No loving friends came to inquire after the fate of Hal Hutchings, the English boy. His efforts to save his basket of clean linen had been as vain as his struggles to free himself from the hands of his persecutors. The garments that had been starched and ironed with such scrupulous care were scattered along the wharf, and trampled under the feet of the thoughtless young mob. The old washerwoman on whose errand Hal had been sent forth, was too indignant at the destruction which had befallen her handiwork, to give one kindly thought to the poor boy who had so honorably striven to spare her the misfortune over which she lamented so dolorously. Her Sunday thoughts strayed far more frequently to the dingy, stained garments soaking in her back kitchen, than to Hal Hutchings, quietly lying in Mrs. Robertson's best bedroom.

"I wonder no one comes to inquire after him. Has he no friends, Blair?" said Mrs. Robertson as evening was drawing on.

"I dare say not, mother. I never saw him with anybody. He does errands round town, and has been sleeping at Mrs. McKinstry's, the washerwoman's. He didn't take his meals there, I know, for I've seen him eating bread and cheese in some corner just when other folks were sitting down to dinner. They call him 'Hal the English boy;' but I guess nobody knows much about him."

"A stranger in a strange land," said Mrs. Robertson thoughtfully; and then she rose up and went into the room where Hal was still lying.

Blair took up his Bible. How precious that Bible seemed to him now—the light for his feet, the lamp for his path. With reverence he turned the sacred pages until he found the fifty-first psalm, which he read with solemn earnestness, making its humble petitions truly his own.

While Blair was thus employed, Mrs. Robertson was talking in her own kindly way to the stranger.

"So you are an English boy, Hal," she said. "That will not keep me from loving you, for you know the Bible says we must 'love our enemies;' but I don't believe you are such a very dangerous enemy, after all." Her pleasant smile was like sunshine to the heart of the lonely boy, and his reserve melted away before it.

"I'm Hinglish, because I was born in Hingland," said the boy. "I couldn't help that; and I couldn't blame my father and mother for it neither, for I never knowed them. I've been an orphan always. But I'm an American, because I chose this for my country, and I worked my passage over here, and I haven't begged from anybody."

"I'm glad you want to be an American," said Mrs. Robertson gently; "it is a great privilege. But there is something more to do for every boy who wants to be an American citizen, than just landing in this country and earning his own living, and then by and by voting for our rulers."

Hal opened his large pale blue eyes in confused expectation, and was silent.

Mrs. Robertson was not easily discouraged, and she went on. "You would think it very rude, Hal, if I were to invite a poor stranger to my house to dinner, and he should jump and laugh while I was asking God's blessing before eating; and then toss the plates about, breaking my dishes and scattering the food over my clean floor. You would think the least he could do would be to be civil, and keep the rules of my house while he was in it."

"Such a chap as that ought to have the door showed him right straight," said Hal warmly.

"Well, my boy, this is what I mean: When we welcome strangers to our free country, which our fathers fought for and gave their blood to win, we expect those strangers to fall in with our ways, and not disturb the peace and order of the pleasant home they have come to. Is not that right?"

"Yes, ma'am; and I haven't disturbed anybody's peace nor order," said Hal with another blank look of the blue eyes.

"No, and I do not believe you ever will; but I have not done yet. A free people, to be a safe people, must be a Christian people. Are you a Christian boy, Hal?" The question was asked with deep seriousness.

"I a'n't a heathen," said Hal in surprise.

"No, you don't bow down to a wooden idol, or worship snakes and bulls, as some heathen people do. But are you trying to serve God in all you think and do and say? Have you asked him to forgive you all your sins, for the sake of his dear Son; and do you believe he has forgiven you, and taken you to be his own dear child?"

"I never had anybody talk to me so before," said Hal with a confused look; "but I take it, I a'n't what you call a Christian."

"I dare say you do not understand me very well," said Mrs. Robertson. "God can make these things plain to you. Close your eyes, and I will kneel down here and ask him to teach you to know and love his holy will."

Hal had been at church many times in his life, and looked curiously on at the whole proceeding, as at a "show." Now for the first time he heard prayer made for him, for poor Hal Hutchings, to the great God of heaven. He gathered but little of the burden of the prayer; yet his first remark after Mrs. Robertson resumed her seat beside him was a proof that he appreciated the sincerity of her interest in him.

"You are very kind, ma'am," he said. "I'd like to be such an American as you. I take it you are the best sort, not like them boys on the wharf."

"Those boys are very sorry for their mischief by this time," said Mrs. Robertson. "My own son would gladly do any thing for you. He says he never shall forget what he suffered when he thought you might be drowned in consequence of his folly. But I think he has learned a lesson he will never forget. He has seen how far wrong he might go if he followed his own foolish ways. I trust he will hereafter be a faithful, humble child of God."

"He pulled me out of the water," said Hal warmly. "He's true grit. I'd go to the death for him."

"He will be very glad to have you for a faithful friend," said Mrs. Robertson; "but look, you must not teach him any thing bad, or tempt him to do wrong. He is my only child, and my dearest wish is to see him a noble, pure, Christian man."

"I wont teach him any 'arm as I knows to be 'arm," said Hal, putting out his hand to ratify the bargain.

It was a rough, hard hand, but Mrs. Robertson took it kindly as she answered, "God help you to keep your promise, Hal;" and so their interview closed.

When Monday morning came, Hal Hutchings was up and dressed almost as early as Mrs. Robertson herself. Into the kitchen he walked, hearing the good lady's voice in that direction. "I'm going now," he said, "and I just looked in to bid you good-by."

"Stop and take breakfast with us, wont you, Hal? You shall not go away hungry."

Some crisp cakes of codfish and potatoes were getting the last coat of brown in a frying-pan over the fire, and a huge loaf of Boston "brown bread" was on the table near at hand.

"I wouldn't mind a slice of that bread and one of them cakes, if you would let me sit down here and eat 'em," said Hal.

Mrs. Robertson understood the boy's unwillingness to take a meal with strangers who had been raised in habits of greater refinement than his own. She kindly made a place for him where he was, and he soon rendered it evident that bashfulness had not taken away his appetite. "I don't want you to leave us," said Mrs. Robertson. "I should like to have you stay here until we can find something for you to do. I want to teach you to be a good Christian boy, the right kind of an American."

"I don't want to be beholden to anybody," said Hal with decision. "I worked my way over, and I haven't begged a penny since I came. I don't mean to, unless I'm starving. Mrs. McKinstry has let me her little room. I've paid for it for this month, and I don't mean to lose my money. But I like your teaching, ma'am. It takes hold of me different from any thing I ever heard before."

"Come in on Sunday evenings then, Hal. I am always at home then, and I should love dearly to teach you, and help you to be a good boy. Will you come?" said Mrs. Robertson.

"I will, ma'am, I will," said Hal; and making a rude attempt at a bow, he took his leave.