and turned his back. At this moment, he noticed the presence of John Garnier, who, with arms full of parcels, looked at him in surprise, while his mother was paying for them at the cash desk. Furious at being seen in his humiliation, Patrick hastily left the noisy, overheated shop. He continued his wandering, hands in the pocket of his wind-breaker.

From a bank of cyclamen and azaleas came a guttural voice that made him start: “If you don’t know what to do, my boy, I have a job for you.” Seated on a packing case, with legs crossed, a little hunchback fixed Patrick with a piercing eye.

“What is it you want?” asked Patrick.

“Carry these pots of flowers to my customers. Was it necessary for my delivery boy to get the idea of falling sick at the holiday season? Just like his impudence! And here I am with all these plants on my hands. Will you help me? Yes or no?”

Amused at the tragic tone of the little man, Patrick replied: “I am not experienced in this kind of work, but if you’ll wait a moment, I’ll run and get my bicycle. Then you can give me directions, and I’ll try to replace your errand boy.”

Ten minutes later Patrick returned and, with some misgivings, submitted to having strapped on his back a heavy basket loaded with delicate plants, each one encased in transparent paper.

“Be very careful! Don’t drop them! You have to treat flowers like eggs. And don’t loiter on the way; there are two more baskets still to deliver. Here are the addresses; all these plants are for the same area, so it won’t take long.”

Intrigued by finding himself engaged in this novel role, Patrick set off and rode carefully, thinking of the precious charge he carried. He knew the town well and found his way easily. His first trip was completed without accident. The first time he rang at a door his heart quickened a little, and the tip he received made him blush. Happily all the people were strangers, who took him for the gardener’s apprentice and did not look at him twice.

The second load brought him to the luxurious hotel of the Golden Lion, owned by Simon’s father. As he placed a huge azalea in the porter’s hands, Simon, always on the watch, put an inquisitive head round the half open door.

“Wait, Demier! What good wind blows you here?
It is just right, I wanted to see you. What have you got? Flowers? You’ve found a new way to get rich?”

“What is it that is so important to tell me? Tell me quickly,” replied Patrick. “I have a lot more to deliver and it’s getting late.”

Simon came close and whispered in his ear, “Try to get to the hut at 10 a.m. on Saturday; Cyril has something to tell us. I think he is organizing a big expedition. Unfortunately I can’t go. I’m going to Zermatt tomorrow with my parents.”

“Good! I’ll be there,” said Patrick, a gleam of light in his somber eyes. “Goodbye, I must fly.”

With a smile of satisfaction, the florist entrusted to him the third basket heavier than the others. “You are quick, my friend; that suits me! I don’t like the jokers that dawdle and gossip on the way. When you’ve finished this round, come and find me at my house, number seven, Three-Mirrors Street. Not after seven o’clock, you understand? And now-be off!”

The straps pressed heavily on Patrick’s shoulders. Still he felt much happier as he pedaled along the gray road, half blinded now by the snowflakes which stung his face like a swarm of white bees. He was satisfied with his well-employed afternoon, and the prospect of an approaching adventure made him forget his disagreeable schoolwork.

“What does my bad report matter?” thought he. “When I bring the money I’ve earned to Mum, she will forgive me. Besides, I’ve no ambition to become a model pupil!”

At last there was only one plant left in the deep basket. On reading the address on its label Patrick shuddered.

“Dr. John Garnier, La Maison-Claire, 24 Mariners’ Avenue.”

“I won’t go there!” thought the boy; “to see John receive me at the door of our house is too much to ask. I’ll tell the florist that I couldn’t find these people, that no one was at home.”

Night had fallen. Patrick kept pedaling along the slippery road where the big snowflakes were melting into slush. He dreaded seeing again his old home, nevertheless, his bicycle carried him towards the Maison-Claire. One more bend in the road and the pointed roof emerged from among the trees. He got off, leaned his bicycle against the wall and pushed open the wrought-iron gate. It was very dark, no one could see him; he put the plant beside a bush and slowly skirted the house.

Nothing had changed in appearance. The weeping willow tree brushed his hair as he passed it. A bright light from the bay-window of the lounge made him stop abruptly and keep in the shadows. All the Garnier family were together, singing; the father in an armchair with a child on each knee, Clare perched on a stool and John standing near the piano which his mother was playing. But what struck Patrick most was the angel-face of a little girl lying in a bed by the fire. A great weight hung at the foot of the bed, but the child, with a radiant face, seemed not to think of herself and sang with all her heart: Oh, let Thy love paternal Now grant me slumber deep; And safely underneath Thy wing, Good Shepherd, may I sleep.”

They all looked so very happy, so united; a vague bitterness filled Patrick’s soul. He saw again the face of his father, so far from them now. A year ago he was with them. Mum had invited the grandparents from the mountains; Grandmother had asked for “Silent Night, Holy Night!” and Mother had played it on the same piano that Mrs. Garnier was now using. Recalling that pleasant evening only made his present one seem more bleak.

Heedless of the freezing cold, Patrick listened to the singing, unable to take his eyes from this vision of happiness. Suddenly the song ended and John turned and walked towards the window. Coming to himself, Patrick raced away and scaled the wall close to the bush where he had left his burden. In haste he seized the plant, carried it to the porch and rang the night-bell loudly. Then turning round, he disappeared into the darkness.

“How strange!” cried Mrs. Garnier, entering the lounge carrying the enormous cyclamen, “the delivery boy was gone! I should have liked to give him a hot drink; it was really noble of him to come so far in such weather.”

“We are well off to be all at home,” cried Clare, pushing back into the fire a big log that was falling out. “It is our first holiday season at Maison Claire. What shall we do to celebrate it?”

“Thinking of that,” said Doctor Garnier; “what has become of your schoolfellow, the young Demier, who lived here? It seems to me, John, that you never mention him now, and he doesn’t come to see you.”

“Patrick detests me now,” replied the boy; “since we bought their house he has turned against me. He’s jealous when I get ahead of him in class, and whenever he can do me a bad turn, he does it.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” cried Mrs. Garnier. “The child is unhappy, no doubt. I can understand he feels badly about leaving such a nice home. Where does he live now?”

“In an apartment building in the center of the town,” replied John. “They say that his father went off somewhere, and his parents are going to get a divorce. He has gone down terribly at school; no one would know him for the same boy.”

“Then, John,” said Mr. Garnier; “you knew his tragic circumstances and you did not give him a helping hand? You who profess to know the Lord and serve Him!”

John turned red and answered quickly: “But he won’t let me help him. He has shown plainly that he doesn’t want my friendship. I can do nothing for him, so I don’t try any more.”

“I too,” broke in Clare. “I’ve tried to show friendship to Carol, but she is so proud that she disdains us all and keeps entirely to herself. She is much cleverer than I am at school, and has no need to envy me. Whose fault is it that she is so unfriendly? Let her stay in her corner or on her pinnacle, if she wants to!”

“Is it thus that the Good Shepherd acted with the wandering sheep, my children? Did He say, ‘If this sheep is so stupid as to separate itself from the others, let it stay where it is, I don’t care’?”

“No,” said a little voice from the bed; “the Good Shepherd sought the little lamb, and then He found it in a big hole.”

“I ought to have concerned myself with that family,” exclaimed Mrs. Garnier, re-entering the room with a baby on her arm. “The birth of Francis and then moving house took up all my attention. What can we do to make up for our selfishness?”

“First of all, we must pray for them,” said her husband gravely. “Let us ask the Lord to open a way to help these children and bring them a little happiness. To invite them here would only give them pain, after what John has said.”

“We could send them a parcel,” proposed Clare.

“No, that would hurt their pride, since they couldn’t make us any return. It is a delicate situation. We should try to make contact with them, not by offering them gifts, but asking for their help. After that, they will accept ours.”

“I truly don’t see how I could approach Patrick,” said John thoughtfully. “Besides, he pals with Simon Conty, one of the worst fellows in our class. I always meet them together, and one never knows what they are plotting.”

“All the same, this boy seemed to me to have a very sensitive nature,” said the mother. “Pray for him! Nothing is impossible to God.”

A timid knock at the door was followed by a long silence. It was certainly the abode of the little hunchback. Smiling, Patrick reread the name scribbled on a shabby card, stuck in a dark corner: “Isidor Mollet, Nursery Gardener; 7, Three Mirrors Street.” He had not made a mistake; so he knocked again, more vigorously. This time he heard a scratching and the sound of approaching feet. The door opened and showed the rosy face of the florist, wearing a big smile.

“Ah! it is you, my friend! Come right in. You did me famous service; it shall not be said that Isidor Mollet is ungrateful. I’ll pay my debt immediately. Sit down, I’ll be back in a moment.”

Patrick obeyed, and when the little man had gone limping into the next room, he inspected his surroundings. It was a sort of workroom where, in spite of an assortment of tools, wrapping papers, ribbon and flower pots of all sizes, everything was in beautiful order. A large thin cat, black as soot, stretched itself and rubbed against him. On the wall a text engraved on polished wood held Patrick’s attention. The words were: “The Father Himself loveth you” (John 16:27).

Patrick’s eyes clouded. Of what father did it speak? Not his, for certain. One does not abandon those one loves. Did God love him? Surely not! God seemed so far away and unconcerned.

A door creaked; the gardener reappeared and placed in Patrick’s hand two silver coins which brought a smile of satisfaction to the boy’s gloomy face.

“There! You have well earned them, for you are not used to the trade,” said he in his nasal voice. Then, seizing a plant wrapped in pink paper, he offered it to him. “This is for your parents. Do they like flowers?” Patrick, fearing embarrassing questions, hastened to take it from the gardener’s hand saying: “Thank you, sir; my mother will be delighted. If ever I can help you again, I’ll be pleased to do so. Here is my address.”

The cat jumped familiarly onto its master’s shoulders, purring loudly and wreathing his head with its supple tail.

“Come over here! Hurry up!” cried a strange voice. The hunchback paid no attention.

“Someone is calling you,” said Patrick, “I must go now.”

“It is Lustucru; he can surely wait a moment.” “Who is Lustucru?” asked Patrick wonderingly. “My parrot. It is true that he hasn’t been fed. Good-bye! I shall hope to see you again.”

The Secret Plan

“Here’s a bit of bad luck! My father has broken his leg skiing! We had to come down from Zermatt - and all my hopes of becoming a champion this winter are squashed. I’m condemned to staying here all the holidays!”

“Poor old Simon! But we must hurry up, it’s nearly 10 o’clock, and you know Cyril doesn’t like waiting. After all, you’re no worse off than I am. At least we’re going to plan something exciting today.”

A quick run in the melting snow, and the two boys reached the hut where the other four members of the gang were assembled.

“Ah! Here you are at last,” said Cyril. “Why, Simon, you here too? I thought you were on the mountain.” Simon told of his father’s accident, and enlarged again on his sad lot.

“Nothing is more boring than this holiday season. There is nothing to do but listen to the radio,” cried Bob.

“Have you any plans for New Year’s Day?” asked Cyril of the two brothers, Charlie and Andrew.

“The same as usual. Dad and Mum will be at the theater till midnight and sleep nearly all day. We’ll go to watch television at one of our schoolmates.”

“And you, Patrick, what are you doing?”

“Nothing special. My sister is at Grandma’s, and Mum will go to fetch her that day. I shall be at home alone.”

“If you are all in favor of it, this is my proposal: a little tour for six by car!”

“What car? Have you borrowed one?” cried Bob in astonishment.”

“No.”

“Well?”

“Oh, well, one will turn up,” said Cyril. “You couldn’t ask your father for his, could you, Simon? Being in the hospital, he can’t use it.”

“I can’t see him lending it to us! Besides, who’d drive?”

“I’ll undertake that,” said Cyril.

“But you’ve no license, since you’re not eighteen yet.”

“I’m a mechanic, you know. Nothing is easier than to drive a car.”

“It costs a lot to hire a car,” said Patrick.

“Hire! The idea! You take us for millionaires. We are going - quite frankly - to pinch [borrow without permission] one for a day. Everyone should have a chance for a bit of pleasure.”

“And if we get caught?” cried Charlie.

“Not so stupid!”

“But, I say, Cyril, we’ve already been nabbed once,” said Bob. “You remember last year - ”

“I was green in those days. Now I’m experienced. Do you really know how to drive?”

“Where shall we go? When do we start?”

“Shut up!” said Cyril, “or don’t speak all together. Before we decide where to go or when to start, we must organize ourselves. This evening, each of you will explore one part of the town, noticing the cars and vans parked on the streets. At 8:30 meet at Simon’s to report. You understand?”

“Right!” agreed all the lads except Patrick, who was seated a little apart. Simon noticed this and taunted him loudly.

“This project doesn’t rouse your enthusiasm, old boy. Are you afraid of the cops, or what?”

A fierce conflict was going on in the boy’s heart. “It looks to me like stealing,” he murmured. Cyril’s sneering voice answered him. “You’ve never pinched anything in your life, of course? You won’t make me believe that.”

“This is not stealing,” chimed in Bob, “since we shall return the car in the evening.”

“Now, Patrick, just think; it would be marvelous driving all six of us!” cried Simon. “We’ll go and ski on the mountain.”

“Just when we could have a little pleasure for once,” added Andrew bitterly, “you are trying to spoil it.”

“I’ll see,” said Patrick, getting up; “I’ll decide this evening.”

He went out of the hut bewildered, his mind in a turmoil. He resolved to go up as far as Philip Berger’s, in the unconfessed hope of finding a solution to his inner conflicts. No one expected him for dinner; Carol was gone for the holiday, and his mother would not be home till evening.

The peace of the countryside sleeping under a light covering of snow calmed his spirit. The dark outline of the leafless trees had an austere beauty that appealed to him. After a long walk in the frozen solitude, the Berger’s farm appeared, like a haven of refuge. It was Philip who welcomed him with his usual friendliness. “I hope you’ll come in and eat with us,” he said, when they had paid a visit to Ralph. “I’m sure we have enough for one more.”

Patrick accepted eagerly and felt cheered at once by the warmth and appetizing smell of the big kitchen, where a huge fire was blazing. Before the soup was served, something to which Patrick was unaccustomed took place. The family bowed their heads as Mr. Berger thanked God for the food that He gave them and asked His blessing on the household.

“How are you spending your holidays?” asked the farmer while his wife filled the plates.

“I think you’re studying your German dictionary,” said Philip mischievously.

“Not much! I have more than enough of that at school. Please don’t speak to me of school during the holidays!”

“And I would have liked so much to study,” said Philip. Patrick turned an astonished face on the young man.

“My son, Philip, has denied himself for the family’s sake,” said Mr. Berger. “So that his younger brothers should have a chance, he gave up college and agreed to help me.”

“It’s not a great sacrifice, Father,” said the modest lad, wishing they would not speak of him. “At least the winter is free for my books. Bring me yours, Patrick, and we’ll work together.”

Patrick’s face flushed. He dared not admit that he had failed in the term’s exams and would probably be flunked in the spring.

Philip noted the boy’s discomfort and the troubled look he wore since his arrival. He said no more, but resolved to have a word with him alone. After dinner he asked him to accompany him to a neighboring village, hoping that he would open up more easily during the walk. To his disappointment Patrick refused. He was expected at a friend’s house for something important, he explained. Philip read such distress in the boy’s eyes that he couldn’t help saying: “Patrick, we don’t know each other very well yet. I am only a farmer and can’t make speeches, but it seems to me that you have a weight on your mind. I won’t question you or force your confidence. Only be sure that I am always ready to help you. No matter what the circumstances are, don’t be afraid to come to me.”

“Thank you,” said Patrick, gruffly. How he longed to tell all to this loyal, good friend, but he had promised never to speak of the club or of what was planned there. Impossible to turn back now!

“There are some circumstances,” went on Philip, “when no one can help us but God. His help is never withheld from those who ask it with all their heart.”

Patrick, his throat too dry to speak, held out his hand to Philip. Then, turning away quickly, he ran towards the gate. For one instant, under the young man’s influence, he thought of giving up the gang. But what would the others think? They would accuse him of cowardice and treachery. And had not the club become the spice of life to him?

“Dad has deserted us,” he thought bitterly. “What does it matter whether I behave well or badly?”

Stolen Keys

“A marvelous job!” cried Bob and Charlie together, as Simon let Patrick into the room where the meeting was being held.

“Tell us quickly,” said Cyril. “We’ll see who has the best project.”

“You tell, Bob,” said Charlie.

“We had nearly finished exploring our quarter and were thinking of returning with an empty bag, when we suddenly noticed a minivan standing in a back alley. A funny little man got out of it, loaded with parcels. He let one fall; Charlie rushed to pick it up and we both followed into the house. While the man bent down to dispose of his packages, I pocketed the car key which he had put on the table. The good man, being a bit simple, saw nothing, and thanked us as if we had saved his life! Here is the key!”

“Three cheers for Charlie and Bob!” cried Simon. “Now we have only to decide when we’ll start.”

“Wait!” said Cyril: “What if the good man needs the car this evening and he can’t find the key? Has he a garage?”

“No, he told us that he leaves it outside, didn’t he, Bob?”

“Yes; and as for the key, he surely has a second one; he’ll think he has lost this.”

“I congratulate you,” said Cyril. “I don’t think either of us has been as wicked as you! I suggest, then, that we choose a fairly quiet place in the Jura and start tomorrow at 7 a.m. Meet at the hut, where I will join you. It will be best if Charlie and I go alone to collect the car. A crowd attracts attention. Andrew, what are our finances?”

“There’s two fives and four quarters in the box. Enough to buy a little gas and something hot to drink. Each one bring his lunch and skis, if he owns any.”

“I can provide a sled,” said Bob.

“What is the car owner’s name?” asked Patrick suddenly.

“I don’t know. I didn’t notice the name on his door,” said Charlie. “Did you, Bob?”

“No, not I. We were too eager to get hold of the key and get out as quickly as possible. Besides, it was dark; the alley was badly lighted.”

“What bad detectives!” taunted Cyril. “Can you be sure of finding the car, Charlie?”

“Make no mistake! I took my bearings. It’s not far from the theater.”

“Well, that’s settled. How will you explain your absence?”

“My mother will be at the hospital,” said Simon. “Anyway, it makes little difference. When she and Dad are here, they are so busy I scarcely see them. It’s not much fun being the son of a hotel manager! All the same, I’ll leave a note to say I’m invited to Patrick’s.”

“I’ve no need to explain,” said Patrick. “Mum starts at 6 a.m. tomorrow and doesn’t return till evening. She thinks I’m going to Simon’s.”

“Our parents will be pleased to get rid of us, won’t they, Charlie?”

“Yes,” replied the boy, in a bitter tone. “If we leave them in peace, it is all they ask of us. Our stepmother hates us, she makes us feel all the time that we’re not wanted.”

“What should we do without the club?” cried Bob. “I should be bored to death.”

“Without you fellows I should have left the country long ago,” said Cyril darkly.

“Are you so unhappy at home?” asked Patrick.

“I am not at home - My guardian detests me and always tries to frustrate me; but I’ll contrive to escape once more. What does it matter that he punishes me afterward. I’ll have had my day of liberty!”

