He read on through the psalm; almost every verse seemed for him, and when he read the one next to the last,--"Forsake me not, O Lord; O my God, be not far from me,"-- he said it over and over, and finally, in a great burst of tears, got down and said it on his knees.
The short spring day was over, and the chilly night was setting in.

Tip had reached home finally, had split the wood for the next day, done whatever he could find to do about the house, and then carried the vests which his mother had just finished to the clothing-store,--going away around behind the mill so as to avoid passing the schoolhouse, lest he might chance to see some of the boys.

Then he came home, ate his supper in silence, and went up to his attic.

He felt better than he had at noon, but his heart was still heavy, and he dreaded the next day, not knowing what he ought to do, or how to do it.

This was Thursday evening, but he didn't mean to go to prayer-meeting.