Tiger's eager scratching on the barn door.

I am making my story too long, and can only tell you in a few words that
Tom's sacrifice was accepted. A friend took little Dick to the city free
of expense, and Tom's money paid for the necessary operation.

The poor, crooked fingers were very much improved, and were soon almost
as good as ever. And the whole village loved Tom for his brave,
self-sacrificing spirit, and the noble atonement he had made for his
moment of passion.

A few days after Dick's return came Tom's birthday, but he did not feel
in his usual spirits. In spite of his delight in Dick's recovery, he had
so mourned over the matter, and had taken Tiger's loss so much to heart,
that he had grown quite pale and thin. So as he was allowed to spend the
day as he pleased, he took his books and went to his favorite haunt in
the woods. He lay down under the shade of a wide-spreading maple, and
buried his face in his hands:--

"How different from my last birthday," thought Tom. "Then Tiger had just
come, and I was so happy, though I didn't like him half as well as I do
now."

Tom sighed heavily; then added more cheerfully, "Well, I hope some
things are better than they were last year. I hope I have begun to
conquer myself, and with God's help I will never give up trying while I
live. But O how much sorrow and misery I have made for myself as well as
for others, by only once giving way to my wicked, foolish temper. And
not only that, but," added Tom, with a sigh, "I can never forget that I
might have been a murderer, had it not been for the mercy of God. Now if