The Stolen Car

For Isidor Tranche Mollet, the first of January was an important date. He woke with a feeling of excitement, like that which a child feels on its birthday morning. He had decided to give himself a one-day holiday, to go to see his sister, a farmer’s wife, in a village of the Jura; and he would make this journey in the car he had just purchased. The little hunchback was longing to show his relatives his new acquisition, which years of persevering work had allowed him to get. He had dreamed of this car for months, and the dream had been realized only three days! Every time he glanced at “her” from across the road, his heart beat faster. At night his last look was at “her”, and in the morning his first concern was to make sure that “she” was still waiting his pleasure.

This New Year’s morning, unlike his usual habit, he did not hurry to get up. He had worked late into the night to deliver his last orders and wind up his accounts, so he enjoyed the rare pleasure of a late morning and slept happily, dreaming that he had plenty of time since his car would carry him so quickly. Towards nine o’clock he got up, warmed up a cup of coffee, and put together the little presents that he was taking to his relatives.

“The cake will please Louise,” he thought; “she is like me, fond of sweet things.”

What was his horror when he opened the window and threw his usual glance into the deserted alley! The car had disappeared! He rubbed his eyes and leaned out to see if by chance he could be mistaken in his parking place. He recognized the gray station-wagon of his neighbor, but of his cherished blue van - no trace!

“Am I dreaming?” he murmured. “She can’t have flown away.”

He went out, examined the road high and low, then rushed panic-stricken into the baker’s shop at the corner, eager to pour out his trouble. He thumped on the closed door.

“It is New Year’s day,” he recollected; “I am beside myself! The shops are shut. Someone must have stolen her last night, but who could have done it? However, I have the keys.”

Pale and haggard with the shock, he returned to his workshop.

“It’s true I searched for them last night. Did I leave them in the car? No, I remember bringing them in with me. I’m sure I put them down here.” The poor man turned over everything in his workshop, but in vain. “There is only one thing to do,” he said to himself, at his wit’s end: “telephone the police and capture the rascal who has played me this trick.” He seized the receiver and called the police station.

“Here is Isidor Mollet, florist. I find that someone stole my car last night. A blue minivan, license No. 47649. Last evening it was still there. No, I did not leave the keys in the car. I’m sure I locked the doors. This morning the whole outfit is missing. I have no single clue to give you. No, no one entered my house last evening - that is to say - yes! two boys who helped me carry in some parcels, but I would be surprised - No, I don’t know their names; they stayed only a minute or two. Please let me know as quickly as possible. The radio? Oh, yes, I should not have thought of that. Do what you like - never mind what! Provided I recover her! Good! Thank you.”

He hung up the receiver and sank down on a stool. All the pleasure he had promised himself on this day had melted away. He looked at his parcels; the sight of the cake sickened him.

“Can this be true?” he sighed. “What shall I do today? And suppose the car can’t be found?” He consulted the timetable. The train for Bonaventure had gone. Besides, the poor man felt too upset to set out on the journey. When he recovered a little, he phoned his sister and told her of his misfortune, then sat down sadly in his workshop. Achille came and rubbed against his legs, and Lustucru behaved like an imp in his cage, retailing all the pearls of his repertory; but he felt strangely lonely and forlorn.

“My Bible is still left to me,” he said to himself; “and that is my greatest treasure.” He opened the well-used volume and began to read at the page where he had put in his bookmark. “And this is the confidence that we have in Him, that if we ask anything according to His will, He heareth us; and if we know that He hear us, whatsoever we ask, we know that we have the petitions that we desired of Him” (1 John 5:14-15).

“I am silly to worry myself,” he thought. “If it is God’s will that I recover my car, He will give it back to me. I have only to commit it all to Him. He knows better than I what must be done.” On his knees in the dimly lit room, the little hunchback poured out his heart before the Lord who, he knew, was interested in the least detail of his life. He was about to rise when he suddenly thought, “I must also pray for the thief. Whoever he is, he has need of God’s mercy.”

Out of Control

At the fringe of the forest four figures were stamping about to warm themselves in the gray dawn of a frosty morning.

“It has struck seven; why don’t they come? I’m freezing!” cried Patrick, tumbling down from the fir tree on which he had perched to scan the horizon.

“We’d be better off in bed,” sighed lazy Bob. Andrew’s teeth chattered.

The sound of an approaching minivan made them prick up their ears. “There they are!” cried Simon, “I recognize Cyril.”

The four boys advanced cautiously to the road. The car stopped. Quickly the doors opened and then the six were all inside, together with three pairs of skis and two sleds.

“Br-r-r! How cold it is! Glad you’ve got here, Cyril; we couldn’t have held out much longer,” cried the boys, rubbing their hands and clapping them together.

“We had to push the car,” replied Cyril; “it made such a noise starting - enough to wake the whole neighborhood. It was too risky. And then it took minutes to warm up the engine after such a cold night.”

“You feel safe as to driving?”

“Nothing is easier than to drive this machine. The only snag is the frozen road; I’ll have to go very slowly.”

“Hadn’t we better wait half an hour in the forest before facing the pass? Then the sun will have melted the ice,” proposed Bob.

“No, it’s better to get away as quickly as possible, in case we are chased,” retorted Cyril, brusquely. His eyes were glued to the road, his brows knitted, and Patrick kept rubbing the glass with his handkerchief to get rid of the half-frozen vapor.

“The snow will be just right for skiing,” Simon declared. “We’ll have a smashing time! A whole day on skis, in perfect weather; how super!”

The villages through which Cyril drove them, as quickly as the slippery road permitted, were just awaking from sleep. A door opened; a shutter creaked. Cows began to moo and dogs to bark. An old woman, all muffled up, came out on her doorstep and stared at the car, shaking her head as if to say, “These young folk, they think of nothing but dashing about.”

Soon the car turned onto a narrower road bordered with a huge plantation of black firs, growing so closely that the light could scarcely filter through their somber foliage.

“There’s a hide-out to keep in mind for the day we’re hunted,” said Bob. “That is, if your great body could manage to squeeze between the trunks! It’s absolutely necessary you should slim, Bob,” said Cyril. “Fatness doesn’t become a member of our club - you’re scarcely able to run. You remember how you were nearly caught when we painted Father Michou’s car red!”

“How mad he was!” cried Simon. “Happily he never guessed who the culprits were!”

“I know I’m a glutton,” agreed Bob; “but I’ve never known you to refuse when I offer to share with you! Besides, I can do other things than eating. Recollect that it was I who made the bomb jump in the school corridor, and who sprinkled the sneezing powder on the professor’s desk.”

“All right, Bob, don’t take offense! We know your virtues,” said Cyril. “No one is sharper than you at sneaking the rolls from the baker’s, and what’s more, we all enjoy your spoils.”

“We must tell you about our special gifts, Patrick,” declared Simon, “now you are enrolled as one of our band. Bob, then, is the specialist in pilfering; his large good-tempered face disarms everyone; no one distrusts him. Charlie has the gift of forging - no matter whose signature, which is a great asset when I don’t want to show my school report at home. Andrew is the practical one who can do anything with his hands. Everything he undertakes is a sure success. He’s almost too good to be one of us! As for myself, you know me; no need to describe myself.”

“Simon is our secret agent,” Cyril put in. “He hears everything, sees and understands everything. We’ve christened him ‘The Intelligence Service.’”

“As for Cyril, he stirs us all up and shoots us into adventures! He is our head, we are only the working body.”

“And I?” thought Patrick; “what role shall I play in this club?”

As if guessing his thoughts, Cyril went on: “You, Patrick, haven’t yet made proof of your abilities. The next dangerous mission shall be your job, to bring you up to scratch.”

“What mission?” said Simon, eagerly. “You look as if something is in your mind.”

“You told me once of a boy in your class who seems to spy on you and aggravates you with his pious airs?”

“John Garnier!” interrupted Simon; “and what can we do to him? Play a good trick on him? Confess, Patrick - how many times have you punctured his bicycle tires?”

“Uncountable,” said Patrick, laughing.

“What has he done to make you detest him so much?” asked Andrew.

“Many things,” responded Patrick, sourly; “And he gets on my nerves. He actually preaches to us. I should like just once to give him a bad quarter of an hour, and see if he would keep up his saintly behavior. “

“Let’s put him in a pit,” proposed Cyril, “and leave him there to simmer a few hours. It’s up to you to fix the day and arrange the ambush, Patrick.”

“We must disguise ourselves and put on masks for sure,” said Bob.

“I propose the first day of term,” said Simon; “we come out at 5 p.m. - nearly dark. That will be perfect.”

Patrick said nothing. A vague uneasiness took hold of him. Surely this was too cruel a vengeance on John for simply living up to what he believed right. But how could he get out of it now? Wouldn’t they accuse him of cowardice?

The zig-zag road became steeper, and the driver had to maneuver very carefully, grazing the rocky hillside for fear of the precipice. Suddenly, in the middle of a hairpin bend, the vehicle stopped and began to slide back!

“Brake!” cried Patrick, pulling the handbrake with all his might. The car turned round and stopped dead.

“Can’t you make it start again? Perhaps you have stalled the engine.” This from Simon.

Other cars, held up behind them, sounded their horns impatiently; the unfortunate minivan right across the road, completely barred their progress. What an incredibly awkward position! Furious at attracting so much attention, Cyril did everything he could, but with no result. The driver of the next car got out and spoke indignantly.

“Couldn’t you choose some other spot to stop in? Do you know how to drive, or don’t you?”

“I don’t know what happened,” retorted Cyril. “The car stopped all at once, and I can’t find out how to start it again.”

The dismayed air of the young driver disarmed the motorist, who came to look, saying, “Let me try.”

Cyril gave up his place to him. “What a simpleton!” cried the stranger, with a burst of laughter; “don’t you see that you’re out of gas? You are a fine driver! I doubt if you’ve passed your test, for no one would take you for eighteen. You hardly deserve it, but all the same, I’m willing to help you out.”

The stranger ran to his car, took out a tin of gas and poured the contents into the tank. “There,” he said, “that’s one dollar. Try to get to the pass on that, for I’ve no more to spare.”

The boys overwhelmed him with thanks, paid for the gas, and soon the line of cars moved on. They were still some little distance from the pass.

“We’ll stop only a minute to get gas,” said Cyril, still rather crestfallen. “We must avoid all crowds, in case the police have been alerted. Better to park in some side road and go on foot to the restaurant.”

This is what they did. Going back downhill slowly, the boys inspected the roadsides looking for a place to hide the van. Impossible to put it in the forest where it would sink in the snow.

“I see a farm down there on the left,” cried Charlie; “the road to it should be open.”

With great care Cyril steered them along an uneven track, with so much jolting that they were thrown one against another amid hilarious laughter.

“There, between those two firs,” suggested Simon. One last effort and the vehicle was parked. Nothing more was needed than to pile up some snow about the car, and to cover it with fir branches.

“It’s perfect,” approved Patrick; “from a few yards, no one can spot it.”

“Now let’s make the most of our time,” cried Simon. “I know a good smooth ski-track, and I’ve a pocket full of money for the ski-lift. Forward, Jolly Outlaws! Pat, take these skis. I greased them for you last night.” Simon was already gliding on his well-varnished skis, followed by Cyril and Patrick. Bob, Andrew and Charlie pulled their sleds onto the slope. They were soon lost in the crowd of amateur sportsmen who brightened the glistening snow with many and various colors.

“Meet in the restaurant at midday,” called Cyril, before disappearing behind a hill. Charlie and Andrew streaked past on their sled, guided by Bob, lying flat on his own. As for Patrick, he recollected the last excursion on skis that he had taken with his father, an expert in all sports; he was still in good form, and tried to follow out his father’s counsels. The pleasure of flying over the snow, powdery to perfection, succeeded in dispelling his lingering scruples.

“After all,” thought he, “it’s only my right to amuse myself like other people.”

At noon, driven by hunger, the six comrades met in the crowded restaurant, where popular music drowned the rattling of dishes and the babel of voices.

“Let’s sit there,” proposed Patrick; “we will be in the best place to enjoy the radio and hear the weather forecast.”

Around the bowls of steaming savory soup the boys unpacked their lunches.

“I’ve brought a sausage,” cried Simon, showing a huge one.

“Mine is chocolate roll,” said Bob, the sweet-tooth.

“We have lemonade and cheese,” added Charlie and Andrew.

“There’s plenty of bread; we won’t die of hunger.”

Enjoyment was at its height when suddenly the dance music stopped to give place to a voice which made our merry diners tremble. “A blue minivan, No. 47649, belonging to Mr. I. Mollett, of 7, Three Mirrors Street, Montval, has disappeared this morning,” said the radio announcer. “Please telephone any useful information to Montval police station. I repeat the number - 47649.”

The voice ceased; music recommenced, brighter than before; but the boys had quite lost their appetites. Patrick, paler than the rest, questioned Bob.

“Why didn’t you tell me the owner’s name? I know that florist; I shouldn’t have come with you.”

“Shut up, Patrick! Pick up your rations, I’m going to pay for the soup. Out we go!” Cyril beckoned the waiter and settled his bill. Once outside, they breathed more freely.

“What shall we do, Cyril? Go home at once, or go on skiing?”

“Go home now? That would be the stupidest blunder we could make. The car is well hidden. We need only wait till dark. Have a good time and don’t be afraid. We’ll find a way out of this scrape!”

“I have an idea,” volunteered Simon. “Leave the car in a wood near the town. We’ll put the skis and sleds in the hut and go home on foot; so no one will see or know anything. The police will find the car next day.”

Cheered by this plan, the band took heart again, and set off with renewed vigor on the shining slopes. Patrick rushed at breakneck speed down the stiffest tracks, trying to stifle his remorse.

Presently clouds covered the sky which became dark and threatening. Fine flakes of snow appeared and whirled around overhead. One by one the skiers, disheartened by the piercing cold, took off their skis and went to their cars. A blinding squall of snow caused the six boys to get together.

“It’s useless to go on,” declared Bob; “it’s no more fun; we can hardly see.”

“Let’s go to the car; there’s not much risk now. Everyone is too anxious to get home to inspect our number.”

It was no easy task to get the van out of the ruts where she was embedded. By tremendous efforts in pushing behind, with much creaking, they finally reached the road. Numb and wet, the boys huddled together to try to get some warmth.

“I’m so hungry!” cried Charlie; “is there anything left to eat?”

“There’s still some bread and cheese in the box,” replied Simon.

“That must wait till later on,” said Cyril, quickly. “Don’t stop to eat now; we must get on.”

The snow fell more and more heavily and blocked their vision in spite of the windshield wiper. Soon fog enveloped them, and Cyril became really frightened in his position as driver.

Not only was the car out of his control, but the danger of swerving in that darkness which even the headlights could not pierce, filled him with uncontrollable dread.

“We must stop,” he said suddenly, “I can’t see anything.”

Patrick jumped out and began to clean off the windshield, now thick with snow.

“Shut the door,” cried Bob, “we’re freezing, and snow is coming in. If only we were a little nearer home!”

“Shut up, coward!” retorted Simon; “it’s no help to be a wet blanket. Cyril has enough trouble without hearing our lamentations.”

Just then a lifting of the fog restored the driver’s courage, and the car started on again. All the boys, with eyes straining on the wooded roadsides, helped him with advice.

“There’s a car behind us, Cyril! Don’t slow down!”

“Put on the big headlights.” Patrick did not cease rubbing the windshield with his handkerchief, and the boys endured without complaint a current of cold air so that no steam should detract from the precarious visibility.

A fresh wave of fog submerged them at the moment of reaching the hairpin bends which, even that morning, had needed all the skill of the amateur chauffeur. Suddenly Cyril felt the car skid on the frozen road. At once he tried to straighten it out by turning the steering-wheel first left, then right. Terrified, Patrick cried: “Put her in low gear!” But Cyril could no longer manage to maneuver. The gear grated; he pushed in the clutch, which only increased their speed. The van began to twist like a drunken man. Losing his head, Cyril frantically pressed the brake. With one bound, the vehicle turned round and went over the edge - into space - just as Simon opened the door and jumped out!

Trapped in a Wreck

Stunned by his fall, Simon lay still on the path. Little by little he came to himself, opened his eyes and realized what had happened. That dark object down below must be the minivan! Not a sound greeted his ears. Where then were his comrades? With aching limbs he got up, and shakily, blinded by the dancing snowflakes, he climbed down the bank, though sinking deep in snow at every step. His head ached badly; he shivered, and yet the sweat dropped from his brow.

“You’re not going to faint, like a girl!” he said to himself; “come, pull yourself together!”

As he neared the wrecked van, Simon’s heart beat more wildly. What was he about to find? His friends dead - or terribly injured? Collecting all his forces the boy dragged himself to the spot. A feeble moan gave him courage. “Anyway, there’s one survivor,” he thought. Searching his pockets, he found his flashlight and shone it in the direction of the sounds which grew louder.

“Cyril, Patrick, where are you? I’m coming to help you.”

“Here,” cried Cyril’s voice. “I can’t free myself. Come quick, I’m stifling!” Simon turned his light on the car, which was upside down and saw an arm waving from a window. With all his strength he pulled at the jammed door, which gave way suddenly. He saw his leader fixed tight between the steering wheel and the seat like a mouse in a trap. Below, in the debris of glass and iron, Bob and Andrew lay thrown together, unconscious. Patrick and Charlie had disappeared.

Simon’s first concern was to help Cyril struggle out of his dangerous position. Pulling at the seat which pressed on the wheel, he succeeded at last in loosening his friend, who, as his breath got shorter, was choking and groaning by turns. Once in the fresh air the boy revived, but a sharp pain in his ribs seized him as soon as he tried to move. With a cry he fell back in the snow.

“Don’t move, Cyril!” cried Simon; “I’m going to try and rescue Bob and Andy.”

The freezing night air and the snow combined to revive the stalwart Bob who had only slight cuts and bruises on his head, and was soon able to help Simon carry their unconscious comrade and put him down by Cyril.

“Look after these two, Bob,” commanded Simon; “I’m going to find the others.” Wading through snow knee-deep, Simon cast his eyes around the ravine, while calling their names as loudly as he could. A feeble cry answered him, and he distinguished two forms lying a little higher up near a tall fir.

“Is that you, Patrick? Are you hurt?”

“My leg is broken. I can’t move; I feel awful.”

“But if I help you” - and Simon tried to raise him. A cry of pain stopped him. “Don’t touch me, please!” cried the boy. “Leave me here; I’d rather die.”

“Don’t think I’m going to let you die here! I’ll attend to Charlie, and after that we’ll see.” Charlie had no visible injury, but he was so white and cold that Simon feared he was dead. Half carrying, half dragging, he got him down to the little group leaning against the car. Bob had arranged a rough shelter with the help of skis and an old piece of canvas found in the trunk.

“Bob!” cried Simon; “search the bags and try to find something to drink. Should we try to revive Charlie by rubbing him with snow? Feel his heart. I can’t seem to hear it beat.”

“Yes, it beats, but very feebly.”

