Sam Oakum had not forgotten the promise he had given old Mr. Cutter in the hour of his deep trouble; nor had he forgotten the kindness which prompted the old man to fly to the rescue of his parent. Every cent was precious in Sam's eyes, as sacred to repay that offering of mercy; he would no sooner have squandered it than he would have stolen; week after week, on every return from a trip, he would slip up to his little chest, and deposit there the earnings of the day. The additions were small, for he was obliged, occasionally, to expend some part of what he earned for little comforts that his mother needed; his father being rarely able to procure money for his labor. Small, however, as were the additions, the store increased. He had already carried to Mr. Cutter five dollars, and received his hearty blessing, and such a squeeze of his hand as Sam did not forget for the rest of the day.

Jim had squared up with him the moment he had received the last payment; and as Sam looked at the heap of money which Jim said was his share of their enterprise, he was too happy to say any thing. He looked up at Jim, whose calm clear eye turned from the money to Sam, and then back again to the money, as much as to say—

'It's your's, Sam, honestly come by;—it's all right, why don't you take it?'

Ned, who was standing by also, and watching Sam, understood better than Jim what the matter was.

'Why don't you hurra, Sam, and let it out, and not keep choking up so? I know how you feel;—shall I go it for you? Hurra, hurra, hurra!'

'Ned, what does ail you? what is the use of making such a noise?'

'Oh, nothing; only you see I want to help Sam out with some of his feelings; he is too full to hold.'

Sam had to smile, and that started a tear or two, and then he tried to say something about gratitude to the boys; but Jim stopped him short.

'Now, Sam, you must not feel so; you have earned that heap of money just as much as we have ours, and we ought to thank you; for how should we ever have got along without you and your boat.'

'Oh,' said Sam, as he began to gather up his money, and looking archly at Jim, 'you would have thought out some other way, I know.'

Jim had to smile a little; and Ned, throwing his arms on Sam's shoulders, and leaning over him, as he picked up the pieces of money.

'Sam Oakum, I am as glad to see you put that money in your pocket as I should be to put it into my own; and so is Jim, I know.'

Sam believed every word that Ned had spoken, and after making a plan to meet together that evening, he went on his way. His pockets were heavy, but his heart was light; and as he passed the rock which had ever been memorable to him since the hour when he sat there in his despondency, and the boys came to him with this plan of enterprise, he could not but say to himself,

'What a grand thing it has been that Jim Montjoy had those thoughts.'

Mr. and Mrs. Oakum were just about to sit down at their humble board as Sam entered.

'Here, father; see what the boat has done.'

'What is it, Sam?' said his mother, looking earnestly at him, her hands raised, and her countenance expressing great anxiety. Sam made no reply, but commenced unlading his pockets, and piling the money in little heaps on the table.

'It is father's; it has all come of the boat. If father had not built that boat, we never could have got all this; and now he can pay Billy Bloodgood the fifteen dollars, and then we shall not owe a single cent to any one; there is the whole of it—twenty-five dollars—don't it look nice, mother?'

Mrs. Oakum let her hands drop as soon as she understood the matter; but it was only to take up her apron—they had work to do with that. While the father, overcome with the sight of such abundance, and the noble spirit of his boy, could only say, in a very trembling voice,

'God bless you, Sam.'

That was a happy meal, though plain and coarse. A spring of living joy was bubbling in each heart, and sparkling forth in pure and blessed thoughts towards God and man.

Sam would gladly have had his father carry the money which was to repay Mr. Bloodgood, and never been known as the procurer of it. But to this the kind parent would not consent. He felt, and truly too, that it would be a mark upon his son's early life, not soon obliterated: and he was willing to have himself forgotten, if the dear boy might but be strengthened in the path of honor and virtue.

