Back in his memory of those bright days when little Jack was still in the flesh, were certain scenes standing out vividly. Little Jack had a mother, a good, fat, motherly, commonplace sort of woman, with no knowledge of, or care for, Bud, beyond the fact that she wanted him always to have enough to eat and a comfortable place in which to sleep, and was glad that little Jack liked him so well, simply because it was a liking that gave little Jack pleasure. This was all that she would have been to you; but to Bud she would have served for his ideal of an angel, had he known anything about angels.

She was little Jack's mother, and she was motherly, and Bud had never seen a motherly woman before; perhaps, after all, you get an idea of why she was glorified in his eyes. His own mother slept in a neglected grave, when Bud was five years old, but after he came to live at little Jack's, he had lain awake nights to think how she would have looked, and acted, and spoken, had she been alive. And she always looked to him like this one motherly pattern. How Bud longed for her, for the sound of her voice, for the touch of her hand, only he could have told you. Little Jack had been in the habit of running to mother with every disappointment, every grievance, every pain. He had never been a healthy, rollicking, self-reliant boy, but a gentle, tender one, to be shielded and petted; and Bud had heard again and again and again these words, spoken oh! so tenderly, that the memory of them now often brought the tears: "Poor little Jack! mother will comfort him!" and the words were accompanied with a gesture that framed itself in Bud's heart—the enveloping of little Jack's frail form within two strong motherly arms, suggestive to the boy of boundless power and protectiveness. Could words better fitted to meet Bud's heart have been marked in his Bible? Would Claire Benedict have been likely to have marked that particular verse for him?

It is a truth that a certain class of Christian workers need to ponder deeply, that when we have done our best, according to the measure of our opportunities, we may safely leave the Holy Spirit to supplement our work.

The next morning, Bud thoughtfully rubbed the shining coats of the horses, his mind awake and busy with a new problem. What did the verse mean, that he had read so many times, that now it seemed to glow before him on the sun-lighted snow? He had wakened in the night and wondered. What could it mean? Not that he did not understand some of it; he was too unenlightened to imagine that plain words could mean other than they said.

It had not so much as occurred to him that, because they were in the Bible, they must necessarily have some obscure meaning utterly foreign to what they appeared to say.

Such logic as that is only the privilege of certain of the educated classes! Bud knew then, what some of the sentence meant. Somebody was to be comforted by somebody, and the way it was to be done was as a mother would do, and Bud, because of little Jack in heaven, knew how that was. Oh, little Jack! living your short and uneventful life here below, and oh! commonplace, yes, somewhat narrow-minded mother! bestowing only the natural instincts of the mother-heart on your boy—both of you were educating a soul for the King's palace, and you knew it not!

How wonderful will the revelations of heaven be, when certain whose lives have touched for a few days and then separated, shall meet, in some of the cycles of eternity, and talk things over!

Who but the Maker of human hearts could have planned Bud's education in this way?

Well, he knew another thing. The Comforter promised must be Jesus; for had not she, that only other one who had spoken to him in disinterested kindness, said that Jesus, the same Jesus who had been so much to little Jack, was waiting for him, and wanted him to come up to heaven where Jack was? And if Jesus could do such great things for Jack, and really wanted him could he not plan the way? Bud believed it. To be shown the way to reach such a place as Jack told of, and to be made ready to enter there when he should reach the door, would certainly be comfort enough. He could almost imagine that One saying to the little hurts by the way: "Never mind, Bud; it will be all right by and by." That was what the mother used cheerily to say sometimes to little Jack, and the verse read, "as one whom his mother comforteth." You see how the photographs of his earlier years were educating Bud.