“I must go and get help, Cyril.”

“To get help is to get ourselves arrested.”

“I have less fear of the police than of dying of cold,” said Bob; “we can’t spend the night here.”

“We must try first to get Patrick to shelter. Come on, Bob, and help me carry him, even if he screams. He’ll soon be buried in the snow.”

As gently as possible the two boys raised their friend, fainting with pain, and carried him to the little group of refugees.

“If only I felt fit,” murmured Cyril gloomily, “I could make an igloo.”

“Useless! We must get out of here as soon as possible,” declared Bob. “What do you say, Cyril? You’re our chief and must decide.”

“Phone to someone to come and collect us; but to whom?”

“I have a friend,” said Patrick, rousing himself. “I’m certain he would come and help. It’s Philip Berger, the farmer’s son who lives at the first farm as you go up to Fairfield.”

“Good idea!” exclaimed Simon, rubbing his cold hands together; “but where can we phone from? We’re too far from the pass to go back there, and we’d be half frozen before Pat’s friend could get here.”

“Oh, well! Stop a car and persuade the driver to take you to the next village, and phone from there to Patrick’s friend.”

“Cyril, can you walk? Lean on my arm. Bob, you take care of the others. Wait; take my overcoat to cover Charlie and Andrew.”

Simon helping Cyril, the two started to climb slowly up the bank. But Cyril kept stopping, and could not stifle his groans.

“Wait here,” said Simon; “I’ll go up alone, and be as quick as I possibly can.”

The lads watched Simon plunge into the gloom and followed with their eyes the little flashlight piercing the darkness. When it disappeared, their solitude seemed more terrifying, the night more threatening, and the cold more piercing. Patrick’s pain increased with the discomfort of his position.

“What a horrible end to this lovely day!” muttered Bob.

“We sure deserved it,” thought Patrick. “Say, Cyril, do you believe we’ll go to prison?”

“Me, perhaps; I am the most responsible.”

“It serves us right,” said Patrick; “we shouldn’t have stolen a car, above all the florist’s; such a good man.”

“If only Charlie and Andy recover!” said Bob, as he groped in the dark to find and rub the stiffening limbs of the two boys. By mistake he knocked against Patrick’s foot, causing him to utter a shout of agony.

“If Simon doesn’t come back soon, I shall go,” Bob declared, jumping to his feet. “I shall go mad waiting in this cold, doing nothing. I’ll try calling.”

“Simon! Simon!” he shouted desperately, his voice echoing mournfully in the silence of the hills; “shall I go and get help, Cyril?”

“No, Bob, stay with us. You know Simon, he’s not a fool. He’ll do his utmost to get help. Pull the canvas a little to the side, the wind has shifted. If we get close together, we won’t be quite so cold.”

However, Patrick’s suffering became intolerable. Bob tried to raise his head with the aid of a knapsack.

“Courage, Patrick! Now’s the time to show the mettle of the jolly outlaws! This adventure is hardly jolly, but we’ll come out of it somehow!”

“Cyril, have you ever prayed in your life?” Patrick forced himself to ask.

“I never pray,” said Cyril shortly. “God wouldn’t listen to me.”

“God wouldn’t answer the prayers of rascals like us, I am sure.”

“To pray is cowardly, it’s like admitting defeat,” said Cyril. “It’s like imploring pity from an enemy. We never concern ourselves about God, so how can we expect Him to help us? We have no right to expect help; we must look after ourselves.”

“One thing is certain,” said Patrick. “If no one comes to help us within an hour or two, we can hope for nothing but to die of cold.”

“You had better go, Bob!” cried Cyril at his wit’s end. “After all, what good is it doing to stay with us? Perhaps you’ll have better luck than Simon in finding someone.”

“I’ll climb up to the road, at least,” said Bob. “That struggle will warm me up, at any rate, and I’ll stop any driver that comes along.”

Arrested!

“It’s quite ten minutes since Bob left,” murmured Cyril. “Where can he have gone?”

Patrick was becoming more and more benumbed. He had no desire to speak now. His head buzzed; his thoughts wandered. But one sentence came uppermost in his mind: “There are times when no one but God can help us. His help is never denied to the one who asks with all his heart.” He could not remember who had spoken those words. It might be cowardly, but nevertheless he would pray ...

Suddenly a car door slammed; a light appeared. There were voices, then a loud barking, and an enormous dog bounded upon Patrick, who promptly fainted.

While his chums waited in such anxiety, Simon had not been wasting time. Waving his flashlight he posted himself in the middle of the road to force the first car to stop. Once seated in a car he had begged a ride to the next village. To run to the inn and telephone to the Berger’s was the work of moments. But what was his dismay on learning that Philip was out!

“Where has he gone, Madam? I am a friend of Patrick’s. It is absolutely necessary for me to contact him.”

“He went skiing with his brothers this afternoon, to Grandmont I think, but I don’t know where to reach him.”

“To Grandmont!” exclaimed Simon, “but we’ve just come from there. Excuse me, I am going to try to reach him at the restaurant. Tell me quickly the number of his car. Thank you!” and he hung up the phone without more explanation. At once he phoned the Grandmont restaurant, but after a delay which seemed endless, the proprietor declared that there were now only three cars outside, and none had the number mentioned. Simon sat down, in the depths of despair. What more could he do? To whom could he go?

The manageress, noting his abstracted air, asked if he had been able to contact his friend.

“No,” said Simon. “Please, Madame, do help me. We have had an accident. One of my friends has broken his leg and two others are unconscious. Have you a car here? Could anyone come with me to get them?”

“Why ever didn’t you say this sooner?” cried the good woman, much alarmed. “I’ll go and tell my husband.”

Ten minutes later a car, furnished with a makeshift stretcher, was driven by the innkeeper cautiously up the winding road through ever-deepening snow. His son and Simon were with him. The latter had confessed all to the kindly man who, thinking him sufficiently punished, had spared him any reproaches, but told his wife to inform the police at Montval without delay.

“Will you recognize the place in this blizzard?” asked the man. “I stuck up a ski at the side of the road to help me,” answered Simon.

The snow fell so fast driven by the wind, that the boy, though straining his eyes, could only see a white tornado against a black background. “I ought to have told Bob to stay on the road,” he thought. The travelers reached the pass without finding the least trace of the scene of the accident.

“We must go down again,” said the innkeeper, “and when you think we are near the place, you two must get out and walk. Perhaps you’ll hear voices that are now drowned by the noise of the car.”

A few minutes later they stopped and the two boys faced the elements while the car went on slowly before them. The dense snowfall forced Simon and his companion to grope along, bending forward to keep their balance. Simon tried to shout, but without much hope of being heard. Suddenly the car ahead of them stopped abruptly, and they saw, halted beside the road, an empty car with one door open. A loud barking and confused sounds of voices and groaning met their ears.

“It’s them!” cried Simon, heedless of grammar. “Someone or other has started to help them up the bank. Wait for me, I’ll run and meet them.” An enormous dog almost upset Simon, as he shone his flashlight on a procession just struggling up the slope. A voice called to him: “Come here! Show us your light up to the car.” Simon recognized Cyril being carried by two strangers.

“It’s Patrick’s friend,” murmured Bob. “Just think, what luck! The first car I stopped was Philip Berger’s!”

One by one, the injured boys were placed in the two cars, and the stretcher was needed for Patrick, who was still unconscious. While this was going on, the police car arrived. Two officers got out and went to examine the surroundings and to question Bob, the fittest of the party. It was snowing so hard that the interrogation was brief. Abandoning to its sad fate the unfortunate van of Mr. Mollet, the three cars set off into the storm. Simon, Cyril and Bob were in the police car; none of them spoke a word. All Simon’s boldness had evaporated.

“This is a fine New Year’s Day for your parents!” cried one of the officers. “A car to pay for, their boys in prison or hospital; some injured, perhaps even dead, on your consciences. That’s nothing to be proud of!” A jolt of the car made Cyril cry out in pain. The officer did not pity him. “This is what comes of stealing other people’s goods, you young jailbirds!”

“We meant to return the car,” meekly remonstrated Simon.

“Return it, indeed! I laugh at your good intentions. You have stolen that car, you have smashed it up; you have risked your lives and the lives of others, and why? For a few hours of pleasure on the snow - is that worth all the trouble? And it’s not the first time you’ve been caught, Danton and Round. A second offense is serious. You know what’s waiting for you; nothing short of prison.”

With sinking hearts the three boys awaited the end of their journey. For the moment they almost wished they were again in the freezing solitude with the damaged van. What sort of reception would they get? What would be done to them?

Does God Answer Prayer?

When Mrs. Demier returned home at seven o’clock with Carol, she was astonished at not finding Patrick in the apartment; a note pinned up in the kitchen bore these words: “I am spending the day with Simon.” She prepared supper, waiting till eight o’clock to put it on the table. Towards nine, getting impatient, she went down to her neighbor’s to telephone the Hotel of the Golden Lion.

Simon’s mother answered the phone. “How is it that Patrick has not come home?” asked Mrs. Demier. “Is he still with you?”

“But he hasn’t been here!” cried Mrs. Conty. “Simon left word that he was invited by your son. I was getting anxious about him.”

Mrs. Demier told her of Patrick’s note.

“Ah!” lamented the proprietress, “these boys have played us a trick. Simon takes advantage of my husband’s illness and of the hectic life we live here. He escapes every hour of the day; I can’t control him. It’s quite certain I’ll have to put him in an institution.”

“To whom can we go to find our boys?” queried Mrs. Demier anxiously.

“They are no doubt with other companions,” replied Mrs. Conty. “I distrust that Cyril whom Simon has been bringing home for some time. I don’t approve of him and have told Simon so; he has a bad influence on him.”

“I don’t know him; Patrick has never mentioned him to me. My son is so reserved, and I am so engrossed with my work, that we scarcely speak together of late.”

“I’ll phone Cyril’s home and let you know as soon as I have news.”

At ten o’clock the boys had not returned. Mrs. Demier contacted the police and learned that three families had already announced the disappearance of their sons, and that this seemed to correspond with the theft of a car, and they were searching high and low to find the delinquents. Sick at heart, Mrs. Demier passed the news on to Carol.

“How unwise of me to leave Patrick here alone!” she cried. “The railway fare was so high, and he did not seem to care about going with me. I felt sure I could trust him. Why should I have to bring up a fatherless boy? What have I done, oh God, to bring on myself so many misfortunes?”

“You should really go to bed, Mommy,” advised Carol; “what is the use of waiting up? It’s no use getting upset; it won’t bring Patrick back any sooner.”

“Let me be, Carol; I could not possibly sleep. But you, go to bed, dear. I’ll wake you if necessary.”

“No, Mother, I shall stay with you,” said the young girl firmly. A long silence followed. Mrs. Demier, her head in her hands, wept silently; the least sound made her start. More than once she went to the door, then opened a window and leaned out to search the road for some sign of arrivals. A piercing wind swept into the little room, and the two shivering watchers closed the shutters again and sat down sorrowfully.

“Mother,” said Carol suddenly; “do you believe that God answers prayer?”

“I hope so; but you see, Carol, I can’t pray. You do it; perhaps God will hear you. I feel too far off from Him.”

At this moment the entrance bell rang gently; springing up, Mrs. Demier went to the door. A stranger with a sweet smile held out her hand.

“Mrs. Demier, I think?” she said; “I am the wife of Dr. Garnier. My husband was called to attend to your son and his companions who had been in a car accident in the Jura; I don’t know any details. Some of them were injured, but they were all brought back and are in good hands. As you have no phone, I have come to give you the news.”

“Thank you,” said Patrick’s mother, unable to keep back her tears. “Come in a minute, do please. You are very good to come out like this in the middle of the night.”

“I am a mother, so I understand your anxiety.” There was so much sympathy and kindness in the lady’s eyes and voice that Mrs. Demier did not hesitate to tell her of the problems regarding Patrick’s changed behavior since they had left their old home.

“I liked your son very much when he used to come to see John; it is a sad turn of affairs,” said Mrs. Garnier. “He has suffered in many ways, particularly in seeing us installed in your house. This explains his attitude of revolt, but it’s not too late for him to change. Shall we pray that this dreadful escapade will transform your boy?”

The prayer offered by Mrs. Garnier remained as if engraved in Carol’s heart. It was not a form of words, conventional, impersonal, but a real heart-cry, a pleading with an intimate Friend, One full of love and power, on Whom they could depend entirely. God now seemed very near, quite a different God from Carol’s previous conception of Him.

“Try to take a little rest before you go to the hospital,” said Mrs. Garnier as she left. “You’ll need all your strength; save it up for tomorrow.”

Calmer now, Carol and her mother were able to sleep. Before dozing off, Carol thought suddenly of the stranger’s little Testament; she would try to find it. Perhaps she would discover there Mrs. Garnier’s God.

Will Patrick Live?

Patrick took a wondering look around him. Where was he? He tried to raise himself, but terrible pain overcame him. He felt stifled. His parched tongue felt like wood in his mouth.

A sound of footsteps; someone was there. A man in a white coat approached his bed with a syringe in his hand.

“This is to ease your pain and help you to breathe,” said a pleasant voice.

“Where am I?” murmured Patrick faintly. “Why am I so sick?”

“In the hospital, little fellow, and be content to have escaped with a broken leg,” replied the doctor, quickly inserting his needle in the swollen arm of the sick boy. All at once Patrick remembered everything.

“Where are my chums?” he asked feebly.

“They are all paying for their lark in one way or another,” replied the doctor. “When you have more strength, we can discuss all that. For the moment, you should sleep.”

The doctor whispered something to the nurse; they both disappeared and the door was shut, leaving Patrick to his sufferings and his unhappy thoughts. Thanks to the injection, he was not long in sinking into a heavy sleep, and dreamed that Mr. Mollet held him by the throat, crying, “Bring back my car, or I’ll throw you into that crevasse where your companions have already perished.”

A spasm of sharp pain woke him suddenly. His mother was there. She held his hand and wiped his damp forehead.

“My poor Patrick!” she said. There was a long silence, which seemed to say, “You have given me much cause for suffering, but I’m not going to reproach you. You are punished enough.”

Patrick felt so depressed and weak that a great dread seized him. “Tell me, Mommy, am I going to die?”

“Oh no, my boy. It’s quite understandable that you feel weak. For two days you’ve had nothing to eat and have been unconscious, and your leg can’t get used to the traction which hurts very much. Also, you caught a cold, and that’s why you find it hard to breathe.”

Patrick did not seem very reassured.

“Mommy,” he said, “If I die, tell Mr. Mollett that I didn’t know the van belonged to him; and tell Dad that if he had not gone away I should never - ” He did not finish the sentence, falling again into a troubled sleep, full of confused, terrifying dreams. For the next six days Doctor Garnier and the nurse rivaled each other in efforts to combat the pneumonia which held Patrick in its grip.

Mrs. Demier and Carol in turn watched beside the suffering boy, who no longer recognized them. One evening, Patrick’s state was so alarming, that the doctor dared not hide the truth from his mother as she mutely questioned him with her eyes.

“Ought I to send a telegram to his father?” she asked despairingly.

“Humanly speaking, there is little hope,” murmured the doctor. “I have exhausted all the known resources for such cases; but one never knows with young folk, and God can work a miracle and save your son. But send your telegram all the same.”

Patrick almost choked, recovered himself, and sank again into unconsciousness. They resorted to oxygen. At daybreak, there was a change. His breathing became easier, more regular; his temperature dropped.

“There is definite improvement,” declared Dr. Garnier to the anxious lady. “Go and take a little rest; you will be called if necessary. The nurse will stay with Patrick.”

Patrick opened his eyes; he felt as if floating between life and death. “Who is this man with the strong, good face whose presence always gives me a sense of peace,” he thought. Patrick was too weak to move or pronounce one word. He could only look at this man as he lit the bedside lamp, and felt his hand, a father’s hand, clasp his own.

“The Lord has heard our prayer;” thought the doctor, worn out and weary. “That boy will live.”

Sentencing

The officer pushed Simon and Bob without ceremony into the detention cell.

“Here are two more rascals who have given us a run for a few miles!” cried he in a very bad temper, hurrying to the stove which was burning in a corner. “A poor job we had chasing after such scamps, in a snow storm, on New Year’s Day!”

“Ah, well!” said his chief, fixing an icy glare on the two culprits. “Your names? Your age? Your address? Your father’s profession? Why did you steal that car? Where and how did you take it?”

The questions rained thick and harsh as the cuts of a whip.

“Gang of madcaps! Jailbirds! You will see! And now get along! Go and sleep on the bunks.”

The two boys, freezing and exhausted, were roughly pushed into a dimly lighted second room, where a drunkard, lying across a scanty mattress, was snoring like a locomotive. Another lad whom Simon recognized as one of the worst characters in the town, stared at them from his corner, then made a grimace.

“Good!” he said, as soon as the sergeant had gone. “I shall have nice company. Tell me how you’ve been caught, poor little angels!”

“Leave us in peace;” Simon showed his annoyance; “we are played out. Mind your own business.”

“Don’t put on so many airs! If we find ourselves in the same hotel this evening, that shows you are no better than I, doesn’t it?”

Simon and his chum squeezed closer together. “I’m starving,” whispered Bob.

“I’m not - but I’m freezing cold.” Simon’s thoughts were anything but cheerful ones. “Dad will send me to a Correction Home; he has threatened it several times.” He turned from side to side on his hard bed.

“Dad will thrash me unmercifully,” mused Bob, shivering till his chair shook. The ghastly pallor of Charlie, Patrick’s screams, the policeman’s ranting, were all revolving in Simon’s over-excited brain.

“Bob, are you asleep?” There was no reply. “He has forgotten it all, lucky chap!” sighed poor Simon, turning over for the hundredth time. Actually, Bob had dropped asleep, but he had to wake up on the entrance of another drunkard into the room already filling with a sickening odor. This one would not stop singing in spite of the orders of the warden, who seeing his trouble wasted, locked the door and departed. At daybreak, when it seemed to the boys that they had slept only a few minutes, the jailer reappeared and told them to get up.

“May we go home?” asked Simon.

“The idea! You imagine things are passed over like that? A person steals a van; then he returns calmly to his home! It is the Juvenile Court that will tell you what to do. Meanwhile, we’ll keep you here.”

“Do our parents know where we are?” asked Simon, despondently.

“Certainly. But they’re not in a hurry to see you again, I think!”

Towards the end of the morning Bob’s father arrived, an enormous cooper, with a coarse red face, who broke out in imprecations against his son, telling him he’d make him pay dearly for his folly. However, Bob was less downcast than Simon, who, seeing no one come, felt himself an outcast from his kin.

“The fellows in the hospital have the best of it,” cried Bob; “they are well cared for, well fed, and nobody reproaches them.”

“They are suffering, and must surely be as sick of it as we are,” returned Simon, stamping his cold feet. “How long must we stay here before we hear what will happen to us?”