The next morning Sam was up with the early dawn, and busy with his daily routine, that he might be ready to go on his pleasing errand. Breakfast over, he dressed himself in his best blue suit, and with the money in his pocket and his parent's blessing, started off, his heart as full of happiness as it could well be. Thoughts of the dark scene which he had passed through, when kind friends, like angels of mercy, came to his aid, he could not repress, nor did he wish to; the darker then, the brighter now. How his heart beat with pleasure as he walked briskly on, and drew near to the humble abode of Billy Bloodgood—rough, to be sure, was the exterior, and the peculiar habits of its owner too visible in the strange confusion around the premises; but Sam thought only of his kind heart and ready hand in an hour of need.

Things had not yet been put to rights at neighbor Bloodgood's, and as Sam entered the house, there was not only a confused state of pots and kettles, and relics of the early meal, but the good woman herself was all wrong somehow; she was in quite an undress, and moved about amid the domestic articles surrounding her, with that quick, jerky air, which generally denotes an unsettled state of the inner man or woman.

Sam wondered why things did not break, they rang against each other so sharply. If he was somewhat surprised at this, he was much more so at sight of a stranger, seated near the door, but a little behind it, which circumstances prevented him from noticing before. He was a stranger, not only to Sam, but he must have been to all those parts, for he was like nothing seen in that region for many miles' circuit; his air and contour was that of a gentleman. Sam had already seen enough of the world to know that. He was quite a youth, probably not over nineteen years of age; his countenance manly, and rather stern at the first glance; but Sam thought, from a particular twist of the corner of his mouth, that he was more amused than vexed with the state of things around him. His form was slender, and his complexion pale, like one who had never yet been exposed to the wear and tear of life; his light brown hair was thrown carelessly back from his forehead, and displayed to great advantage that index of the mind.

He arose almost immediately upon Sam's entering, and with his hat in hand, bowed to the mistress of the house, who cast but a sideling glance at him, and then stooped down to rattle some of the dishes, without, apparently, any other motive than to let him see that she was too busy to attend to him.

'You think then, madam, there would be no use in my waiting to see your husband?'

'No; I don't think there's no earthly use in seeing him. I tell'd you, again and again, we ain't got no young ones to send—and that's the long and short on it.'

'Good morning, madam.'

The young man spoke kindly and courteously, and then left the house, walking with an erect carriage towards the highway.

'Good morning, Aunt Sally.'

Mrs. Bloodgood, then, lifting herself up, and putting a hand on each hip, looked with a very stern and fixed gaze through the open door, until the stranger had fairly got out of hearing; and then, without answering Sam's salutation, began to rattle away in her usual style, when by any cause somewhat excited.

'Him set up for a schoolmaster, with his fine clothes on, and his bran new hat, and his bowin' and scrapin', and his madam, and all that kind of palaver; he ain't nothin' but a chicken himself. No, no: I've seen enough on 'em in my day; there ain't no good comes on 'em; they put more mischief in the heads of the young 'uns than they've got naturally, and that's enough we all know.'

'What's the matter, Aunt Sally?'

'I tell you what, Sam Oakum, I don't want none of them Yankees round me. I don't see why the critters can't stay in their own country, and do some honest thing there for a livin', and not come trampussing away down here with their larnin', that don't do no airthly good, but make the young 'uns lazy, and wanting to be gentlemen like themselves; and what old Molly Brown sent the critter here for, I don't see.'

'Does he want to set up a school, aunt Sally?' said Sam, looking at her with a very anxious countenance.

'He did want to; but I guess he's got enough on it; and I'm so glad he's took himself off 'fore Bloodgood come in, for he's just fool enough to be clean took with him; and he's got his head set about havin' a schoolmaster, and I don't want none of the varmints round.' But looking at Sam very closely, and coming up to him, and feeling his coat and his trousers, and then holding him off at arm's length.

'Do tell! where upon airth, Sam, did you get this? How smart you do look. This has been gi'n to you, I know, by them great folks over the water there?'

'Yes.'

'Well, ain't that clever on 'em, Sam? but you're desarvin' of it, and I'm glad on it. It does a body's heart good to see your mother's child look so smart and tidy. I didn't hardly know you when you come in, and that plaguy man put me into such a pucker, I didn't hardly know what I was about.'

