twigs of red-flowered maple, mighty reservoirs of water in sunken
clam-shells, and paths adorned with borders of broken china and
glittering bits of glass. Next to Roger's garden-bed was one that
belonged to two little boys who were sworn friends, and one of these was
busy weaving a fence for his garden, of yellow willow-twigs, which the
other cut and sharpened.

Roger looked on with longing eyes.

"Will you help me, Jimmy?" said he.

"I can't," answered the quiet, timid child.

"No!" shouted Jacob,--the frank, fearless voice bringing a tint of color
into his comrade's cheek. "Jim shan't help you, Roger Pierce! Do you
ever help anybody?"

Then the Shadow fell beside Roger, as he stood with anger and shame
swelling in his throat; it fell across the blue violets he had taken
from Jacob to dress his own garden, and they drooped and withered; it
crossed the path of shining pebbles that he had forced the younger
children to gather for him, and they grew dull as common stones; it
reached over into Jacob's positive, honest face, and darkened it, and
Jimmy, looking up, with fear in his mild eyes, whispered, softly,--"Come
away! it's going to rain;--don't you see that dark cloud?"

Roger started, for the Shadow was darkening about himself; and as he
moodily returned home, it seemed to grow deeper and deeper, till his
mother drew his head upon her knee, and by the singing fire told him
tales of her own childhood, and from the loving brightness of her tender