=============================

A month had passed since Bob and Simon received permission to go home, after having endured a close interrogation. Useless for them to try to forget their disastrous adventure. The prospect of the trial which awaited them overshadowed them, filling their sleep with nightmares. On this cold February morning the hour of retribution had struck. With hanging heads, the two boys, led by a grim usher in an imposing cocked hat, entered the vast bare court room and joined Cyril on the prisoners’ bench. Their parents kept out of sight at the far end of the room.

Even a desert island seemed preferable to Bob, lost in this huge inhospitable place. He dared not raise his eyes to the impressive circle of gentlemen in black facing him. Simon threw a furtive glance at the accuser’s seat, where a little hunchback fidgeted uneasily, seeming as embarrassed as himself. Under a cynical mask Cyril tried to hide his apprehension, but in the oppressive silence, he could hear the rapid throbbing of his heart.

Presently the room filled, and the door was shut. The judge’s trenchant voice jarred the strung-up nerves of the culprits. After a brief preamble he made his official statement as follows: “Cyril Danton, ringleader of these young delinquents, is found guilty for the second time of the theft of a vehicle. On January first at seven a.m. he took possession of a minivan owned by Mr. Isidor Monett, florist, of Montval. Without a driving license, he took upon himself to transport his accomplices up to Grandmont. The accident, due to a silver thaw and the incapacity of the driver, took place on their return journey in the evening. The van is utterly unusable.

“Robert Round, accomplice of the first mentioned, is also guilty for the second time of theft. He it was - accompanied by Charles Brown - who took possession of the car keys after gaining admittance to the florist’s home under pretext of helping him carry his packages. Simon Conty, Patrick Demier, Charles and Andrew Brown, are guilty of complicity in the theft of the van before mentioned. The last three are still in the hospital.”

The judge stopped, then gave the word to Mr. Corney, the lawyer, a little sprightly man who spoke so fast that Bob could understand nothing. Then the cross-questioning commenced. Cyril, being the chief offender, was questioned first. He was so overwrought that he could scarcely frame an intelligent reply. When his turn came, Bob stammered, became confused, and jumbled his words together. Simon alone maintained enough coolness to reply clearly to questioning.

One after another, conducted by the usher, the witnesses came forward; the innkeeper, whose help Simon had asked, the police officer and Philip Berger. Fresh questions rained on the offenders, who could only confirm what had gone before. The judge rose and went into an adjoining room, followed by two wigged gentlemen. One heard only the scratching of a clerk’s pen. Bob risked a glance at the lawyers. Mechanically Simon searched his pockets; he felt chewing gum, but dared not take it out. Cyril studied the painting of “Justice” with its unrelenting face. A great sigh burst from Mr. Mollett’s breast.

The creak of the opening door made everyone start. The three gentlemen regained their seats. Very gravely the judge read the sentence -

“Considering the age of the delinquents, all under eighteen; and having learned certain family circumstances extenuating their culpability, the tribunal apply Article 137 of the Penal Code to this case.
Danton, Cyril; sentenced for theft to the penalty of three months in Remand Correctional School.
Round, Robert; to three months suspended prison sentence, and three months in Remand Correctional School.
Conty, Simon; Demier, Patrick; Brown, Charles and Andrew, to two years on probation.
As the owner had neglected to insure his van, the costs are assigned to Danton, one quarter; to Round, one quarter, to Conty, Demier, Brown Charles and Andrew, one eighth each.
Danton, Cyril is sentenced to a fine of $50.00 for breaking the law by driving without a license.”

A brief silence, then the judge’s voice spoke louder and more severely.

“Young people, to gratify your pleasure, you did not hesitate to steal another’s goods; you risked your comrades’ lives, you could even have their death on your consciences. This once we treat you with leniency on account of your youth and inexperience; but let this lesson prove salutary. Be assured that another such prank on your part will entail a much more severe punishment. Prove to us that we have done well to use this indulgence in your favor.”

The hearing ended, everyone rose to go. The three delinquents pushed hastily through the crowd towards the door. Bob’s father was waiting for him, a suitcase in his hand. He seized his son by the arm. “I am taking you there this evening,” said he. “It’s no use for you to try any tricks.”

Bob wanted to speak to Simon, but his father dragged him away. They disappeared without looking back.

Cyril’s guardian, a little weasel-faced man, approached him and muttered something between his pointed teeth. The boy’s expression hardened still more. Like an automaton he followed his guardian.

A vivacious woman of somewhat aggressive bearing, hustled Simon into a taxi, which went off immediately.

Mr. Mollett found himself alone on the pavement. “Patrick also!” he repeated softly. “Children still, and perhaps unfortunate. No it is cruel!...It will be said that Isidor Mollett...I must see them! What a sad business!”

Passers-by turned round to stare with amusement at the little man, lost in thought, talking to himself and gesturing with his bewildered gaze fixed on the closed door of the Magistrate’s Court.

Doctor Garnier’s Story

Doctor Garnier had finished sounding his patient, and was preparing to set off again from the hospital. It was a busy time, and his list of visits had lengthened, particularly on this gray wintry day.

An anxious expression in Patrick’s eyes caused him to sit down again. It seemed that Patrick needed something other than medicine now that his pneumonia was checked, and his youthful vigor had triumphed over his sickness.

“Well, Patrick! You have something to say to me; I read it in your eyes.”

“I would like to thank you for being so good to me,” faltered Patrick, flushing painfully. “You are John’s father. I’ve done everything to make your son detest me, and you should detest me too!”

“John feels no ill-will towards you. Already he has asked me when he can pay you a visit, but I prefer that you should choose the day. Besides, the Lord Jesus teaches us to forgive one another because He forgives us.”

Patrick was silent. At last he said in a strangled voice, “I can’t forgive myself.”

“I learned how to forgive when I understood all that the Lord had forgiven me,” said the doctor. “All the sins I have committed, contributed, with those of all men, to force the thorns into His head, the nails into His hands. When we realize this, it makes us very humble.”

Another question was torturing Patrick, but he dared not frame it. It was the doctor who asked him point blank.

“You want to know where your chums are, don’t you? Andrew and Charlie had fractured skulls, with concussion. They are getting better, and perhaps you’ll be able to see them after a few days. Cyril Danton and Bob Round are in a Borstal School. As for Simon Conty, his parents have sent him to a boarding school in Germany.”

“And me?” asked Patrick; “where will they send me?”

“You will stay two months more in the hospital, sonny. Your leg was broken in three places, and is far from right. After that, you can go home. Naturally, you will have to pay your share of the fine. You deserve that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Patrick sadly.

“Why did you get mixed up with such bad companions?”

Patrick said nothing. How could he tell the doctor the real cause? At last he murmured: “I wanted to do something exciting. I was upset about the house and my dog. It wasn’t worth the trouble of studying since ... ”

Mr. Garnier needed no more explanations. He understood the profound disturbance caused by the successive blows in the life of this adolescent lad who sought in vain for an anchor to which he could secure his bark.

“Listen, Patrick! Whatever happens to us in our lives, it is always worth the trouble to live bravely and to struggle; because one doesn’t live for oneself alone, nor even for others altogether, but for God; and God never disappoints us.”

“God? He is so far away. Is He interested in us? I don’t know Him. How can one live for Him?”

“He wants above everything that we should know Him, because He loves us and longs to help us... Would you like me to tell you my history?”

Patrick’s eyes brightened with interest.

“My parents were rich; I was the only child and they spoiled me, giving me everything I fancied. I was about your age and studying Classics before taking up medicine, when they were both killed in a terrible accident on the road! Soon I found that my prospects were not so brilliant as I had thought; we had lived beyond our means. The house had to be sold, and I had just enough money to allow me to live and continue at school - though not the former expensive one.

“I was so unhappy that I rebelled against my fate, lost my taste for study and commenced to go with a gang of good-for-nothings of whom I became the leader. Punishments, threats, nothing affected me. One day, having gone beyond the limit, I was given three days suspension, after which I had to see the Headmaster. I had no illusions; I would certainly be expelled.

“Imagine my amazement when he took me in his car for a long drive! I can’t tell you all he said. I only know that his kindness melted my heart, and that day’s outing transformed me. He was indeed a greathearted Christian man. He gave me courage to struggle and to work. It is to him that I owed my return to normal, my renewed interest in my work and career, and gave me understanding of true values. Through the care of this man of God I learned to know his Master, and He became mine.

“In looking back I can see that though God had taken much from me, it was that He wanted to enrich me with Himself and to give me more - much more - than mere material wealth. Of course I did not understand this all at once.

The doctor rose. Patrick had listened eagerly to his story. Someone else had suffered and could understand his wounded feelings.

“Thank you,” said he, slipping his wasted hand into the doctor’s. “You will come back, won’t you? And please tell John that I am sorry.”

Youth Workers Group

Patrick, Charlie and Andrew are now together in a ward with two other boys recovering from appendicitis. More than a month has passed since the accident. A weight hangs from Patrick’s bed, fastened to the traction on his leg. His two friends, more able-bodied, get up each day, but owing to the gravity of their head injuries, they have to stay some time longer in the hospital.

The confinement seems very long to these boys, pining for the open air and liberty, and the nurse finds it hard work to curb their restless spirits!

It is visiting day, but Patrick does not expect anyone. He knows that his mother is working, as usual; it is only in the evening that she hurries in to ask how he is. Carol is preparing for her literature exam; she has given up coming to see him.

Charlie’s and Andrew’s stepmother has made only one appearance; she loaded them with reproaches, so they scarcely want her to come. As for their father, he comes from time to time without his wife’s knowledge, and seems glad to be free to show them his affection. The other two boys are asleep. Charlie and Andrew are absorbed in an adventure story. Pat is daydreaming. He thinks of his father, so far away, no one knows where, since the telegram brought no response. He reads over Cyril’s letter, received this morning in secret writing: “Think of me tomorrow; I am planning to escape. I can’t stand it any longer. Cost what it may, I shall get away if I can. Bob is too big a coward to try it. J. O. S.”

Patrick thinks of the gang, of its dispersed members, of its pitiful end.

A door opens silently; anxious eyes wander round the large ward - “John!”

“Patrick!” A wave of shyness sweeps away further speech. Patrick, suddenly struck by John’s resemblance to his father, felt his old antipathy melt away. John grasped his schoolmate’s hand. Is it really the same boy, so pale and wasted, with big hollow eyes? His father had certainly spoken of a great change in Patrick. Feeling embarrassed, he stood fidgeting with the string of a parcel which he held awkwardly under his arm, wondering what to say.

“You’re getting better, aren’t you?” he murmured doubtfully.

“Oh, yes, I should have left here by now if it were not for my leg, which has to be stretched.”

“You must be awfully bored. What do you do all day?”

“I read, and then I chat with the others. The time passes slowly but it does pass! I have been here two months already.”

“I’ve brought you an airplane to put together,” said John, putting his parcel into Patrick’s hands, after pulling off the string.

“An airplane kit!” Patrick flushed with pleasure; but suddenly his face clouded.

“You ought not to bring me anything. I’ve been horrid to you. Take it back, please.”

“Don’t insult me by refusing the present which means the end of hostilities between us,” said John, laughing. “Besides, I’m longing to help make the airplane. I’ve brought the glue and paints. Let’s get on with it before Dad comes.”

Both boys laughed happily and all restraint vanished. They examined the contents of the box, and while assembling the parts their tongues loosened, and John gave Patrick all the school news. Absorbed in making the airplane they did not hear the door open; the tall form of Philip Berger appearing at the foot of the bed made them jump.

“Well, Patrick! I find you in good company today. You will scarcely need my visits now you are no longer in solitary confinement.”

“Yes, I do! Sit down near me and stay awhile,” cried Patrick, leaving the airplane to John. “Tell me about Ralph.”

“He is in the car outside. I explained to him that I was going to see you, and I do believe he understood, the rascal, for he made such pleading eyes.”

“Good old Ralph! It was he who discovered us first! But how he hurt me in trying to show his affection!”

“I have often thought about you boys since that fateful night when I found you in the snow,” said Philip gravely, looking at the three boys side by side in their beds.

“I can’t remember anything of it,” said Charlie. “Nor can I,” put in Andrew. “I believe I woke up a week later.”

“Nevertheless, I carried you in my arms like two babies. I kept asking myself if you still lived, you were so white and cold.

“Whatever made you think of this escapade?” asked John, curiously.

“Just for fun,” said Andrew. “We all wanted something exciting to do, because it was so boring at home.”

“How did you get to know each other?” asked Philip.

“Through the club,” answered Charlie, thoughtlessly.

“What club?”

Andrew and Patrick threw reproachful looks at Charlie and seemed much embarrassed.

“We had formed a club between us,” said Patrick at last, but it is a secret.”

“This club must have had a purpose. What? The happiness of other people?” asked Philip, with a twinkle in his eye.

“The purpose? It was to amuse ourselves,” said Charlie; “sometimes at the expense of others, certainly! It was the only time we could let ourselves go, and hang together, come what might.”

“I understand your longing for adventure,” said Philip; “but you have followed the wrong track.”

“If we form a new club, you could be our chief!” burst out Patrick on a sudden impulse.

“Cyril would call us deserters when he comes back, and he’d have reason,” said Andrew.

“If he is willing to join us, all the better,” rejoined Patrick.

“I’ll enroll in advance, if you’ll have me,” cried John.

“But what should we do?” asked Charlie, undecidedly; “nothing secret, no practical jokes - just play the young saint! That doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Do you think that one enjoys life less when his conscience is at ease?” asked Philip.

“What we liked was the mystery and adventures,” said Patrick. “School life is so monotonous.”

“I understand. I, too, love activity and adventure; but I don’t know if you’re right to choose me for leader. I am so busy, there’s always so much work at the farm.”

“Never mind the work!” cried Patrick in a decided tone; “we must have an older chief, since we are so stupid; and there’s no one but you.”

“What’s the good of remaking a club without Cyril and Simon?” said Andrew disconsolately. “Whatever could we do that’s interesting?”

“There would certainly be some exciting things to undertake,” said Philip; “it’s not that which troubles me. Explore caves, build a hut, construct a car!”

Andrew and Charlie sat up in bed, their eyes sparkling. Only Patrick seemed unimpressed.

“Well, Patrick, this program doesn’t seem to your taste?”

“Just the opposite, but - couldn’t we do something to earn some money?”

“Why?”

“To pay Mr. Mollett back for his van.”

“You are right. I’ll think about that,” said Philip gladly.

“The Youth Workers Group, once set going, will hold their meetings at my home at the farm, and we’ll see how to solve your difficulties.”

At this moment a sharp cry resounded from the passage, a terrific commotion, a crash of breaking china; then a loud scratching at the door which burst open - and in came Ralph! Defying orders and training, the faithful dog had succeeded in penetrating into the hospital, and having succeeded in finding his young master, started licking his face and hands as hard as he could. The boys exploded with laughter and applause, and Patrick smoothed the great head and looked into the glowing eyes of his loyal old playfellow.

But suddenly the ward sister, her cap on one side, thrust her indignant head in at the half open door.

“Whatever next?” she cried; “a dog in the hospital? Such a thing has never happened before! Turn out that ugly beast at once, or look out for yourself!”

Philip laid hold of Ralph, who, with forepaws on Patrick’s bed, was extremely reluctant to cut short his visit.

“See, Ralph,” said Patrick; “here’s a lump of sugar! Now make yourself scarce, or we shall have a bad quarter of an hour.”

Philip hurriedly made his escape, holding the dog’s collar firmly. Andrew and Charlie, with noses glued to the window, watched their departure, shouting joyfully: “Long live Ralph and the Youth Workers Group!”

Carol’s New Interests

“Here is your little pupil, Carol!” said Mrs. Garnier, conducting the girl into the cheery living room. In a wheel-couch close to a wide bay window where the sun streamed in, Carol saw a little face with two big shining eyes and a mass of golden curls. A little white hand was held out timidly to greet her.

“Come, Vera, what do you say to your teacher? You were just longing to see her, and now you can’t speak!”

A smile dawned on the child’s face, but no words would come. “I will leave you together. Here is the reader, an exercise book and two pencils. If you need anything else, call me. I am going upstairs to bathe the baby. How thankful I am to leave my little girl in good hands.”

When Mrs. Garnier had gone, Carol looked round the room of her old home. The wallpaper was the same, and the piano was in its accustomed place. Through the window she recognized the familiar shape of the old pear tree, its bare black branches making a pattern against the clear blue sky. Her glance returned to the child, who was watching her curiously.

“Do you know any letters?” she asked with a capable air suited to her new role.

“I know V, because it is the first letter of my name; and I know A, because it’s a V turned upside-down with a waistband on,” replied Vera, her shyness evaporating.

“Well, we are going to learn the letter that follows A; it is B and stands for baby, box and ball. Tell me another word beginning with B.”

Vera thought hard, then “Biscuit!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “Mommy will give me one when I have worked well. Teach me another letter, I want to be able to read very soon.”

“Here is C. It is a little hunchback. And H is easy. What begins with H?”

“That’s heart!” cried Vera. “I know a song about the heart. You’d like me to sing it to you?” And without waiting for permission, she sang in sweet clear tones:

“I have given my little heart
To Jesus, the good Savior.”

Carol had to persuade her to return to the alphabet; then followed a writing lesson, and one on counting chiefly from a picture book; but the child grew very tired and begged for a story.

“I haven’t a single idea for one,” said Carol; “at least, none that you would understand.”

“Oh, well! tell me the story of the Good Shepherd. That’s the one I like best.”

“You ought to tell it to me, since you know it.”

“No, you tell it; I am too little.”

“Which book is this story in?”

“In the Bible!” said Vera in surprise. “Haven’t you one?”

“Yes, of course I have one,” said Carol somewhat annoyed. “I’ll read up the story of the Shepherd and tell it to you another time. Today it will be the story of Little Red Riding Hood.”

Little Vera listened with rapt attention. Fear and surprise showed in her expressive eyes. “Your story is nice, but it made me afraid,” she said when Carol ended; “Is it true?”

“No, it is a fairy tale.”

“The Bible stories are all true, you know. Once the Lord Jesus cured a little girl. She was worse than me and He made her able to walk! Daddy says that the Lord Jesus will cure me soon, but He wants to teach me to be patient. It’s hard, you know,” and with a big sigh the child lay back wearily on her pillows.

“Listen, Vera,” said Carol very quickly to hide her emotion. “Next time we’ll play Lotto, and I will tell you all you want. Don’t forget your letters, and practice writing those you learned today. If you work well, you’ll be able to read in three months.”

Carol went home then, and during the whole week she seemed to see the little face with its big blue eyes and hear the pleading voice, “Say, will you tell me the story of the Good Shepherd?” She did not feel quite satisfied with herself. Vera wanted something else from her, something she could not give her. Carol climbed slowly up to the fourth floor of the old yellow house. Instead of starting her work at once, as was her custom, she sat on her bed, pondering. Reluctantly she began to rummage in a drawer for the little black book the strange gentleman had given her; she must certainly find that story of the Shepherd! At last she found it. Then she settled down and turned over the thin pages of small print.

In school hours she had often managed to secretly finish a forgotten exercise during the Bible lessons which had never interested her and did not seem to mean much to the teacher either.