Sam had become very impatient to be off; he had anticipated a great deal of joy from his errand, in the proud satisfaction of paying a just debt; but he thought not of that now. He had learned enough to know what the stranger's business was, and he could not endure the thought of his leaving the place in such a manner; so taking out his money, and handing it to Mrs. Bloodgood,

'There, Aunt Sally, is the money which Mr. Bloodgood, so kindly helped my father to, when he was in trouble; won't you please tell him that we all thank him very much, and hope we shall never forget how good he has been to us?'

'You dear, blessed child!' Aunt Sally could say no more, for she saw the tears in Sam's eyes, and her own heart was very peculiar—it was soon set on fire.

'You will tell him, won't you, Aunt Sally? and that father says, if he will only let him know any time that he can do any thing for him, or for you, day or night, he will gladly do it; and mother says so too; for you don't know how happy it made us all, when you lent this money, and how very happy we are now, to be able to give it back to you.'

Aunt Sally sat down, and taking up her apron with both hands, cried as hard as she had scolded but a few moments before. Sam laid the money on the table beside her, and wishing her good morning, made speed towards the highway. He saw the young man at a distance, walking rapidly, and bending his course away from the place, on the direct road to the barrens; his only chance to overtake him was by a cross cut over the fields, and through a little clump of wood, around which the road to the barrens passed. And while Sam is hurrying across the lots, I must introduce the young stranger a little more particularly to my reader.

Henry Tracy was indeed descended from New England parents, but was not, as good Mrs. Bloodgood supposed, a real Yankee; for his father had emigrated from the state of Maine when quite a youth, and his mother from another of the goodly sisterhood, when a child. They had settled in one of the middle States, and Henry's birthplace was one of our largest cities; great pains had been taken with his education; his mind was uncommonly well stored for one of his age, and his manners distinguished by a gentlemanly grace; but, above all this, his heart had been nurtured by the tender care of a mother, whose love for the truth, whose meek and blameless life, and whose heavenly-minded temper, gave a power to the pure and holy thoughts which she was ever breathing into the ear of her son; they stole into his heart like the dew upon the tender plant.

He was now an orphan, and cast upon the world, with the choice of depending upon the charity of friends to assist him in completing his education, or using what education he had already received as a means of support, and of further progress; he wisely chose the latter. Having a slight acquaintance with Mr. Rutherford, he had, on calling to visit the family, been directed to this region, and the "Widow Brown, to whom Mr. Rutherford advised him to apply, could think of no one more likely to take an interest in a school than Billy Bloodgood. His reception there, and the general appearance of things, had discouraged him from any further attempt, and he was hastening back to seek a spot more congenial to his own feelings, and where there might be at least some desire for instruction.

Sam had to be expeditious, and was barely able to accomplish his object by running across one entire lot, and through the clump of woods. Breathless with his haste, he was unable to communicate his wishes, or to apologize to the young man for coming upon him in so abrupt a manner, who looked with much surprise at him for an explanation.

'I hope you will excuse me, sir, for stopping you; I met you, just now, at Mr. Bloodgood's. I did not know what your business was, sir. But do come back, we want you very much.'

'Want me! What do they know about me?'

'Oh, I mean, Sir, they want a teacher.'

'Mrs. Bloodgood says that no one here wishes a teacher, that the people think they are better off without any instruction.'

'But they do not all feel so, sir; do come back with me, and I will take you to a man that will tell you all about it.'

Sam's appearance pleased Mr. Tracy, and the earnestness of his entreaty induced him to consent to return and see what new feature the place might present.