But there was one thing shrouded in obscurity. This "comforting" was to be done at Jerusalem. Now what and where was Jerusalem? Poor Bud! he had "never had no book," you will remember, and his knowledge of geography was limited indeed. He knew that this village which had almost bounded his life was named South Plains; and he knew that back in the country among the farms was where little Jack had lived, and he knew the name of the city that lay in the opposite direction; none of these were Jerusalem. Bud did not know, however, but that the next city, or town, or even farming region might answer to that name, and might be the spot to which those who would have comfort were directed. Little Jack might have lived there, for aught that he knew; they came from some other place to the farm, Miss Benedict might be from there, in which case she would know how to direct him! I want you to take special notice of one thing. It lay clear as sunlight in the boy's ignorant mind. To Jerusalem he meant to go. And as to time: just as soon as he possibly could, he should start. As to how he should manage by the way, or what he should do after he reached that country, he made no speculations; the road was too dark for that. All that he was sure of was that he would start.

"I wouldn't miss of little Jack for anything," he said, rubbing with energy; "and as for the 'comforting,' if that can be for me—and she said so—why, I'd go till I dropped, to find it."

A clear voice broke in on his thoughts:

"Bud, mamma wants the light carriage and the pony to be ready to take her to the 12.20 train."

"Yes'm," said Bud, and he had as yet not a thought of saying anything else.

But Miss Alice lingered and watched the rubbing; not that she was interested in that, or, indeed, was thinking about it at all. She was watching Bud, and thinking of him. What did Claire Benedict find in him to interest her? What did she suppose that she, Alice Ansted, could do to help him? The idea seemed fully as absurd as it had when first suggested.

As if the boy had an idea above the horse he was rubbing so carefully! He did not look as intelligent as the animal. She had often wondered what the horses thought about, as they trotted along. What did Bud think about as he rubbed? Did he think at all?

"You seem to like that work?"

It was Miss Alice's voice again. It startled Bud, the tone was so gentle, as though possibly she might be saying the words to comfort him. He dropped the brush with which he had been working; but as he stooped to pick it up, answered respectfully,

"Yes, ma'am."

Alice's lip curled. The idea of Miss Benedict trying to interest her in a boor like that, who could not reply to the merest commonplace without growing red in the face and blundering over his work! She turned to go. She could not think of anything else to say, and if she could, what use to say it? But in that one moment of time, Bud had taken his resolution. The voice had been kind; its echo lingered pleasantly; he would summon all his courage and ask the question which was absorbing his thoughts. It might be days before he could see Miss Benedict again, and he could not wait.

"Miss Ansted," he said, and she noticed that his voice trembled, "would you tell me one thing that I want to know right away?"

"That depends," she answered lightly; "I may not know. However, if your question is not too deep, I may try to answer it. What do you want?"

"Why, I've got to know right away where Jerusalem is."

"Jerusalem!" she repeated. "Why on earth do you wish to know that? I don't know myself, precisely. It is across the ocean somewhere in Asia, you know. Why do you care, Bud, where it is?"

"I've got to go there," said Bud, with simple dignity.

Miss Ansted's laugh rang out merrily.

"That is an undertaking!" she said, gayly. "When do you intend to start? and what is the object of the journey, I wonder?" She felt sure now that Bud was little less than an idiot.

But Bud had another question to ask. His face was grave, almost dismayed. "Across the ocean!" That sentence appalled. He had heard of the ocean, and of a storm on it, and a shipwreck. A wandering sailor once told in his hearing a fearful story of wreck and peril. Yet, be it recorded that the boy, though appalled, did not for one moment recede from his fixed resolved to start, and go as far as he could. That Comforter he meant to find. It had taken such hold of his heart that he knew he could never give it up again. This was his next timidly-put question:

"Did you ever go there, Miss Ansted?"

"I never did," she answered, laughing still, and very curious now to know what queer project poor Bud had on his mind. "Why do you want to go, Bud?"

The answer was direct and grave.

"I want to go after Him who said He would comfort me. 'Ye shall be comforted in Jerusalem,' that is what it says, and she said it meant me, and little Jack went, I make sure, and I mean to go. I must go."

But before that answer, Alice Ansted stood dumb. She had never been so amazed in her life! What did the fellow mean? What could have so completely turned his foolish brain? "If this is the outcome of Miss Benedict's efforts, she ought to know it at once, before the poor idiot concludes his career in a lunatic asylum."

This was her rapid thought, but aloud she said, at last:

"I don't know what you are talking about, Bud. You have some wild idea that does not seem to be doing you any good. I would advise you to drop it and think about the horses; they are your best friends."