She had no idea where to look for Vera’s story. Her eyes lighted on these words: “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the fields keeping watch over their flocks by night.” Could this be the desired story? She continued to read attentively. Jesus, born in a stable, but acclaimed by the angels and the adoration of shepherds, began to seem real to her. This wonderful Child “increased in wisdom and stature.” At the age of twelve He is capable of questioning the professors in the temple and astonishing them by His answers. He resists temptation: He cures men of the most terrible illnesses; He teaches with authority; He is interested in humble fishermen, whose nets He fills in a miraculous way; He mixes with the most despised people, and does not mind eating with them! But instead of being full of admiration for Him, men on the contrary try to take Him in some fault in order to get Him condemned by authority! What will He do? Avenge Himself on His enemies? He certainly has power to do this. Still He continues preaching to the crowds who reject Him!

Carol does not understand all she reads, but one text strikes her forcibly. “Love your enemies ... do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you.”

She had never before noticed such injunctions. And then she wondered how it was that Christ should be loved and understood by a Roman centurion and a poor sinful woman, and yet the cultured and religious folk despised His wisdom and His kindness!

Carol was so engrossed in her reading that time passed unnoticed, and the turning of a key in the lock made her jump. Instinctively she hid the New Testament under her pillow as Mrs. Demier came in.

“What, Carol! What’s the matter with you this evening? Haven’t you got supper ready? Have you so much homework that you’ve done nothing towards it?”

“I didn’t realize the time. I’m sorry! I’ll be ever so quick getting it ready,” cried the girl, springing to her feet.

“I’ve just come from the hospital,” said her mother, seating herself on a kitchen stool. “Patrick starts to get up next week; the doctor is pleased with his last x-ray. What a long time it’s been! I don’t know how I’ll manage to pay the hospital fees.”

“I’ll help you, Mother. Do you know I’ve given my first lesson today to Dr. Garnier’s little girl? I’m going to try and find some more pupils.”

Mrs. Demier smiled tenderly. “My little girl, I want your first earnings to be for yourself. You need a new dress, you grow so fast.”

“This one can be let down again,” said Carol. “What I need more is a Latin dictionary, but I’ll try to get one second-hand from a girl who is going to take a different course. So you see, I can put nearly all I earn into the house-keeping.”

“This escapade has cost us dear, but it seems to me that Patrick has learned a lesson. He seems much improved since his illness. Would you believe it? I found him beginning to study? I can’t get over it. John takes the trouble to bring him the lessons each day.”

“Patrick studious! I can hardly believe it!” laughed Carol. “He never lacked the ability, but for months now he could never settle to his work and did not seem to care a bit. And woe betide me if I dared to even remark on it! I am sometimes rather sharp, I confess.”

Mrs. Demier looked thoughtfully at her daughter. How much she resembled her father! The likeness struck her painfully. Carol had the same high forehead, slightly obstinate expression, dark gray eyes, and somewhat ironical smile; but this evening there was something different, a softer light in the serious eyes fastened on her mother.

“You know, Carol,” and her mother sighed as she spoke, “I telephoned to that director who offered your father a job in America. I asked him if my husband had changed his address, as we had received no reply to the telegram. I was told that he had left that place and gone to the Congo, leaving no trace.”

“In any case, he has completely abandoned us,” said Carol in a hard tone. “Wherever he is matters very little now. I detest him and I hope he’ll pay for it!”

She had scarcely uttered these words when a sentence flashed into her mind: “Love your enemies, pray for those who do you harm.” That was what Jesus Christ said, but did He really mean it? How could she love the one who had made them suffer so cruelly? It was impossible. She got up and hurriedly cleared the table; her mother went to bed. All was quiet in the little room, but she could not concentrate on her postponed homework. She drew the little black Book from its hiding place. This evening she was too tired, but tomorrow she could continue reading to see if Christ had indeed done what He had said.

What Simon Says

“My dear Pat - It seems that you are still in the hospital, so I’m writing to say I am very sorry for you. Life here is certainly not much to boast of, but at least I can use my arms and legs, and I sometimes have to work them so hard that I almost envy you lying in bed! My three months will soon be up and I won’t be sorry. The company here does not please me; some of them are pretty low down. This is not to say that I’m much good myself, but you know, some people really disgust one. Perhaps I’ve improved here, after all! The boss is a marvel; he knows how to take us. I wonder - if anyone had talked to me like that sooner - years ago - there are some things I’d never have done. I am not a bit keen on going home. I’d like to be apprenticed to a gardener. We work out of doors all day here, and it suits me fine; being in the open air is far better than factory work. Cyril has escaped for the second time, and hasn’t been caught yet; he may be out of the country. It is a pity; it would have been much better if he had waited patiently. Three months soon pass.

The other night someone said to us: “A group of young people are coming to sing you some hymns.” We were mustered in the great hall, expecting to spend an hour of boredom. I am not musical, and religion never interested me. Well! I never heard anything like it; those people sang so as to stir one to the core. One of them said a few words. Even our worst fellows were quiet. One felt that he really believed what he spoke of. To hear him, God is not so far away. It seemed that He loves each one of us and is concerned about all the details of our life. I’d never have thought that! And he advised us to read the Bible. I’m not like you and Simon; reading doesn’t appeal to me! But I found some good words like those we heard that night, and it was easier to read a bit.

I’ve never written such a long letter in my life! Please reply as soon as possible.

Yours—Bob.”

Patrick folded up the letter. He was feeling very lonely. Charlie and Andrew had gone home; the two younger boys were having their first outing in the grounds. His only companion was a small boy, not quite conscious after an operation, and moaning a little. The bright March sunshine casting shadows on the white wall, together with a light cool breeze filled the prisoner with a mad desire to jump out of the window and get away, to drink in the joyous springtime in the awakening countryside. He thought he heard a slight knock at the door of the ward; then it opened. First the head, then the whole person of Mr. Mollett, enveloped in an ample coat, advanced towards him. Patrick lay petrified under the piercing scrutiny of the bright eyes bent on him. Silently they gazed at each other. The florist found it difficult to recognize his one-time errand boy in that sickly lad whose face looked as white as the sheets. At last Patrick murmured with stiff lips: “Sir, do please forgive me. I didn’t know that the van belonged to you. I would never have joined in doing you such a bad turn if I’d known.”

“Whether it was me or anyone else is no matter! You plead a very poor excuse, my friend! It was stealing, just the same.”

Patrick lay, ashamed and silent.

“I haven’t come to reproach you,” went on the hunchback gently. “Do you know what brings me here?”

“No, sir.”

“Well! I’ve come to tell you that I have forgiven you. It wasn’t easy, you can guess. One day I said to myself, Those boys acting so foolishly on New Year’s Day are more to be pitied than blamed. And then, I must admit, the loss of my van has brought me good!”

“What’s that you say?” exclaimed Patrick.

“Yes, I am in my senses, my friend. I was too proud of that van, I thought of nothing else. I was neglecting to read my Bible. God had told me, `Isidor, keep yourself from idols.’ So He took it from me. He has done well. Only now,” added the good man shaking his head, “I must have an apprentice. With my rheumatism I can no longer deliver to the houses.”

“Is the minivan quite smashed up?” asked Patrick timidly: “We ought to replace it.”

“There is no question of that. I am giving the orders! It shall not be said that several families lack bread so that Isidor Mollett may ride in a car. I have sold its remains and resolved to start saving up again. I have already told the police that I don’t intend to prosecute.”

“Sir!” said Patrick earnestly, “if I were not chained here, I’d work my hardest at your place after school, to help pay my debt to you; you see it’s impossible, but I’ve had a letter from one of my pals who is longing to be apprenticed to a gardener. He is called Bob Round; he is 16. In spite of what we did he is not a bad fellow.”

“Where is he?” asked the florist guardedly.

“At the Remand Correctional School, but he’ll soon be out. Wait! Read this letter!” Mr. Mollett took out his spectacles from a well-worn case and began to read attentively. As he went on, his expression brightened.

“I shall go and see his father,” said he, returning the letter to Patrick. “Give me his address. This boy will be my concern. I’ll go there immediately.” In spite of his rheumatism the little man sprang to his feet, bid Patrick a friendly farewell and disappeared. After the door had closed, Patrick noticed on the floor beside his bed a pot of spring flowers; a bright pink hyacinth, with sweet-scented violets and starry primulas. He had never had a gift that pleased him so much!

Payment Plans

“Philip Berger informs the Youth Workers Group that the first meeting of the committee will be held on Sunday, April 20, at 2 p.m. at the farm in Fairfield. Please arrive punctually and bring some ideas.”

Patrick reread this letter with a smile of satisfaction. To go to Philip’s home, to recreate the group of boys, to mingle again with healthy folk after three months in a hospital, what a joy! What a blessed relief from the painful and tedious massage considered necessary to restore the flexibility of his leg, so stiff and tender after the plaster was removed. His elbows on the window-sill, Patrick bent his impatient gaze on the busy street. Bob had promised to come and call for him, and give him a lift on his bicycle, as the journey was too long for him at present. John, Charlie and Andrew would meet them at the farm. At last Bob’s blond head appeared as he rode swiftly to the door.

“Hello, Bob! I’m coming down.” Patrick limped hurriedly down and met Bob halfway up the stairs.

“Hello, Patrick! Get on my back for this last flight,” proposed Bob with beaming face. “I owe you a lot. Isn’t it thanks to you that I am at Mr. Mollett’s?”

“You like it there?”

“It’s marvelous! Just think, I sleep there, and have all my meals with him! And we even have the same tastes! Like me, he loves sweet things and we have an equal aversion to garlic and onions!”

“What a happy coincidence! And you get on all right with the work?”

“I have everything to learn, of course, and I’m a long way from being as quick as my boss. I do the best I can and don’t think he is too dissatisfied with me. In any case, I’d do anything to make him keep me on. He trusts me and is ever so kind.”

By now the two lads were out of the town, Bob mounted on his bicycle pedaling away, with Pat on the carrier behind him. Presently they reached the tall firs which hid the hut, the place of their secret meetings.

“Say, Bob! We have time to stop here a few minutes. Come with me to have a look at the hut.” “Whatever for?”

“I’m wondering if anyone has got in there since our last meeting.”

The two threaded their way between the thick bushes, trampling the tall grass among clumps of primroses. Reaching the hut, Bob glanced through the dim, dirty window. “I see nothing,” said he, “let’s try the door.” The door resisted their efforts to open it.

“You see, Patrick, there’s nothing here; come on now. This hut has lost all attraction to me.”

Even as he spoke, a dismal groan startled the two lads!

“Let’s clear off,” stammered Bob; “if someone is living there they’ll take us again for thieves.” And he set off running towards the edge of the wood. Patrick, unable to run, remained near the hut, while keeping a sharp look-out. Another moan, more pitiful than before, made him shudder; but mustering his courage, he cried out, “Who is there? Can I help you?” No reply came. Bob, hiding behind a tree, signaled urgently to him to get away quickly, but Patrick seemed nailed to the spot.

“Whoever you are, we are ready to help you,” he repeated. The flight of a squirrel jumping from branch to branch, was the only answer to his appeal.

“Am I dreaming?” he wondered; “was it only the mewing of a cat?” Slowly he rejoined his impatient chum.

“Do come away! We won’t meddle with that old hut again. Who knows? It may be the owner living in it. I’m sick of those pranks. Three months of confinement is enough for me!”

“We are doing no harm,” said Patrick, “no one could blame us for going to the help of someone in pain.”

“It could be misunderstood, considering our past record.”

Patrick was silent. Must he then be shadowed for days to come by the consequences of one sin? But he couldn’t shake off the thought of a sick or unhappy person lying in the hut.

At a turn of the road they encountered Charlie, Andrew and John, and not long after, they reached the farm, where Philip and his young brothers of twelve and thirteen years, hailed them cheerily, not to mention Ralph, who couldn’t stop jumping round them with joyous barks of welcome.

“Our parents are out,” announced Philip, “so come into the kitchen. Next time we’ll meet outside in the barn, but today it is a bit cold. Sit down, round the table, ready for a good ‘confab.’

“Since we are starting a new group,” he went on, “it seems to me that we ought to begin with a code of rules. Didn’t you have one before?”

“Yes!” cried the former ‘Jolly Outlaws’ all together; “we promised not to tell anyone of our doings - to pay fifty cents a month - not to betray each other.”

“You have chosen me for leader,” said Philip smiling. “May I reserve Rule 1 of the new code for myself? But first, let’s have your proposals.”

“Agreed!” said John, taking a pencil and paper from his pocket. “Fire away! I’ll jot them down.”

“Rule 2,” said Patrick: “Find a way to replace Mr. Mollett’s car.”

“Hear, hear!” cried Bob; “but it will need more than fifty cents a month.”

“Rule 3. Keep secret all our projects,” suggested Charlie.

“Why?”’asked John; “We have nothing to hide.”

“That’s true,” said Philip, “but Charlie is right, our aims and plans will be between ourselves.”

“Rule 4. To do something useful,” proposed John.

“Rule 5. Hang together always; and try to encourage Cyril and Simon if they come back,” added Bob.

“Now Philip, it’s your turn; we’d very much like to know the first rule.”

“Well,” said the young man, “I should like all our meetings to start with a short reading from the Bible!”

“Ugh!” cried Charlie, “I don’t like sermons! They give us enough at home as it is.”

“To speak of the Lord Jesus is not making a sermon, as you imagine. It is just speaking of a Person who cares and helps us. The Bible is a signpost; without it we lose our way.”

“The Bible is such a difficult book,” sighed Bob. “How can one find his way in it?”

“Let’s start together to discover it,” said Philip, taking from his pocket a black Book. “Long ago, a man was in doubt like you what road to follow; and he prayed this prayer: ‘Cause me to know the way wherein I should walk; for I lift up my soul unto Thee’” (Psalm 143:8).

“Who was that man?” asked Patrick.

“It was David. Possibly he was still young when he made that prayer. One day God showed him that He had heard it, saying, ‘I will guide thee with Mine eye’ (Psalm 32:8). We are setting out today on a new road. Do you agree that together we do like David, ask God to keep His eye on us so that we don’t miss our way?”

The lads sat in embarrassed silence. Philip’s face was so bright and peaceful that they were not put off by his words, but they were afraid of committing themselves.

Suddenly Bob blurted out, “As for me, I’ve nothing to say against it. I’ve no desire to go back to the old ways. That cost me too much!”

Philip did not press his point, but bowed his head and began to pray aloud, very simply.

“It seems as if he is speaking to Someone very near,” thought Patrick, as he listened to Philip’s prayer, claiming the help of God and His guidance in their plans. The young man raised his head and passed in review the young faces turned toward him.

“Now we’ll speak about what we have most at heart, the means of earning the money to buy a new car for Mr. Mollett. Bob, have you a suggestion?”

“The only thing I can do is to work my hardest at Mr. Mollett’s. In the evening I fall asleep and I’ve only Sundays free. By going without chocolate and candy and being very careful I may perhaps manage to save $10 a month out of the $25 that I earn.”

“That’s a good sum to start with,” cried Patrick; “if only I could make as much!”

“My father invites you all to help us pick the cherries. We have an orchard full of them, and no one has time to gather the fruit. You could eat as many as you like and take some home, and you would earn $1.50 each afternoon.”

“I’ll do it!” cried Charlie and Andrew together, “Wednesday and Saturday afternoons you can count on us.”

“I’d like to find a job for the holidays,” said Patrick. “School gives me enough to do at the moment. Thanks to Doctor Garnier, the principal has agreed that I don’t need to take a second year in my class. I want to catch up with the rest, and so I must study hard! What can you suggest, Philip?”

“Work is never lacking on the farm, but I question whether you’re strong enough yet to help with the harvesting, anyway. We can only sleep two boys, even while Claud is in Germany, and it would be too much for you to come to and fro.”

“Will you take us?” pleaded Charlie.

“Are you really keen enough to give up a seaside holiday? Could you get up every day at five o’clock? Are you afraid of hard work and dirtying your hands?”

“We’d be delighted to stay here,” affirmed Andrew decidedly. “My parents mean to send us to a poor farmer in Switzerland, as they did last year, and we don’t fancy his place at all. We’d be a lot happier with you, and we’d work hard.”

“Suppose your parents don’t agree?”

“Ask our stepmother! She’ll like nothing better. Her one and only wish is to get rid of us, and Dad doesn’t dare oppose her. I’m telling you, we don’t spare her in practical jokes - we really are young demons!”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Philip laughing.

“May I join in the good cause?” asked John. “It will be much more interesting than just playing around.”

“Me, too! Me, too!” cried Philip’s younger brothers.

“No good offers will be turned down,” said Philip. “Everyone is welcome; let’s sum up the situation. Bob will save from $5 to $10 a month; that comes to about $75 by the end of the year. Andrew and Charlie will pick cherries and help in field work, probably earning about $150 between them. Luke and Raymond - while you’re up the mountain you could collect blueberries and mushrooms and sell them to the hotels. If you manage to reach a total of $75, I shall congratulate you.”

“I’ll write to Simon to join with us,” suggested Patrick; “he always seems to be flush with cash and he’s not stingy. As for Cyril, we can’t count on him.”

“Then to be optimistic, all together we may succeed in raising $500.”

“That’s not enough,” sighed Patrick; “how hard it is to get hold of money.”

“Oh, we’re doing fine, and perhaps we’ll find still more means of making some by autumn. We shall be too busy to find time for sport and excursions at present, but once our goal is won, I promise you a surprise that will make up for all your hard effort!”

“Tell us what it is,” they begged; but Philip refused to budge.

“Just one thing more to close our business affairs,” he said; “name a treasurer to receive the money and keep the accounts.”

“Count me out,” said Bob, “I’m no good on figures.”

“Patrick,” proposed John; “you’re good at math; you’re just cut out for the job.”

“Hadn’t it better be Philip, the eldest and chief of the Youth Group?”

“No, Patrick, I’ll be the auditor of accounts. As soon as you have $25 in hand, bring it to me and I’ll put it in the bank.” Philip got up, hunted in a cupboard, and handed to Patrick a small old wooden chest. “Here is the safe for you to put the money in each month. It has no key but it opens mysteriously. I’ll bet that neither of you will be able to find the secret spring.”

While the small chest was passing from hand to hand and remaining obstinately closed, Philip went to get an enormous apple tart which he proceeded to share among the boys.

“This is most uncanny!” cried John; “to think that this little box has got us all beat! Do you have to pronounce magic words over it? Well, Philip! I can’t do any better than the others.”

Philip took the chest and no sooner was it in his hands than it opened like an enchanted castle, showing the interior lined with violet velvet. Seven heads pressed round him with keen interest, as he showed them a tiny spring hidden under the carving.

“It could be Chinese,” remarked Charlie.

“You said it. This chest was given to my grandfather by a Chinaman. He left it to me, and I prize it highly, but it seems to me worthy to contain the proceeds of our labors. Take charge of it, Patrick.”

A fine rain was beginning to fall. None of the boys had any wish to leave the farm kitchen, but the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Berger caused them to make a move.

“Patrick, I’ll take you in the car,” announced Philip. “All the others have their bikes, and it’s hardly safe for Bob to take you down the hill on his carrier.”

