"Give me joy, Jamie! Give me joy, Bess! the book sells well, and we
shall yet be rich and famous," cried the young author as he burst
into the quiet room one wintry night with snow-flakes glittering in
his hair, and his face aglow with the keen air which had no chill in
it to him now.

Bess looked up to smile a welcome, and Jamie tried to cry "Hurrah;"
but the feeble voice faltered and failed, and he could only wave his
hand and cling fast to his friend, whispering, brokenly,--

"I'm glad, oh, very glad; for now you need not rob yourself for us.
I know you have, Walter; I have seen it in your poor thin face and
these old clothes. It never would have been so, but for Bess and
me."

"Hush, Jamie, and lie here upon my arm and rest; for you are very
tired with your work,--I know by this hot hand and shortened breath.
Are you easy now? Then listen; for I've brave news to tell you, and
never say again I do too much for you,--the cause of my success."

"I, Walter," cried the boy; "what do you mean?"

Looking down upon the wondering face uplifted to his own, the young
man answered with deep feeling,--

"Six months ago I came into this room a desperate and despairing
man, weary of life, because I knew not how to use it, and eager to
quit the struggle because I had not learned to conquer fortune by
energy and patience. You kept me, Jamie, till the reckless mood was