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"What did poor Matt say?" she inquired, compassionately.

The boy joined his hands, and looking up with a piteous expression of submission and fear, said, "God, God -- Matt has no money to pay."

And then shaking his head, he told her, with a reality of fear most strange to see, that he was going to be put in prison; God was going to put Matt in prison.

He was standing in the shelter of a fishing-vessel which had been drawn up above high-water mark; and as she turned away from him, not knowing what to say, he again looked up and began his piteous prayer.

The lady stood awhile considering. It was evident that, whether from the parable or the clergyman's words, or both together, acting on what previous knowledge he had, he must have derived some consciousness that punishment would follow his misdoings. He had long known right from wrong; he knew that he had often done wrong; now he had begun to look upon God as a Judge. Now he knew "that he had nothing to pay." In other words, he knew, however dimly, that he could not make satisfaction for his misdoings. What did it matter that he had derived this dim and distorted knowledge in a figurative way? Something now must be done to quiet and comfort, him. She resolved to venture on taking up the figure; and when the boy again muttered, "God, God -- Matt has no money to pay," she turned toward him, and taking both his hands, said, in a clear, cheerful voice, "Jesus Christ has paid for poor Matt."

The boy looked helplessly at her; and pointing upward with a smile, she repeated slowly, "God will not put Matt in prison now. Jesus Christ has paid for poor Matt."

The child repeated these words after her; and as their meaning, helped by her reassuring face, gradually unfolded itself to his mind, an expression of wonder and contentment overspread his features. He sat down and wished again and again to hear these good tidings, and as he conned them over, he gradually became calm and happy.

He sat so long silent in the shelter of the boat that his kind friend thought it possible that, now his fears were removed he might have forgotten their cause.

But it was not so; he arose at length, and, walking a few paces, lifted up his arms and face to heaven and cried out, in a loud clear voice, "Man that paid, man that paid, Matt says, thank you, thank you."

A strange sight this, and strange words to hear! Many times the lady seemed to hear their echo during the silence that followed; and the boy repeated them over again with the deepest reverence, before she could decide whether to attempt any further enlightening of his mind. That by means of some picture, or the remembrance of something taught him by his first benefactress, he had become aware that He whom he thus addressed was Man, became evident from his words; but the reverence and awe of his manner were such that she could not venture to undertake the hopeless task of instructing him in a mystery so fair beyond his comprehension. It was sufficient, she thought, that he should pay to his Redeemer the reverence due to God, while in the act of addressing him as Man.

MATT came back under the shelter of the boat and lay down, and drew part of a sail over him, and fell into a sound sleep. Perhaps he had slept little during the past night, and now that his gloom and terror were melted away in the sunshine of hope and peace, he could no longer sit waking under the cloudy sky.

The lady sat by him, partly sheltered also by the boat. She looked out over the purple sea, still troubled, heaving, and bare; for not a boat rode at anchor near the dangerous rocky beach, -- not a vessel ventured near enough to be seen from its sandy reaches.

At length the clouds broke, it began to rain hard, and not without a great effort did she succeed in waking the boy. He opened his eyes at last with a smile. The pouring rain and the gloomy sky were nothing to him; the high but warm wind did not trouble him; his thoughts, whatever they may have been, could not be related to his benefactress. He was comforted, but he only showed it by his face and by his tranquil movements.

They reached the cottage. There was trouble and sorrow within, -- quite enough of both to account for the boy's having been left to wander out by himself on that stormy day. The poor old grandfather was worse; and Mary Goddard, the boy's aunt, came to the door, her eyes red, and her face disfigured with weeping. The lady could not stay then; but in less than a week she came again and inquired after the old man.

"Ah, dear heart, it seems hard to lose poor father!" exclaimed Mary, when her visitor was seated, and had asked a sympathizing question as to the old man's health.

"Is he so very ill that there is no hope?" asked the lady.

"The doctor does not say," replied the daughter; "but when a man is past eighty what can one expect? Would you like to see him, ma'am?"

The visitor assented, and was taken up a ladder into a comfortable room in the roof.