“Philip,” said Patrick, as soon as they were alone in the car, “I’ve been bursting to tell you - when we were coming up, Bob and I went up close to the hut where we used to hold our meetings. The door was fastened, but we plainly heard someone groaning inside. When I called out offering help, there was a deathly silence, and Bob forced me away, fearing to get mixed up in something unsavory. Let’s go there now! Will you come?”

“Sure I will; we ought not to leave any needy creature without help, even if it’s only a cat shut in by mistake.”

Philip stopped the car at the place Patrick indicated. They got out and struggled through the sodden grass and under the close-set branches, softly as wolves on the trail. On reaching the hut, they were surprised to find the door open! Patrick entered first. In a corner a heap of sacks composed a wretched bed; the antiquated stove and the thick cobwebs were there as before. Philip soon followed. On raising one of the sacks he discovered a blood-stained cloth.

“An injured person was taking refuge here just recently,” he said. “Your visit has put him to flight, I’m afraid.”

Disappointed, Patrick came out and examined the ground outside, finding nothing. The rain poured down, and a keen wind made him shiver. Philip rejoined him and they quickly returned to the waiting car.

“Your refugee can’t be very sick, since he has left his shelter,” said Philip; “but I’ll promise you to come again tomorrow and to let you know if I succeed in finding this mysterious person.”

Another Theft

“Patrick! Pat! Stop!” Bob’s excited voice caused Patrick to slow down, as he was cycling full speed toward the school. Bob rushed up to him waving an envelope in his hand. “Here are my first savings, a $10 bill! I simply must get rid of it as fast as possible, or I’m terribly afraid I’ll go and spend some.”

The two boys made their way into a blind alley, out of sight of passers by. Patrick took out his wallet and proudly placed Bob’s bill inside. “I have four like this already, you know; the first two from Charlie and Andrew, who have spent five afternoons on Mr. Berger’s cherry trees. The third John brought me: he has started giving Latin lessons. The fourth came from the sale of my microscope that one of the fellows bought at half price. The fifth comes from you. I’ll lock them all up in the cash box and tomorrow I shall take it to Philip.”

Neither Bob nor Patrick noticed a door slowly open close by, and a desperate gaze fixed on them. A glance at his watch and Patrick jumped on his bicycle; “Goodbye, Bob! I’ve two late marks already, so I have got to be off.”

=============================

“It’s rather strange, Patrick. Just think, I found the door open when I got home. Did you come back during the morning?” asked Carol.

“No; we left together this morning, and you were the one to lock up.”

“Well! Someone must have come in.”

“Think again, you couldn’t have closed the door properly, that’s all.”

“No, I remember quite well turning the key in the lock and putting it in the usual hiding place.”

Carol and Patrick went all over the apartment. Everything seemed to be in its usual place. Then, collecting their books for afternoon school, they prepared to go and eat at the nearby restaurant, but Patrick changed his mind. “If I take the cash box,” he thought, “I needn’t come back here, and can go straight up to Philip’s after school.”

He opened the drawer of his chest-of-drawers: the small box was gone! In its place was a scrap of crumpled paper, on which he read: “I’m sure you won’t refuse to help a chum in distress, and that you won’t be mean enough to betray me. J.O.S.” It was Cyril’s writing!

Utterly dismayed, Patrick stared into the open drawer. What could he do? If he spoke of the theft, he would betray Cyril. If he concealed it, he would be robbing his friends. Carol was calling him impatiently, and it was no use letting her suspect anything. Absorbed in her history book, turning the pages while she ate hurriedly, Carol did not notice that her brother was unable to swallow a mouthful. At school Patrick answered all the teacher’s questions with his mind a blank, getting a severe reprimand.

“If you start letting yourself go again, Demier, you need expect no leniency,” the German teacher snapped.

At four o’clock Patrick, more dead than alive, rushed out of school and mounted his bicycle. What was the use of going to Philip’s home now? But after riding awhile around town, perplexed and miserable, he suddenly found himself on the road to Fairfields. The balmy summer evening seemed to mock his wretchedness. How could the countryside look so radiant, the lake so calm, the swallows so intoxicatingly joyous, when the world contained so many cruel and unsolvable problems?

Philip was not at the farmhouse. Mrs. Berger pointed out the field where he was harvesting; with slow steps Patrick went toward him. Seeing the troubled look on the boy’s face, his welcoming smile faded. “What is it, Patrick? Bad news?”

Patrick could not at first utter a word. At last he stammered: “I ought to have brought you $50, but ... I haven’t got them now.”

“You’ve lost them?”

“No.”

“Spent them?”

“No.”

“Given them away?”

“No.”

“Then someone has taken them - do you guess who it is?”

No reply - ”Don’t you trust me, Patrick?” The boy’s reproachful look answered more eloquently than words.

“Well! I trust you. You have a weight on your mind of which you can’t tell me. I understand.”

Philip stopped the engine of his tractor, and the two sat down on the sun-baked furrow, where the mower had left rough grass and weeds. “If I can’t help you, Patrick, God can. He always comes to the help of His children.”

“I’d like to feel as you do, Philip, but I am not His child.”

“Don’t you want to become one of His family?”

“Yes, but I don’t know how.”

“It is very simple,” said Philip. “You have to ask the Lord Jesus to receive you; that is the only way to come to God.”

“Only that? Don’t I have to do anything for myself?”

“No, Patrick. Do you think that God would have sacrificed His only Son if there had been any other way to atone for our sins?”

“How do you come to Jesus? We can’t see Him.”

“Just tell Him that you need Him and His love and salvation. He has waited for you a long time.”

Patrick felt a great desire well up in his heart. The Savior who had redeemed Philip and Doctor Garnier must become his! He knew that they possessed happiness and assurance unknown to him, and which he wanted above everything. In every way they were much better than he. There rose before him all the evil thoughts of hate and rebellion which he had cherished for months.

“Philip, I’m not good like you; I am very wicked.”

“It is for those who need forgiveness that the Lord was crucified.” Philip took out his Bible that he always carried with him and read: “As many as received Him, to them gave He power (or right) to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on His name” (John 1:12).

“What does it mean to receive Him?”

“It is to believe that He died on the cross, which you couldn’t do, neither could I; that He took away your sins which barred the way between you and God.”

Patrick sat nervously pulling up blades of grass and seeming to gaze into the depths of the earth. After a long silence he said in a low tone: “Philip, do you truly believe that God can love me like - a real father?”

“Much more than a real father; God is love, and His love never changes like that of men.”

“How can you be certain that He loves you personally, and is really interested in you?”

“Well, Patrick, I don’t know how to explain it. It is something the Lord Jesus made me realize when I opened my heart to Him. Go, just as you are to the Lord, and He will give you the same assurance.”

The two friends got up then; Philip went back to his tractor, and Patrick mounted his bicycle. No more words were spoken, but in parting each of them realized that a bond, stronger than anything earthly, was formed between them; a link that nothing, not even death, could break.

Patrick did not feel like going straight home. Too many thoughts were revolving in his brain. He would avoid the close heat of the streets for a while, for a quiet place in which to think was absolutely essential. He turned into a narrow footpath between two fields of wheat and followed it as far as a clump of trees. The silence and peace of nature were exactly what he needed.

Leaning against a tree trunk he pondered the question - how to be sure that God loves ME? Into the clear sky a lark rose swiftly with a song of triumph. The lad’s eyes followed the bird until it was lost in space; then his glance returned to the long corn stalks trembling in the evening breeze. Suddenly light began to dawn. Was not the beauty surrounding him a proof of God’s love? The Creator had surely thought of all men’s happiness when He formed the earth! But was that proof sufficient? He needed something more “The Father Himself loveth you.” Who had said that? He must have read it at some time, but where? He could not remember. Now, at this moment, he had the conviction that those words were just for him, Patrick Demier.

A veil seemed to fall from his eyes. Why hadn’t he understood sooner? God had not spared His Son, and Jesus Christ had allowed Himself to be crucified. The Father and the Son had worked together so that he - Patrick - could be saved and God could be a Father to him. Wasn’t that the greatest proof of love?

“You have only to come to Him, just as you are,” Philip had said. He felt that he couldn’t wait any longer; he glanced around; no one was in sight. He was alone - with God. He knelt down.

While spinning down the hill towards home, Patrick realized all at once that the disappearance of the $50 no longer weighed on his mind. That which had come into his life was so much more important. He had dropped his anchor in a safe harbor; his Captain would now take care of all his life’s problems.

Hiding in the Hut

Was it to enjoy the beauty of the starry night that Philip Berger left the farm toward ten o’clock and traveled down the lonely road? No: he was tired out after a long day’s work under the blazing sun, and could have wished nothing better than to stretch himself on his bed and sleep. But an imperious urge caused him to hasten his steps on the road, dimly lighted by the moon. Presently he branched off, pushed his way through the bushes and, helped by his flashlight, reached the hut, from which a light shone. Pressing his face to the window, he saw a young fellow lying on the sacks, reading. The book hid his face, until a slight involuntary sound made by the watcher caused him to sit up, startled, with a terrified air. Philip recognized him then; it was Cyril! His bandaged arm, his pallor, his resemblance to a trapped animal, moved Philip to pity. The lamp went out and was relighted. Philip slipped back a little, leaning against the wall of the hut as he waited in deep shadow. It did not seem that Cyril divined his presence.

After some time the key grated in the lock and the door opened cautiously. Cyril, masked, and holding a pistol, stepped out and peered around. Without losing a moment, Philip sprang forward, seized the pistol, which he flung to a distance, and quickly mastered the younger boy, who struggled fiercely with cries of fear and rage.

“Who are you? Let me go! You scoundrel! You’re hurting me, and I can’t defend myself.”

“Don’t struggle, Cyril,” said Philip calmly. “I am not an enemy, but a friend. Let me come inside; I want to speak to you.”

The unhappy chief of the J.O.S. no longer resisted, and they entered the hut, now in darkness. “Light up the lamp, and let us have a little chat, Cyril. I want to explain my reason for coming here.”

The boy glared at him angrily. “Oh, I know very well what brought you. Patrick has betrayed me. You want to send me back to that horrible prison of a place. But I won’t go, I’d rather die!” He sprang up and made a dash for the door. Philip seized him by the collar and made him sit down again, planting himself against the door as a safeguard.

“Cyril, just listen quietly to me,” he said sternly. “Patrick has not betrayed you; by saying that you gave yourself away. As for me, I certainly might have had suspicions, but I came tonight to hold out a helping hand. I love you, Cyril, and I want to rescue you from this life of misery and dishonesty into which you’ve fallen.”

“I don’t believe you. Besides, I’ve no need of anyone’s help. If only people would leave me alone, that’s all I ask!”

“Your so-called freedom is only slavery to a cruel master who wants to destroy you.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“You think you’re having your own way. In reality you’re following out the devil’s plans, down a dark road that gives no peace or happiness.
“Freedom is the only happiness I want.”

“Cyril, haven’t you a father and mother who love you?”

“My father died two years ago; he was a drunkard. He never did anything but beat us, my mother and me.”

“And your mother?”

“She died last year.”

“Who looks after you now?”

“My guardian. He detests me, and I return it with interest! He forced me to be apprenticed as a mechanic, though I wanted to be a sailor like my grandfather. “
“What do you expect to do now?”

“I’ve decided to go to France and find a way to earn my living while I am waiting to offer as a ship’s boy. I’d have gone before this only I’m waiting for my arm to heal. I tore it jumping over some barbed wire.”

“Show it to me,” said Philip, sitting down again.

Cyril unrolled the make-shift bandage which covered a very swollen arm with a deep purple wound.

“You have a bad infection; you must see a doctor.”

“It’s not worth the trouble,” said Cyril, his face contorted with pain. “It was worse than this last week. I had fever, and hardly managed to go and find something to drink. The doctor gave me a good remedy, and I’m getting well.”

“How long have you lived in this hut?”

“About three weeks. I worked for a few days on the motor road under a false name. When my arm got too bad, I took refuge here.”

“Listen, Cyril, you’re not going to stay here. What have you had to eat since you escaped? You’re nearly thin enough to see through! You’ll be seriously ill soon. Come to my home! We will care for you till your time is up. I shall have to contact your guardian.”

“That’s useless,” muttered Cyril: “my guardian won’t listen to you, and he has all authority over me. Let me get away to France. That was why I took the money from Patrick. It’s not a theft; we made a pact that we’d help each other. I intend to pay him back as soon as I’ve earned something across the frontier. A sailor’s life is what I want. Let me go!”

“How old are you, Cyril?”

“Seventeen.”

“Do you know that you could get an excellent post on board ship as a mechanic, and you’d be much better paid than the seamen?”

A gleam of interest showed on the boy’s haggard face.

“Cyril, we’re going to make a pact - as you did. You’re going to return the cash box to me; it belongs to me. You haven’t spent the money yet?”

“No; I haven’t even succeeded in opening the wretched thing,” said the boy, handing over the mysterious box to Philip, who couldn’t repress a smile.

“Good! Now I promise you not to reveal your hiding place. Tomorrow I’ll bring you food; then I’ll go to see your guardian. Give me your word that you won’t run off before hearing the result of my visit. I shall try to get permission for you to come to my home for a time. My father has the confidence of the magistrates, who have placed more than one young fellow with us. You’ll finish your apprenticeship; after that we shall see. If the sea continues to call you, we would not keep you back. Do you know, you’d be very useful to us if you agreed to join the recreated Youth Group, because the aim is to earn money to get a minivan for Mr. Mollett. Your help would be valuable.”

Cyril looked searchingly at Philip. No one had ever spoken to him as man to man so kindly. Could it really be just a snare to entrap him? To live as he was doing, in constant fear of discovery was certainly not the freedom he had dreamed of. Dare he trust this proposal? The sincerity in Philip’s face at last banished his hesitation. He gave him his hand, saying: “I will stay.”

“I trust your word, Cyril. Good-night. You can trust me.”

Philip went out, shutting the door; his weariness had vanished. After a few steps he stooped and picked up something, which he put in his pocket.

“I thank Thee, Lord,” he prayed, “for watching over him. What harm he might have done!” A silent prayer went up from his heart for the orphaned lad he had just left; the straying sheep needing so desperately the Shepherd’s care.

Love Your Enemies

“What good fortune can have happened to Patrick?” thought Carol, as she arranged the dishes in the sideboard. She had never seen him look so happy. He had already become a changed boy since his accident and the months in the hospital; he had settled down and recovered his diligence in schoolwork, but it was only now that she saw such radiance in his face. What could have made him so happy?

Patrick was employed, since the summer holidays began, in a building firm. This evening he came home dirty, with roughened hands and aching shoulders, but without a word of complaint. He was much more communicative, and their family life seemed transformed. Instead of going to bed directly after supper Mrs. Demier now stayed a while with her children.

One day Patrick surprised Carol buried in her gospel reading. Crimson with confusion, she waited for her brother’s amused teasing. On the contrary his face showed joy and astonishment, as he cried: “You possess a New Testament, Carol? Why have you never shown it to me?

“I felt sure it wouldn’t interest you. Besides, I only read it to find a story.”

“Which one?”

“The story of a shepherd that little Vera keeps asking for.”

“I know it. Give me the Book, I’ll try to find it.” Patrick took the Book from his astounded sister, hastily turned a few pages and gave it back, saying: “There, I’ve found it. Isn’t that what you want?”

“How does it happen that you know this story?” asked Carol after reading it. Patrick flushed. Dare he tell his sister what had happened to him? She would not understand; perhaps she would mock him. Still, if he kept silent, it was rather as if he were ashamed of knowing the Lord Jesus. He felt he must answer.

“Well, Carol, Philip once showed me that story. It is just like me. Jesus has become my Shepherd, and I am like the sheep that was found.”

Carol looked surprised, but said nothing. “This is what has made him so different,” she thought, and sighed. How simple it all seemed to Patrick and to Vera. She herself was full of doubts and questions. Who could help her to know if all this were true?

“Why do you say that you are the lost sheep?” she asked brusquely. “You were not lost.”

“Yes, I was, like everyone is before they believe that Jesus died for their sins.”

Carol was silent. She had kept on reading the Testament, but many things remained obscure to her. Why did Christ let Himself be so cruelly treated and crucified? He could have escaped, if He were the Son of God; why didn’t He?

“Say, Carol, will you lend me this Book a little while, this evening? Now I must run to work.”

“Certainly, take it when you like, but I can’t see how such a serious Book interests you.”

Patrick smiled and disappeared. Carol opened the little book at random, and her eyes fell on these words: “When we were yet without strength, in due time, Christ died for the ungodly...God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:6, 8).

“Sinners, ungodly!” These words could not be addressed to her. She understood now that His death was necessary. Perhaps the one who wrote those words was like the thief on the cross who certainly needed forgiveness. But God couldn’t treat as ungodly those who, like herself, were always striving to do good. Again she turned over the leaves to the Gospel of Luke which she had started to read. She came to the account of the crucifixion.

“There they crucified Him, and the malefactors, one on the right hand, and the other on the left. Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.” Carol remembered the verse that had struck her previously: “Love your enemies...and pray for them which despitefully use you.” Jesus had not only spoken these words, but He had acted them perfectly at the time of His most terrible sufferings.

Carol suddenly saw the gulf there was between her poor little conception of goodness and that of God, and of the Lord Jesus who had given His life for His enemies, for criminals; and who had loved and prayed for them! If she were not a sinner, what was she before the perfect holiness of God? The hollowness of her claim to goodness came over her like a flash.

The striking of the clock aroused the girl from her meditation. It was three already! She had promised Mrs. Garnier to take care of the children that afternoon. “Today Vera shall have her story,” she said to herself, “provided that I know how to tell it to suit her.”

Will Patrick Steal Again?

“All group members will meet on Saturday, the twentieth of July, at 2 p.m., at Fairfields Farm, where a surprise awaits you. Signed - Philip.”

Patrick read over the message with a mixture of pleasure and dread. He had not seen Philip since the day Cyril had stolen the money from him. He had avoided Bob and the others for fear of embarrassing questions; fortunately neither of them had brought him any money since then. On Saturday they would be certain to give him their earnings and want to check up the account. What could he say to them?

He felt especially tired this Friday morning. His back was hurting, after carrying man-sized loads of bricks all week. Would he get through the long working-day? Towards the end of the morning the foreman called him: “Demier! Mr. Brown, the architect, wants you. He is behind the house, talking with the owner.”

Much surprised, Patrick wiped his hands, ran to the place indicated, and waited in the background till the two gentlemen finished their conversation. Presently the architect noticed him. “Are you the schoolboy working as a laborer here?” he asked, looking keenly at the boy.

“Yes, sir.”

“I have an urgent payment to go to the Post Office, and cannot leave here at present. I am entrusting it to you; the money is in this envelope.
“You have only to give it to the employee and bring me the receipt. Give it to no one but myself at noon, in my office.”

Patrick jumped on his bicycle, delighted to have a change; the work of unloading planks and bricks had seemed endless. As directed, he delivered the envelope to the official, who counted the notes it contained. Patrick’s eyes widened, he had never seen so many all together.

