"Awa' wi' ye, Tammy man, awa' wi' ye to the schule, aye standin' haverin'," and the old shoemaker looked up through his tear-dimmed spectacles at his son, who was standing with his cap on and his book in his hand.

Tammy made a move to the door. "An' is't the truth, Tammy? and does the maister say't himsel'? Say't ower again."

The boy turned back, and stood looking on the ground.

"It wasna muckle he said, fayther. He just said, 'It'll be Tammy Rutherford that'll get the prize i' the coontin.'"

"He said you, did he?" said the old man, as if he had heard it for the first time, and not for the hundredth.

Again Tammy made a move for the door; and again the fond father would have called him back, had not the schoolbell at that instant rung out loud and clear.

"Ay, ay!" said he to himself, after his son had gone, "a right likely lad, and a credit to his fayther;" and he bent again to the shoe he was working at, though he could scarcely see it for the tears that started in his eyes.

The satisfied smile had not worn off his face when the figure of a stout woman appeared at the door. The shoemaker took off his spectacles, and wiped them, and then turned to the new-comer.

"A bra' day till ye, Mistress Knicht. An' hoo'll ye be keepin'?"

"Oh! brawly, Maister Rutherford. It's the sheen I've come aboot for my guidman; the auld anes are sare crackit."

"Aweel, mistress, the new anes'll be deen the morn. Set yersel' doon;" and, complying with this invitation, she sat down. "An' hoo's yere Sandie gettin' on at the schule, Mistress Knicht?"

"'Deed, noo ye speak on't, he's a sare loon; he'll niver look at's lessons."

"He winna be ha'in' ony o' the prizes, I'm thinkin' at that gate."

"Na, na; he'll niver bother his heed aboot them. But he's sayin' yer Tam'll ha'e the coontin' prize."

"Ye dinna say sae! Weel, that is news." And he looked up with ill-concealed pride. "The lad was talkin' o't himsel'; but 'deed I niver thocht on't. But there's nae sayin'."

"Aweel, guid-day to ye; and I'll look in the morn for the sheen."

"An' are they sayin' Tam'll ha'e a prize?" continued the old man.

"Ay, ay; the laddie was sayin' sae." And she went away.

The shoemaker seemed to have fallen on a pleasant train of thought; for he smiled away to himself, and occasionally picked up a boot, which he as soon let drop. Visions of Tammy's future greatness rose before his mind. Perhaps of too slight a fabric were they built; but he saw Tammy a great and honored man, and Tammy's father leaning on his son's greatness....

"Presairve us a'! it's mair nor half-six!" (half-past five.) And he started up from his revery. "Schule'll hae been oot an 'oor, an' the laddie's no hame." And he got up, and moved towards the door. The sun was just sinking behind the horizon, and the light was dim in the village street. He put up his hand to his eyes, and peered down in the direction of the school.

"What in a' the world's airth's keepin' him?" he muttered; and then turning round he stumbled through the darkness of his workshop to the little room behind. He filled an antiquated kettle, and set it on the fire. Then he went to the cupboard, and brought out half a loaf, some cheese, a brown teapot, and a mysterious parcel. He placed these on the table, and then gravely and carefully unrolled the little parcel, which turned out to be tea.

"Presairve us, I can niver min' whaur ye put the tea, or hoo muckle. It's an awfu' waicht on the min' to make tea."

His wife had died two years before; and his little son, with the assistance of a kindly neighbor, had managed to cook their humble meals. Porridge was their chief fare; but a cup of tea was taken as a luxury every evening.

"I'm jist some fear't about it. I'll waicht till Tammas comes in;" and he went out again to the door to see what news there was of his son.

The sun had completely disappeared now; and the village would have been quite dark had it not been for the light in the grocer's window, a few doors down.

The shoemaker leaned against his cottage, and tried to see if any one were in sight; but not a soul seemed about, although now and then a sound of laughter was borne up the street.

The door of his next neighbor's house was wide open. He looked in, and saw a woman standing at the fire, superintending some cooking operation, with her back to him.