"I can't drop it," said Bud, simply; "I read the verse in the Bible; I promised I would, and I did, and I know all about it, and I want to have it; she said it was for me."

"What is the verse?" and Miss Alice sat down on a carriage-stool to listen.

Bud repeated with slow and solemn emphasis the words which were now so familiar to his ear: "As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you: and ye shall be comforted in Jerusalem."

"I know about mothers," he explained. "There was little Jack's mother, and she used to say to him just that, 'Mother will comfort you,' and she did. And this one I make sure is Jesus, because she said he wanted me to go where little Jack is, and I guess he means me, because I feel as if he did, and I'm going to Jerusalem, if it is across two oceans."

Evidently his heart gathered strength as he talked; his voice grew firmer, and the dignity of a fixed resolve began to settle on his face.

Was there ever a more bewildered young lady than this one who sat on the carriage stool? She surveyed Bud with the sort of half-curious, half-frightened air, which she might have bestowed on a mild maniac whose wanderings interested her. What was she to say to him? How convince him of his queer mistake?

"That doesn't mean what you think it does, Bud," she began at last.

"Why doesn't it?" Bud asked, quickly; almost as one would speak who was holding on to a treasure which another was trying to snatch from him.

"Because it doesn't. It has nothing to do with the city named Jerusalem. It is about something that you don't understand. It has a spiritual meaning; and of course you don't understand what I mean by that! I haven't the least idea how to explain it to you, and indeed, it is extremely unnecessary for you to know. You see, Bud, it means something entirely beyond your comprehension, and has nothing whatever to do with you."

Bud made not the slightest attempt at answer, but went stolidly on with his work. And Alice sat still and surveyed him for a few minutes longer, then arose and shook out her robes, and said, "So I hope you will not start for Jerusalem yet awhile," and laughed, and sped through the great, sliding doors, and picked her way daintily back to luxury, leaving the world blank for Bud.

Miss Ansted was wise about the world, and about books; surely she would know whether the verse meant him, and whether the word Jerusalem meant Jerusalem. Was it all a mistake?

The pony was brought forward now and had her share of rubbing and careful handling, and a bit of petting now and then, though the conversation which generally went on between her and the worker was omitted this morning. Bud had graver thoughts. While he worked he went over the old memories. Little Jack, and the comforting mother, and the facts connected with those experiences, no need to tell him that they did not mean what they appeared to his eyes; he knew better. Then there were the plain, simple words standing like a solid wall of granite: "As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you."

"Stand around!" said Bud, in a tone of authority; and while the gray pony obeyed, he told her his resolve: "Them words mean something, Dolly, and she knows what they mean, and Bud is going to find out."

You are not to suppose that the pronoun referred to Alice Ansted. She had said that she could not tell him what they meant.

If anybody had been looking on with wide-open eyes, it would have been an interesting study in Providence to watch how Bud was led. It was Alice Ansted who had a very little hand in it again, though she knew nothing of it. The "leading" was connected, too, with so insignificant a matter as an umbrella.

Mr. Ramsey had overtaken Louis Ansted in a rain-storm, a few days before, and had insisted on lending his umbrella, and it suited Louis Ansted's convenience to direct that it be sent home by Bud that morning.

Why Alice Ansted took the trouble to go herself to Bud with the order, instead of sending a servant, she hardly knew, neither did she understand why, after having given it, she should have lingered to say:

"I presume, Bud, that Mr. Ramsey can answer all the questions about Jerusalem that you choose to ask."

Now Mr. Ramsey was the dreary minister who seemed to Claire Benedict to have no life nor heart in any of his work.

Bud stood still to reflect over this new thought suggested to him with a half-laugh. He did not think to thank Miss Alice, and yet he knew that he was glad. It was true, the minister would be likely to know all about it, and there might not be a chance to speak to Miss Benedict again, and Bud felt that he could not wait. So, as he trudged off down the carriage-drive, he took his resolution. He had never spoken a word to a minister in his life, but he would ask to see him this morning, and find out about Jerusalem if he could.