Much of the ice in the streets had melted away, but the trees were still glittering in the bright sunlight, when William left the school-house and took the road toward home. To him everything seemed even more beautiful than it had done in the morning, for his heart was filled with that happiness which always results from doing good. His father met him at the door.
“Well, my son,” he said, “has it been a golden day with you?”
“It has, indeed, father,” replied William. “I have remembered what you told me, and I have already found an opportunity to do Louis some good.”
Mr. Mason listened with much interest to William’s little story, and gladly gave him leave to assist Louis, by lending him his own drawing implements.
It was pleasing to observe the effect which William’s example of friendliness to Louis had upon the rest of the scholars. He was no longer regarded with contempt or indifference, but became as great a favorite with the boys as a play-fellow, as he was with the master as a scholar. The younger boys looked to him for assistance in all their pleasures and troubles, for they found that he was always willing to give up his own pleasure for the sake of making them happy; and the older ones frequently assisted him in his duties in the school-room, in order to gain so valuable a companion in their plays.
His improvement in drawing and painting was so rapid, that, before many months had elapsed, the drawing-master declared he could teach him nothing more, and advised him to procure a situation in some of the large schools in the neighborhood, as teacher of these branches. But about this time circumstances occurred, which induced Mrs. Cunningham to remove to a distant part of the country, and Louis was obliged to bid farewell to his teachers and companions.
All parted from him with regret, but none felt the loss so keenly as William Mason. He had been the first among the boys to love Louis and endeavor to assist him; and, although the latter was some years older, a warm attachment had sprung up between them.
Many years passed before they again met. Both had grown to manhood, but the remembrance of their early days was still fresh in their minds. William was travelling through the principal States of the Union, and stopped for the night in one of our most flourishing cities. In the course of the evening he visited, with some of his friends, a gallery of paintings which had been particularly recommended to his notice. The collection was a fine one, and an hour soon passed pleasantly away. At length William suddenly stopped before a small picture, and uttered an exclamation of surprise, which brought his friends to his side. The scene represented was not a remarkable one,—a bright winter’s morning, and a lad with a satchel of books and a pair of skates slung upon his shoulder, and a dinner-pail in his hand, quietly pursuing his way to school.
“What do you find surprising in this?” asked one of William’s companions. “It is a spirited little sketch, to be sure. That lad bears a strong resemblance to you, William.”
“It is myself,” exclaimed William; “and there is the old school-house in the distance, and the pond where we used to skate. Every object in the picture is familiar to me, even that old tree which seems so completely cased in ice. I must find the name of the artist.”