“There are $30 too much,” said the man.

“Are you sure you counted correctly, sir?” asked Patrick; “Mr. Brown told me that I had only to give you that amount.”

The man counted again. “I’m sure I’m right. Here’s $30 to return. Bring it back to me if the boss doesn’t want it,” he said, laughing.

A horrible thought came to Patrick. If he kept this note to replace the sum stolen, he could tell Philip he had found it. So he would not need to betray Cyril! For an instant he dallied with the temptation. Money was so hard to earn, and they needed so much to pay for that van! Mr. Brown would know nothing; after all, it was his fault, he had made the mistake; and the money would go to a good cause.

But all the sedatives that the tempter offered him did not succeed in dispersing the growing uneasiness that filled him. More and more, as he neared the architect’s office, another voice contended against Satan’s in his soul. If the Lord Jesus saw what was passing in his heart, would He approve? Keeping the note would be stealing from the master who trusted him. Shame submerged him; he nearly forgot to stop at the red light in his haste to reach his journey’s end.

Envelope in hand, he dashed up to the office door and knocked, with beating heart.

Mr. Brown was not there. A sly-looking young employee opened the door and asked, with a disdainful air, what brought him there.

“I have something to give Mr. Brown, but I’ll come back later,” said Patrick.

“You can give it to me; that will save you a trip.”

“I ought to see Mr. Brown personally; I’d rather come back.”

“Don’t be so fussy. Give me that envelope,” said the fellow seizing Patrick’s arm. “It’s past mid-day; Mr. Brown’s not coming now. I’m going to close up the office. This afternoon the boss has other business. Come on, don’t think you’re so important, with your old workman’s clothes! Hurry up, or you’ll get something from me.”

“No!” said Patrick; “I have my orders and I’ll keep to them.”

Struggling to escape from the young man’s grip, he rushed to the door, and encountered the architect just entering. The clerk let go his hold and disappeared without a word by another door.

“You have a receipt to give me, my boy,” said Mr. Brown, placing his briefcase on the table.

“Here it is, sir, also $30. You must have made an error, for the official counted it twice.”

“That’s good, my boy,” said Mr. Brown, letting his glance rest on Patrick’s flushed face. “I have put you to the proof; I see that I can trust you. I heard you resisting that fellow, who would have enriched himself at the cost of your reputation. Your honesty and firmness please me. I know that the work you are doing is not quite suitable for a student. That clerk is leaving me this very day. Will you help me for a short time until I find another? How old are you?”

“I shall be fifteen at the end of the year.”

“What school do you attend?”

“I’m going to Tech.”

“Why do you work during the holidays?”

“To pay a debt.”

“A debt? Then this $30 would have helped you to settle it. You were not tempted to keep it?”

Patrick reddened under the penetrating eyes. “Yes,” said he, very low: “I was, for an instant.”

“What made you overcome the temptation?”

“I belong to Jesus.”

Mr. Brown turned away his head and seemed to completely forget the boy who stood respectfully before him.

“Well, well!” said he, suddenly rousing himself. “Go on unloading your bricks this afternoon, and come here Monday morning at seven o’clock. If you apply yourself, we can make something out of you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Patrick earnestly; “I shall do my best to please you.” Overflowing with joy, he ran to buy a sandwich and went back to the builders’ yard. He felt as if he had wings, and the bricks seemed as light as feathers. To work in an architect’s office! He would never have dreamed of such good fortune. It was the fulfillment of one of his cherished ambitions. He raised a heartfelt thanksgiving to God Who had led him in the right path and had kept His eye upon him.

A Double Surprise

“Prepare yourselves to see the ‘surprise’ appear!” exclaimed Philip, with a mysterious air, to the boys sitting round the table. “Open, Sesame!”

A light knock was heard on the heavy oak door; it opened. The figure of a young fellow, pale but smiling, was framed in the doorway, and exclamations of astonishment burst forth.

“Cyril! Is it possible?”

“Where do you come from?”

Astonished questions came from everyone. Patrick only, with an embarrassed air, looked furtively at Philip, not knowing if he dare join in the general jubilation.

“I’ll leave to Philip Berger the job of explaining my presence. It is to him I owe the pleasure of seeing you again,” said Cyril, sitting down at one end of the table.

“God enabled me to find Cyril, who is our new boarder from today,” briefly explained Philip. “Your former chief is willing to join our group as second mate, and to help us in buying Mr. Mollett’s car; his skill as a mechanic will be very useful.”

“Philip! You ought to say that it’s thanks to you and your father that I’ve been let off three months imprisonment and escaped from my guardian’s clutches. Without you I might be on a voyage to the South Seas!”

“While waiting to become a sailor, Cyril is finishing his apprenticeship and settling in happily here! Till today he’s been convalescing, but after tomorrow he starts work. My father is his new guardian, and has persuaded the authorities to let him finish his sentence with us.”

Philip then opened the Bible which he was holding. The talking ceased, and all eyes were fastened on him.

“For today I’ve chosen three very stimulating sayings, spoken by three of God’s servants at different periods of history. Each of them proved God’s help at a special time in his life. King David said: ‘I will cry unto God most high; unto God that performeth all things for me’ (Psalm 57:2).
“Solomon, his son, declared: ‘I know that it shall be well with them that fear God’ (Eccl. 8:12).
“And last, the Apostle Paul affirms that ‘All things work together for good to them that love God’ (Romans 8:28).
“These promises we can take for ourselves, each of us personally. We are weak, ignorant, sinful; but God is interested in us and is longing to do us good. He promises us His help, but He wants us to ask Him for it. I’ve learned that there is everything to gain by belonging to Him and trying to please Him every day. Have any of you had a similar experience?”

Philip looked from one to another of the boys. With lowered eyes, John nibbled his pencil. Cyril had assumed a stubborn air. Patrick seemed too moved to speak. Only Bob raised his head and responded with a smile to Philip’s glance.

“I, too, begin to see that God cares about me, since I’ve been at Mr. Mollett’s house. I never knew anything like it! My boss sort of hands over everything to God, and I can’t help seeing that God answers his prayers. Do you think He’d listen to me if I tell Him my difficulties?”

“He surely will, Bob; you won’t be disappointed. God makes us wait sometimes, but He always answers. He has already answered us by bringing Cyril back; He knew how much we wanted him.”

“Cyril is the man of ideas!” cried Charlie; “Surely he has something to propose already.”

“As a matter of fact, I have got a proposal to make,” said Cyril, looking at Philip: “haven’t you an old unusable garden tractor?”

“I don’t know of one.”

“Oh yes, Philip, you do know! The old ‘Tacoy’ that Dad gave us because it wouldn’t work,” cried Luke, his brother.

“I’d like to look at it with you and see if it couldn’t be repaired.”

“Let’s all go, right away!”

The whole party hurried into the farmyard. The fields, revived after a recent shower, had a delicious fresh scent.

They crossed the garden where Mrs. Berger was weeding a bed of wallflowers and pink cosmos, fluttering in the breeze like big red butterflies. Luke and Raymond, going first with Cyril, pulled triumphantly from the far end of the barn an old vehicle whose weird creaking caused a burst of laughter from the others. Cyril examined the machine carefully.

“If you will help me,” he said, “we could repair it, I’m sure, and sell it for a good price.”

“Are you really able to fix it?” asked Philip.

“I believe so, and the mechanic I work with would give me advice.”

“Is this old tractor worth all the trouble?” asked John, rather sceptically.

“Yes!” affirmed Cyril, decidedly. “The body is still good. If my boss agrees to lend me some tools, and if you club together to pay for the materials, it will be quite a good machine. However, I’ll ask the mechanic’s advice before starting work on it.”

The boys surrounded Cyril, overwhelming him with questions, impatient to start to work. It was decided that, on the next day, Cyril would do his best to bring the mechanic to the farm. On rainy days, or when the farm work was somewhat slack, Charlie and Andrew would work under Cyril’s directions.

“Too bad we have to go to the mountain tomorrow,” cried Luke and Raymond, disappointed at not being able to help.

“There will still be work for you in September,” said Cyril; “you will do the painting!”

“We’ll go back now,” said Philip: “I’m going to show you the accounts. For some reason Patrick wants me to take charge, so in the future bring your savings to me.”

Cyril and Patrick turned crimson at the sight of the cash box, but the others found Philip’s proposal quite natural.

“See, here’s what we’ve accumulated: Bob has paid in $20 out of his wages; Patrick, $7 from the sale of his microscope; John, $10 earned by private teaching; Charlie and Andrew have earned $14 gathering cherries; Luke and Raymond $9 picking strawberries and raspberries; that gives a total of $60. Summer vacation is going to be very fruitful, and I wish you good success. We’ll review the situation in September.”

“Finally, here is my surprise project for the end of the summer - a weekend in our cattle chalet at Anzeindaz! I will take you up in our Opel, so there are no traveling expenses. We’ll live on milk, butter and cheese; there will be only bread to buy. Do you all accept?”

“Three cheers for Philip!” cried Bob, while everyone cheered in delight. “Let’s all have a balloon trip, to prepare ourselves for life in the Alps.”

Shocking News

Carol, alone in her room, was working on something she was entering in a competition, recopying her work carefully and embellishing the pages with appropriate drawings. She simply must finish it soon, for vacation was nearly over. There had been little leisure time; she went each morning to help Mrs. Garnier, because Clare was away in Germany. Beside this, she was teaching some schoolchildren who were in danger of despairing over Latin declensions. Her scanty free time seemed extra precious, although working in the Garnier’s happy home was really a pastime to her. Vera had become very dear to her. She used all her ingenuity to invent stories and games to amuse the little invalid, who was always wanting something fresh. Her pupil did her credit, and was already beginning to read nicely. Now and then Mrs. Garnier went out, and trusted the baby to her charge, a little fellow aged eighteen months who was in the rapturous stage of exploring and examining everything within his reach. Carol couldn’t take her eyes off him for a minute. One day when she was telling a story to Vera, Danny and Annette, Baby succeeded in grabbing a jar of honey. He poured it into an old shoe; then sat back to gleefully lick his sticky little hands. Another time he put his head between the balcony rails and yelled frantically when it would not come out!

“What a job it must be to be the mother of a family!” thought Carol, enjoying the solitude of her peaceful room. She was absorbed in her meticulous copying when the sound of the bell startled her.

“What tiresome creature has come to disturb me?” she thought, getting up reluctantly and opening the door. A gentleman carrying a suitcase smiled at her pleasantly. Where had she seen him before? Surely somewhere.

“May I speak to Madam?” asked the stranger.

“My mother is out; but I recognize you, sir!” cried Carol. “It was you who gave me the New Testament.”

“Is that so? Strange! I don’t remember you, nor do I think to have ever been in this house before.”

“We have recently moved here from another part of town.”

“I think I remember you now,” said the stranger looking earnestly at her. “Didn’t you live in Mariners’ Avenue? Yes! Since your mother is not at home, I won’t stay; just tell me if my little gift interested you.”

“I left it a long time in a drawer, but I began to read it some time ago. I’ve found some beautiful stories, but also many things that I don’t understand, and I don’t know who to ask to explain them.”

“I would very gladly help you, but don’t feel I should enter while your parents are out. Besides, I have to visit at the hospital. Tell me what time I can call again.”

“This evening at eight,” said Carol eagerly; “my mother and brother will be here then.”

As soon as the door closed, Carol blamed herself for having invited the stranger to call again. Her mother would certainly scold her. However, it seemed to be her only opportunity to ask help from one who must surely know the truths of the Bible, since his briefcase was full of nothing else! She turned again to her work while going over the questions she meant to ask. Mrs. Demier came in later than usual and took great exception to her daughter’s rashness.

“I’ve told you a hundred times never to invite a stranger inside,” she stormed. “Why in the world do you want the Bible explained to you? It is not a Book for young people.”

“You are wrong, Mother,” said Patrick firmly. “In the Bible God speaks to us. It’s our duty to read it.

“What! You too?” cried Mrs. Demier in amazement. “Whatever has got into you? Who has been trying to influence you? I will answer this gentleman myself and will make him understand that his help is not wanted here!”

At eight o’clock precisely the bell rang. Mrs. Demier hurried to the door, while Carol and Patrick waited with straining ears and fast-beating hearts. Exclamations of surprise resounded through the apartment.

“Susan! Is it possible?”

“Henry! If I had known!”

Two startled faces peeped through the crack of the door. It could not be the expected visitor! But indeed it was; and their mother quite transformed, introduced to them Mr. Roberts, a distant cousin at whose home she had spent her vacations in the past! They had lost sight of each other for many years; but, strange to say, had recognized each other immediately.

After chatting a while about their childhood recollections, the new cousin turned to Carol.

“Truth to tell,” he explained, “I am not here in virtue of being a relative, but especially to answer the questions of my young cousin. So now I am ready to hear them.”

Carol flushed, and murmured some faltering excuse, while glancing timidly at her mother.

“I will leave you to talk,” said Mrs. Demier, whose weariness had quite disappeared; “I must go and make some tea.”

Reassured, Carol began: “I would like to know if Jesus died for people who are not thieves or robbers, but who have tried to do good all their lives. It says that Christ died for the ungodly, the bad people. I don’t feel I’m one of those; isn’t there a difference between people? Are we all considered sinners?”

The evangelist did not reply, but opened his Bible and began to read the parable of the Pharisee and the publican; then he quoted a verse that Carol had not noticed: “There is no difference: for all have sinned and come short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:22-23). “Jesus died for all men, and for each of us in particular,” said Mr. Roberts; “our conscience is not a sure guide as to good and evil, and to the state of our hearts. We need divine light on this, the Light of the world, Jesus Himself. In reading the Gospels we see Him living on earth; we hear His words; it was in this way that I realized the gulf which separated me from Him. I was a sinner, and He had to die for me as well as for a thief.”

Then, struck by the earnestness of Patrick’s face, the evangelist asked, “And you, my young friend, have you too any difficulties of this sort?”

“No, sir. I am very ignorant, and do not even own a Bible; all I know is that God has made me His child.”

Mrs. Demier now returned, carrying a tray. “Well,” she said sarcastically, “have you nearly finished your theological discussions?”

Mr. Roberts looked at her in surprise. “Susan,” he said, “you cannot know what joy this talk with your children has given me. Surely it is to your influence they owe their interest in the Word of God?”

“No!” said the lady; “not at all. I take no interest in such things; I haven’t time. My husband did not want the children influenced by religion. As for me, I let them read what they like, but I don’t hold with this fanaticism.”

After a brief silence, Mr. Roberts said; “The study of God’s Word can do them nothing but good. Allow me, in memory of our old friendship, to offer your son a Bible.”

“Oh, thank you!” cried Patrick, overjoyed, seizing the beautiful gilt-edged volume which was handed to him. “Nothing could please me more than actually owning this! Will you write my name in it?”

“Willingly! Let me see, what is your name? I don’t even know.”

“Patrick Demier.”

Mr. Roberts started in surprise; “Demier! What a strange co-incidence,” he murmured. Turning quickly to the hostess, who was pouring out tea, he asked her point-blank: “Susan, you have not told me anything of your husband. Is he traveling?”

“We don’t know where he is at this moment, probably in the Congo. It’s nine months since he left us,” she answered tersely.

A heavy silence followed these words. Mr. Roberts felt Carol’s sorrowful gaze fixed on him. He turned pale; the resemblance was striking - why had he not noticed it before?

“Susan,” he said in an altered tone; “have you had any news of your husband?”

“Nothing. He didn’t even reply to a telegram I sent him when Patrick had his accident.”

“Have you a photograph of your father?” asked Mr. Roberts, turning to Carol.

The girl opened a locket which she wore on a chain, and gave it to him; he looked at it in silence.

“Have you heard anything about him?” asked Patrick, studying the shocked face of their visitor, who sat silent under three pairs of questioning eyes. At last he spoke with an effort.

“I have just returned from Belgium, where I had permission to distribute Bibles in a Protestant hospital which had received a convoy of wounded men from the Congo.”

“You have seen him?” cried Mrs. Demier. “Speak! Is he still alive?”

“He was very ill when I approached his bed. When he knew I was Swiss, he beckoned me to come close. Summoning all his strength, he managed to whisper; `When you return to our country, my life will be ended. Promise me to go and see my wife and children and give them this message.’”

Mr. Roberts drew an envelope from his pocket and took out of it a crumpled paper which he gave to Mrs. Demier: only one word was written on it - ”Forgive.” The poor woman read it with tears and passed it to her children.

“I stayed a long while with him,” went on Mr. Roberts. “I spoke to him of the mercy of God, and the cross of Christ. He seemed to understand, but was too weak to speak again. Then he became unconscious. The next day I had to leave without being able to get news of him, but I do not think he could have lived till morning. I am surprised that you have not received a telegram from the authorities. This happened four days ago, for I returned here the day before yesterday. I had begun to make inquiries, not knowing your address; your poor father having only enough strength to whisper his name, it’s marvelous that I found you so quickly.”

“What had happened to him? How was he wounded? Have you no details to give us?” asked Mrs. Demier between her sobs.

“Your husband must have received a bullet in his lungs during a riot. The nurse told me that his case was hopeless; that is all I can tell you, I’m afraid.”

“If I knew that he was alive, I would go tonight!” declared Mrs. Demier. “What can we do? Send a telegram?”

“I am afraid it is too late, Susan.”

Mr. Roberts stayed all the evening and did not leave the afflicted family without commending them to God in prayer. He promised to come again the next day. When he was gone, Patrick exclaimed, “Isn’t it strange that Dad should have to die just when he might have wanted to come home to us!”

“I wonder how I’d have felt if he had,” thought Carol: “I thought I hated him for deserting us, but now I realize what a place he had, in spite of that, in our hearts.”

“And to think that he died alone, so far away,” said their mother, wiping her eyes.

Just then the bell rang loudly. Patrick ran to the door and returned with a telegram. It confirmed the evangelist’s story.

“Charles Demier died from wounds, 16th August, 19 - For further information apply to the Protestant Hospital, Brussels.”

The little family now realized their loss more fully, and clung together in their sorrow, weeping for the one who had caused them so much suffering, but had been part of their life in the earlier time which was full of precious memories.

During the next few days they lived as if in a dream, painfully reminded all the time of their loss by visits, letters and formalities. On the other hand, they proved the comfort of sympathy and affection shown them by the Garnier family, by Philip Berger, Mr. Roberts, and all Patrick’s friends. Mr. Mollett sent a magnificent wreath of pink dahlias, and Bob whispered, with great pride, to Patrick - ”I made this myself; it’s the best I’ve done so far.”

The day of the funeral came, and when all was over, the bereaved family were at last alone. Mrs. Demier said to her son; “Patrick, read me what our cousin read this afternoon.”

The boy fetched his new Bible and soon found the passage, which he had underlined. “After that the kindness and love of God our Savior toward man appeared, not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according to His mercy He saved us, by the washing of regeneration” (Titus 3:4-5).

“I can’t remember the explanation,” said Mrs. Demier; “my head was aching so much, I couldn’t concentrate.”