"Is yer Jim in, mistress?"

"Na," she said, without turning her head. "He'll be doon at some o' his plays. He's nae been in frae the schule yet."

"It's the same wi' Tam. Losh! I'm wunnerin, what's keepin' him."

"Keepin' him, say ye? What wad keep a laddie?"

Half satisfied, the shoemaker went back to his house, and found the kettle singing merrily on the fire. He felt a little anxious. The boy was always home in good time. He crept round again to his neighbor's.

"I'm gettin' fear't about him," he said: "he's niver been sae late's this."

"Hoot, awa' wi' ye! he'll be doon, maybe, at the bathin' wi' the lave, but I'll gang doon the village wi' ye, an' we'll soon fin' the laddie."

She hastily put her bonnet on her head, for the night air was cold, and they both stood together outside the cottage.

He clutched her arm. What was that? Through the still night air, along the dark street, came the sound of muffled feet and hushed voices, as of those who bore a burden. With blanched face the old man tried to speak, but he could not. A fearful thought came upon him....

They are coming nearer. They are stopping and crowding together, and whispering low. The two listeners crept up to them; and there in the middle of the group lay Tammy dead—drowned.

With a loud shriek, "Tammy, my Tammy!" the old man fell down beside the body of his son.

They carried both in together into the little room behind the shop, and went out quietly, leaving one of their number who volunteered to stay all night.

The shoemaker soon revived. He sat down on one side of the fire, and the man who watched with him sat on the other. The kettle was soon on the fire, and he watched its steam rising with a half-interested indifference. Then at times he would seem to remember that something had happened; and he would creep to the side of the bed where the body lay, and gaze on the straight, handsome features and the bloodless cheeks, quiet and cold in death. "Tammy, my man; my ain Tammy, speak to me ance—jist ance—I'm awfu' lonesome-like." Then the watcher would lead him quietly to his seat by the fire; and there they sat the whole night long, till the stir of the outer world aroused them....

The school is filled with happy, pleasant faces. The prize day has come. There stands the minister, looking very important, and the schoolmaster very excited. The prizes are all arranged on a table before the minister, and the forms for the prize-winners are before the table. And now every thing is ready. The minister begins by telling the parents present how he has examined the school, and found the children quite up to the mark; and then he addresses a few words to the children, winding up his remarks by telling them how at school he had thought that "multiplication is a vexation," &c., but that now he found the use of it. And then the children laughed, for they heard the same speech every year; but it made the excitement greater when they had the prizes to look at, as they shone on the table in their gorgeous gilding, during the speech. And now the schoolmaster is going to read out the prize-winners, and the children are almost breathless with excitement,—you might have heard a pin drop,—when from the end of the room, a figure totters forward, the figure of an old man, white-headed, and with a strange, glassy look in his eye. He advances to where the children are sitting, and takes his place amongst them. Every one looks compassionately towards him, and women are drying their eyes with their aprons. The schoolmaster hesitates a moment, and looks at the minister. The minister nods to him, and he begins the list. It is with almost a saddened look that the children come to take their prizes, for they think of the sharp, bright, active playmate who was so lately with them; and they gaze timidly towards his father who sits in their midst.

"Thomas Rutherford," reads out the master, "gained the prize for arithmetic."

"I'll tak' Tam's prize for him. The laddie's na weel. He's awa'. I'll tak' it;" and the shoemaker moved hastily up to the table.

The minister handed him the book; and, silently taking it, he made his way to the door....

A quiet old man moves listlessly about the village. He does nothing, but every one has a kind word for him. He never walks towards the river, but shudders when its name is mentioned. He sits in his workshop often, and looks up expectantly when he hears the joyous shout of the boys as they come out of school, and then a look of pain flits across his face. He has one treasure,—a book, which he keeps along with his family Bible, and he is never tired of reading through his blurred spectacles the words on the first page:—

BARNES SCHOOL.
FIRST CLASS.
PRIZE FOR ARITHMETIC
AWARDED TO
THOMAS RUTHERFORD.