"James," said he to him one day, "I suppose you know that you are about the same to me as a son."
"I hope so," said James, kindly.
"Well, well, you'll go to college next week, and none o' y'r keepin' school to get along. I've got enough to bring you safe out—that is, if you'll be car'ful and stiddy."
James knew the heart too well to refuse a favor in which the poor old man's mind was comforting itself. He had the self-command to abstain from any extraordinary expressions of gratitude, but took it kindly, as a matter of course.
"Dear Grace," said he to her, the last evening before he left home, "I am changed; we both are altered since we first knew each other; and now I am going to be gone a long time, but I am sure——"
He stopped to arrange his thoughts.
"Yes, you may be sure of all those things that you wish to say, and cannot," said Grace.
"Thank you," said James; then, looking thoughtfully, he added, "God help me. I believe I have mind enough to be what I mean to; but whatever I am or have shall be given to God and my fellow-men; and then, Grace, your brother in heaven will rejoice over me."
"I believe he does now," said Grace. "God bless you, James; I don't know what would have become of us if you had not been here."
"Yes, you will live to be like him, and to do even more good," she added, her face brightening as she spoke, till James thought she really must be right.