“Mr. Roberts said that God showed to men how much He loved them, in giving them His Son. The Lord’s death on the cross, he said, was the only means of saving us from eternal punishment.”

“It seems strange,” said Carol; “he said that we are incapable of helping in the slightest degree to save ourselves. Neither our efforts nor good deeds can give us entrance into heaven. I thought I was good enough. But now I see that I needed to be made fit for heaven, and I am trusting in the work the Lord Jesus did on the cross for me.”

“But can anyone be sure of going to heaven?” cried Mother.

“Can’t you believe, Mommy, that God wants us to accept quite simply what the Lord Jesus has done for us? I found a text that helped me to understand. Here it is: ‘For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God’” (Ephesians 2:8).

“That is surely not just or fair. It would lead people to think that it doesn’t matter how they behave since their good works are useless.”

Patrick thought for a minute. “When one belongs to the Lord Jesus,” he said timidly, “one can’t feel it doesn’t matter how he behaves.”

Mrs. Demier raised her head and looked at her boy and girl. For the first time she noticed the change that had taken place in them. Something that till now she had not wanted to recognize seemed to have given them an inner radiance and a hopeful outlook on life. Someone whose power she had not estimated, whom she had excluded from her life and had not valued, was enthroned in the hearts of her children and had transformed them!

“Mommy,” said Patrick, “can’t we all try together to learn to know the Lord Jesus better?”

Will They Have Enough?

Patrick’s recent bereavement and the bad weather decided Philip to postpone the promised excursion. To console the disappointed boys he arranged for a group meeting on the last Saturday of the holidays. Patrick arrived a little before the appointed time. Ralph announced his coming with a veritable storm of barking, arousing all the farm.

“Philip,” cried the boy, struggling to free himself from the demonstrations of his faithful friend, “can I see you alone for a few minutes? I have so many things to tell you. Is it convenient?”

“Friends never arrive too soon,” said the young farmer; “come with me, I still have to go around to the barn.”

Patrick’s eyes shone with excitement. “Do you know that I have brought with me $150?”

“Is it possible? Have you earned all that at the yard?”

“Yes; but I haven’t told you yet that instead of unloading bricks, I’ve been keeping the accounts and doing drawings for the architect. It was thrilling! I was sorry to leave him this morning, but he has promised to take me back next summer. He is very keen for me to get on with science and to try and get into the Technical College. It seems that I could win a scholarship if I pass well enough. Now I have an aim in view, it won’t be so hard to work at the subjects that I don’t like. Since Dad has died, Mother will depend on me. I have no right to waste any time now.”

“Bravo, Patrick!” cried Philip enthusiastically. “I am proud of you!”

“Don’t say that, Philip; it is all owing to you. You know I’ve truly experienced what you read to us last time: ‘All things work together’ - how does it go on?”

“All things work together for good to them that love God” (Romans 8:28).

“That’s it: even though, you know, I don’t love Him yet as much as I ought.”

“Neither do I, Patrick. Our love for Him is so very weak. It withers quickly if He Himself does not water it in our hearts.”

The two friends entered the dim barn.

“Hello!” cried a voice that seemed to come out of the ground. “Come and see the tractor!” Cyril, lying between the four wheels, turned his head towards them. Charlie and Andrew, their hands black and oily, proudly contemplated their handiwork. “What do you think of it, Patrick? It’s got a new look, eh?”

“Marvelous!” said the boy, bending down to admire the rejuvenated tractor.

“It’s such fascinating work that we wouldn’t mind starting all over again. Cyril has taught us a lot, and his friend gave us some super gadgets.”

“All we need now is to find a purchaser,” said Cyril, as he emerged.

“No need to put an ad in the paper,” sounded the pleasant voice of Mr. Berger; “the buyer is myself!”

The boys exchanged eloquent glances. “After all you have done for us,” said Cyril, “we can’t let you pay anything. Please accept it as a thank-offering.”

“Not on your life! You’ve spent more than $150 on materials; you had to put new tires on and rebuild part of the engine. Don’t think that I shall enrich myself at your expense, and I need another tractor. I’ll have it valued and give you the price fixed; about $250, I suppose.”

“The cash box will explode!” cried Bob, just arriving with John Garnier.

The calculation of their funds was highly satisfactory. Counting in advance the approximate price of the tractor, they reached the gratifying sum of $260!

“Mine is a meager contribution,” sighed John, putting down $6; “the coaching doesn’t yield much during holidays, and Dad wanted me to help in the garden and work on my Greek essay. I may get a prize, but have to wait some time. Still, I have an idea to submit. Mother is planning a rummage sale to be held at our house. My brothers and sisters talk of nothing else. They have colored Bible texts which I have framed. My little crippled sister embroiders; and I have carved some little animals; here’s a sample one!”

Cries of admiration resounded at the sight of a graceful squirrel in the act of nibbling a nut. “You’re quite an artist! Who’d have thought that old John, the scholar, possessed such talent? I thought you were only good for study,” said Charlie in a tone that showed too plainly his estimation of intellectual gifts!

“It’s a fine idea, my dear fellow,” approved Philip. “What a grand bunch of helpers! We’re going to amass gold by the shovelful! Anyone else with an idea for that sale?”

“I’m not in the least gifted in sculpture or embroidery,” remarked Cyril, leaning back on the settee; “you must leave me to mechanics.”

“Could we make a doll’s house?” suggested Patrick; “I’ll draw the plans.”

“Agreed!” said John, “I have a saw and will take charge of the woodwork. I saw in the cellar some old boxes which will be just right for it.”

“I’m at your service for installing the electricity,” and Charlie’s eyes shone in anticipation.

“Give me the floral decorations!” said Bob.

“You must all come to my house. My young brothers will like watching you work, and we’ll need a few girls to do the soft furnishing.”

“You’ll all be relapsing to childhood,” cried Cyril; “don’t try to tear me away from my mechanical work. Anyway, I count on Charlie and Andrew, who are showing great talent for mechanics. And besides, I have more news to tell you. Yesterday, my boss told me that he wants to sell his car - a minivan like Mr. Mollett’s. I’ve already asked him how much he wants for it and explained why I wanted to know. ‘It’s three years old,’ he told me, ‘and hasn’t traveled more than 40,000 Km. It’s a good van. With a few repairs it would be like new. I’d like to get $900, but if you’ll take on some little jobs after work, I’ll make a reduction for you.’”

“It’s too expensive!” sighed Bob; “we’ll never figure out how to earn so much. We must find a dealer who has a cheaper one.”

“If we do, it won’t be worth having!” declared Cyril, decisively. “We ought to get a good one, if we get one at all.”

“Here’s some encouragement,” said Patrick, drawing from his pocket a crumpled paper; “a letter from Simon; I’ll read you the end part. `I wrote to my parents about another minivan for Mr. Mollett. By giving up my riding lessons, I’ve reduced my bills, so as to join in your effort. Go to my father, with Philip Berger, and he’ll give you $60 for my share. More than this, as I was one of the most responsible of the gang, they want to give you $150 extra! If my report is good, Dad will let me come home at the end of the year. I try not to play too many stupid tricks, as I’m dying to join you all again. I’m on the way to becoming angelic; you won’t recognize me!’ ”

“Simon angelic!” The reading was interrupted by shouts of laughter. Patrick continued; “ ‘Only think; I resisted the fellows who urged me to balance an inkpot on the door before the professor came in. They were so mad because I wouldn’t do it, that it was I who got it on my head next day! You can imagine the time it took me to get clean. I don’t mind being black as a sweep outside if I’ve a clear conscience! To all the members, and you specially, a big handshake, Yours, Simon - not too much of a vandal.’ ”

“We’re missing that jolly old fellow!” declared Cyril; “the group will be perfect when he’s back.”

The sun, like a ball of fire, half-hidden behind the blue outline of the mountains, was throwing a rose-colored light over the countryside which seemed preparing for sleep. John and Patrick got up.

“Time to go home already! Time passes too quickly at Fairfields.”

“You are forbidden to go at present!” said the cheery voice of Mr. Berger, whose kindly face wore its broadest smile. “My wife has prepared us some cakes and cheese tarts which no one can resist. We are celebrating today the end of harvest and Claud’s return, and the more the merrier!”

Soon the farmer and his wife, surrounded by ten boys with voracious appetites and in the highest spirits, sat in front of a row of huge golden-brown pies. When these had disappeared, Mrs. Berger reappeared with apple tarts of such a size that even Bob could scarcely finish his second slice. After supper, while the boys were happily helping wash up, the farmer set them a challenge.

“I’d like to ask you a question,” he began with twinkling eyes. “You’ve worked desperately hard this summer; all your spare time was filled up. Patrick hasn’t known one day of vacation. Charlie and Andrew went to bed each night dead tired after working many hours in the fields; Cyril scarcely got in from the garage before he became immersed in his tractor or in farm work. Neither John nor Bob had an idle moment. Now tell me frankly; do you regret it? Is this summer a miserable one to look back on?”

“No, no!” cried his audience all together.

“It’s true that our group could be renamed ‘The Pluggers’,” declared Cyril laughing; “it was a terrific experience; I’ll never regret it.”

“And why? Well, it is because you all have realized that working together for a good cause gives more satisfaction than practical jokes and fun; isn’t it so?”

“And Philip knew how to lead us and give us the impulse,” put in Patrick; “what would we have done without him?”

“And what could I do without you?” retorted Philip, smiling.

“Let me quote you some words of the great Apostle Paul,” went on Mr. Berger, taking from the shelf the big family Bible. “When leaving some friends whom he might never see again, he said: “These hands have ministered unto my necessities, and to them that were with me. I have showed you all things, how that so laboring ye ought to support the weak, and to remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how He said, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive’ ” (Acts 20:34-35).

Delivering the Surprise

“We mustn’t go before midnight, Philip. Mr. Mollett might see us and the surprise would go flop.”

“I hope you’ve kept your mouth shut, Bob. You haven’t let out a word, have you?”

“What do you take me for?” retorted Bob, administering a hearty punch to Simon; “Patrick, have you finished the inscription?”

“See, it’s here in my backpack.”

“It’s super! You’re tops at artistic jobs.”

In gold letters on a light blue background, they read: “Happy New Year to Mr. Mollett, from his grateful debtors, Cyril, Bob, Simon, Charlie, Andrew, Patrick, with the help of the Youth Workers Group, and their chief, Philip Berger.”

“Where will you hang it?”

“Inside, of course, we don’t want everyone to see it.”

“It’s marvelous, this van,” murmured Bob, caressing its shining surface. “Only think that soon I’ll be riding in it!”

“I will be mad if it rains tonight,” said Cyril; “I was polishing it until midnight last evening.”

“Don’t be afraid. It’s too cold to rain, and the sky is full of stars. Let’s go up now, I’m freezing.”

The happy crowd climbed nimbly up the four floors and invaded Patrick’s home, to wait for the solemn moment when Philip would drive the van triumphantly in front of Mr. Mollett’s door.

“Isn’t it nearly time, Cyril?” asked Simon, stiffling a yawn.

“Since you’re asleep on your feet, better go home to bed!”

“I haven’t traveled the whole day to miss this excursion,” exclaimed Simon rubbing his eyes. “What an awfully long journey it seemed, since five o’clock this morning!”

“Here is some coffee to wake you up!” said Mrs. Demier entering at this moment with a great steaming coffee pot and a plate of biscuits. Bob’s face brightened, and he hurried to help Carol put the cups on the round table. Every other minute Cyril kept opening the window and taking a careful survey of the street, fearful lest some clumsy person might scratch the van in passing.

“What time does your boss get up, Bob?” asked Patrick: “I’d love to see his surprise when he opens his shutters. You can be glad you’re living there!”

“He’s very early as a rule, but since it’s a holiday, I hope he’ll sleep a little longer.”

“In spite of my noted curiosity, I’m not inclined to get up at six tomorrow, even for such a good cause,” said Simon, yawning again almost wide enough to dislocate his jaw.

“We will pay him a visit ‘en masse’ tomorrow morning at ten, and Bob will tell us all about it. Agreed?” said Philip.

“Agreed! Let’s go now; it’s half past eleven. Everyone is asleep.”

They all jumped to their feet. “Softly, softly!” cautioned Mrs. Demier; “remember we are in an apartment.”

On tiptoe the party descended the four flights of stairs, and squeezed into the minivan which Philip started as quietly as possible. The frosty air took away all their sleepiness. Happy and excited, they were all seized with uncontrollable laughter.

“Don’t put your great feet on the folding seat!” complained Cyril.

“Look here, first of all, they are no bigger than yours; and second, it will be treated worse than that when I load up with baskets of cauliflowers. Besides, you can’t say anything; I paid for that part!”

“Look out, Philip! You ran over a nail - we’ll have a puncture!”

“Don’t bother to stop at the red light; there’s no one around!”

Even Philip shook with laughter at some of the comments.

“You’ll make me run into a wall if you keep on like this,” he remonstrated.

At last the van arrived safely at Three Mirrors Street, and stopped before the little home of the florist, who was sleeping the sleep of the just behind closed shutters.

“Quiet, now!” warned Philip sternly: “No banging doors or chattering.”

Charlie pushed his handkerchief into his mouth to stifle a fresh desire to laugh. Patrick hung the inscription well in sight on the mirror, and Philip gave the keys to Bob, who crept into the house like a mouse into its hole. Silently the lads moved away, returning several times for one more look at the object of so much effort and care. Philip’s car was parked not far off, and was used to take each one home. They arranged where to meet the following morning. Only Simon gave no sign of life when Philip stopped at the Golden Lion Hotel. He was so fast asleep that he was carried in like a child in the young farmer’s strong arms.

Mollett’s Delight

For the very first time sleepy-headed Bob woke before his employer. He rushed to the window; the van was there all right, reflecting the morning sunshine. On this particular morning the florist was in no hurry to begin the day. He had given his assistant a holiday, and looked forward to a quiet day by his fireside.

About half past nine, Bob, getting impatient, decided to suspend the bunch of keys from the handle of the door; then he fled, to watch the consequences. The jingling sound woke Mr. Mollett suddenly. He opened the door and the keys fell with a clatter at his feet.

“What’s this? What’s this?” he shouted, as he picked them up. “Keys? But these are car keys! Have they fallen from the sky?” Dumbfounded, the good man opened the shutters and looked into the street. A blue minivan, just like his own, stood before his door! Mr. Mollett’s heart missed a beat.

“You’re dreaming, Isidor! As if you were the only person who owned such a car!” However, the poor man could not calm his excitement. He dressed at top speed. He nearly fell down the winding staircase and darted into the street to the minivan. Through the window he could read the notice. His eyes filled with tears as he read the good wishes and the signatures, while Bob looked on, hidden in his corner, thrilled by the excitement of his employer.

At last he opened the car door, got in and examined it all over; then on a sudden impulse, he jumped out, locked the door, and burst into his house like a whirlwind.

“Bob, Bob!” he shouted. “Where is that joker, that dark horse, that rascal? Come here, so that I can hug you, and flog you, and your band of accomplices - each one a worse rascal than the last.”

A terrific noise ensued; the strident call of Lustucru, the parrot, the distracted rush of Achille, the cat across the kitchen; enthusiastic shouts of “Happy new year, Mr. Mollett!” and the house was invaded by a flood of boys, surrounding the little man, whose shrill voice cried out: “Whatever has happened to me? I must be going mad! Sit down, till I can collect myself enough to thank you. The surprise of my life! You’ll give me a heart attack!”

“Calm yourself, my dear sir,” spoke up Philip. “Don’t let your joy make you ill. We came to give you our greetings, and explain the presence of that minivan, which is the result of the persevering efforts of all these boys. Each one has worked as hard as his ability and time allowed, in order to return to you the car which they deprived you of, and for which you had so nobly renounced all recompense. As you know, it’s not easy to earn this amount, but God has helped us all, and this van which they have brought you is duly paid for, in excellent condition, and renovated throughout by Cyril and his employer. We wish it a longer life than its predecessor! The boys all wish me to tell you how much they have enjoyed working for you, and that having such an object has united them, and has given them pleasure that was worth far more than the trouble.”

“The Lord is good,” murmured the florist, much moved; “many thanks to you all. This one is really better than the other; I can’t believe my eyes.”

“Now we’ll leave you to enjoy it,” said Philip rising.

“It shall not be said that Isidor Mollett fails to observe the laws of hospitality,” cried the little man jumping to his feet. “Hello, Bob! The kettle on the fire! Which one of you fellows will go and buy a fruit cake, a big one, well decorated?” and he threw $5 on the table. Simon seized the bill and disappeared promptly. “That’s the boy for me!” said the florist approvingly; “he’s not indecisive!” Everyone burst out laughing. Mr. Mollett turned to Patrick.

“I suspect that all this was your idea,” he said. “A good guess,” said Philip.

“We were all agreed about it,” cried Patrick; “it’s thanks to Cyril that we found the way to do it; he worked the hardest.”

“We mustn’t forget our partners, Philip’s brothers, and all the Garnier family. What should we have done without them?”

“Our blueberries didn’t pay for one wheel,” said Luke; “it’s a thankless job picking them and nearly breaks your back.”

“You’ve certainly worked as hard as the rest,” declared Mr. Mollett, whose quick penetrating glance went from one to the other.

Simon now returned, triumphantly bearing a superb fruit cake, which made all eyes shine in anticipation. Bob was deputed to cut it into large slices, while Patrick poured cups of tea for everyone.

“Mr. Mollett, I have a favor to ask of you,” said Philip when the feast was over.

“Yes, yes, I grant it in advance - at least, anything but giving back the minivan!”

“That’s exactly what it is,” said Philip laughing. “We want to invite you and your minivan, as well as Bob, Simon, Charlie, Andrew, and Patrick and his family, for this New year’s day evening. Can you offer a ride for some of them?”

“I’ll bring fifteen, but not one more!” declared the little hunchback.

“You must bring Lustucru and Achille too. We want them to make friends with Ralph,” said Philip caressing the cat, which was installed at his knees. Simon was trying vainly to make the parrot repeat a German word, but it only threw him a disdainful look, saying sharply, “Get away, little boy!”

“This is a happier New Year’s day than the last one,” said Bob. “I wouldn’t like to live that one over again!”

“That reminds me of a very fitting verse,” said the florist, “but my memory fails me. Pass me the Bible, Bob - oh, dear, I’ve lost my glasses again! Take it, Patrick, and read this verse encircled with red.”

Patrick took the large Bible, its pages yellowed with age, and read in a clear voice: “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning” (James 1:17).

“It is true,” said Mr. Mollett; “when one has God as his Father, he has everything. He gives us much more than we deserve.”

Philip’s glance went from one to the other of the boys seated round the little room. The Lord who had drawn them towards the Light, and who had begun in them a good work, would perform it until the end. (Philippians 1:6).

THE END

Courtesy of BibleTruthPublishers.com. Most likely this text has not been proofread. Any suggestions for spelling or punctuation corrections would be warmly received. Please email them to: BTPmail@bibletruthpublishers.com.

Six Boys and a Minivan