They were not long in reaching the spot to which Sam wished to conduct him, a very unlikely place in appearance to give encouragement to literature, being no other than the workshop of old Sam Cutter. The old man was in his usual seat, holding, or rather leaning upon the handle of his large hammer, and from his short breathing and flushed face, showing signs of his having just been wielding it. Running round the shop, with a tongs in one hand and a hammer in the other, was Billy Bloodgood, helping himself, with some directions and aid on Mr. Cutter's part, in repairing an old farming tool. He paid, as usual, no attention to the new-comers, except a slight nod of his head, and a pleasant smile to Sam.

As Sam entered and motioned to Mr. Tracy to come in, Mr. Cutter passed his broad hand across the top of his head, smoothing down his bald forehead, at the same time saying.

'Your sarvant, sir.'

Mr. Tracy bowed to him politely, taking off his hat with as much respect as if in the presence of one of the great ones of the earth.

Sam Oakum lost no time in communicating to Mr. Cutter the object of the visitor, and the circumstances under which he had met with him and brought him back.

'Right, Sam, right; but of all things, to think of Sally Bloodgood treating the gentleman in that sort. But that's the way with them; they're a match for the old one, any time; all but your mother, Sam, she ain't like the rest on 'em.' And then turning to the young man,

'Sorry, sir, you've had such an indifferent reception, but what can't be cured must be endured. Billy there knows that; but you see it don't matter to him whether she scolds or coaxes; he can't hear nothin' no more than the iron he's poundin' on.'

'Is that Mr. Bloodgood? Mrs. Brown advised me to call upon him; but his good wife gave me such an account of things, that, but for this young gentleman, I should have made no further effort.'

'Ay, ay, Sam knew well enough, the young rogue, who to come to; but dear me, you look like a lad that has seen fair weather and easy work; do you know what kind of a place you've come to?'

'Only what I have seen of it this morning, sir; and Mrs. Brown said that she thought a teacher was much needed.'

'Ay, that she might well say, much needed; that is, if you can teach them any better manners than they've got now: they're a hard case, my dear young man, most gone to the evil one altogether.'

Mr. Tracy smiled. 'I hope not quite so bad as that, sir.'

'Not much short on it, I tell you; but things look a little better than they have, and I ain't sure but a considerable lot on 'em might be got together; that is, the boys, I mean but—' and the old man regarded his young visitor with a very inquisitive countenance—'you don't look as if you could live on clam shells and oyster shells, and eels, and sich like; I'm afear'd you ain't used to them.'

'Oh, yes, sir, I can eat what the rest of you do.'

'Well, my young friend, you can't judge always from the looks, what kind of fare a man has; but howsomever, if you can get along with such things as I've tell'd you of, why you won't starve, for you see we've got plenty on 'em; and as to the boys, do you, Sam Oakum, up and tell the gentleman what you know about it, and not stand stretching your mouth and grinnin' at me.'

Sam soon numbered quite a company of boys, and girls too, that he knew would be very glad of a chance for schooling, and many more that would no doubt come if the gentleman 'would only make a beginning, and open a school.'

As Henry Tracy had perhaps full as much desire to do good, as to receive compensation for his labors, seeing the strong desire manifested by Sam, and hearing him tell how very anxious some of his companions were to learn something, he made up his mind to try the experiment.

Sam was almost beside himself for joy; it was the only one thing now wanting in his cup of happiness. His deficiency in every kind of knowledge acquired from books, was felt by him daily as a sore evil. 'If he could only read and write, and calculate like Jim Montjoy,' was for ever coming into his mind, a wish unalloyed by envy or any other evil feeling towards Jim, but filling his heart with sadness. Old Sam Cutter was no less rejoiced, for his boys were but little in advance of Sam Oakum, and now that they had taken such a favourable turn in their course of conduct, the old man felt that a school would be a crowning mercy. Some little difficulty presented itself as to where the teacher should take up his abode; there were good reasons why Mr. Cutter could not offer a residence under his own roof; the house was but small, too small, he found for himself, sometimes, and he durst not venture upon an addition.

Sam Oakum would have rejoiced could his home have afforded accommodations such as he might ask a stranger to partake of, and a person of Mr. Tracy's appearance. Mrs. Montjoy's was the only place that Sam could think of where any thing like comfort could be had.

'I know—I know all that, Sam; Mrs. Montjoy is a nice woman, and the house, though small, is tidy-like, and the boys are good fellows, a credit to the place; but you see, Sam, we must 'be wise as sarpants' about this business. You know how the folks feel, full of their jealousies and nonsense; and if the teacher should go there, they would say that he felt himself above folks, that he was too good for the like of them, and all that, and you see,' looking at Mr. Tracy, 'we've got to take folks as they are, and make the best on 'em.' And then turning his eye towards Sam, 'The Widow Andrews' is the place. Bill, you know, is gone; sorry for that, but he's gone, and no help for it; the old woman is queer, but where is one on 'em that ain't, sometimes? Yet she is pretty good in the main, and she'll be proud to do her best; and if the gentleman won't be frightened at a little squall once in a while, he'll git along pretty comfortable there: now, don't you think so, Sam?'

Sam thought just as Mr. Cutter did; and as Mr. Tracy was not particular as to accommodations, provided they were cleanly, and he could have a room to himself, it was accordingly decided that he should accompany Sam there, and see what could be done. There was nothing very inviting in the appearance of things, to one who had been accustomed to a very different style of living: the house was a one-story building, placed very flat on the ground; both the roof and the sides were covered with shingles. Moss had accumulated so as to contend with the shingles for the precedence, and if the latter did the most good, the former was the most distinctly to be seen. But it was situated in the midst of a green grass plot, and the grass was short and velvety to the tread, and a few old cedar trees surrounded it, which tended to screen its imperfections, and make it pass for full as much as it deserved. A fence ran before it, much dilapidated, sufficient, however, to keep out the larger animals, where the green short grass grew up to the window.

The widow was evidently flattered by the proposal, only she feared 'the gentleman might find their living very different from what he had been used to.'

Mr. Tracy was satisfied, from the appearance of things within doors, that neatness was one trait which the widow certainly had, whatever others he might discover on further acquaintance. She showed him her best room, and which she was perfectly willing to yield up to his use. It was large enough, with an agreeable view of the surrounding country, and Henry thought, when he should get his books around him, he could make himself at home.

Mr. Cutter would have been glad to introduce the young man to Billy Bloodgood, but he dared not undertake the task, and suffered Billy to hammer away, and took no notice of the inquisitive glances which his good neighbor kept casting towards him. As soon, however, as the visitor had departed, still holding the hammer and tongs, he made up to Mr. Cutter, and putting his head close to his ear, hallooed in a voice almost sufficient to have made the sound reach his own tympanum.

'Who's that?'

'I ain't deaf; you needn't holler at that rate into a man.'

'Who did you say? I didn't hear you.'

'Dear me, what shall I do? I'm all out of breath a talkin' to that youngster.'

'Don't hear.'

Uncle Sam made a desperate effort, opened his mouth, drew in a long breath, put his hand up to form a trumpet, and applying the machinery as near as possible to Billy's head, called out,

'He's a teacher.'

'A preacher?' and Billy nodded and smiled; 'that's good going to stay here?'

'Bless my soul, what shall I do? I shan't try agin', no how.'

'Sally'll be glad to hear that; where is he from?'

Uncle Sam looked first one way and then the other, as though meditating an escape; but he hated to move, and in fact he knew there would be little use in trying it, for Billy would be after him so he finally cast an imploring eye up to his neighbor, who stooping down and looking very inquiringly into his face.

'O dear, dear! I ain't got no breath to do it.'

Billy shook his head.

'Don't hear.'

'No, nor you won't if the sound has got to come out of me; it can't be done.'

'Don't hear what you say; speak a little louder.'

'I don't know.' Old Sam made noise enough this time, and if it could have been concentrated might have gone to the place, but Billy had heard something, so he nodded his head.

'From below? what place? anywhere near by?'

'Dear, dear, he'll be the death of me!' Uncle Sam was indeed in a bad case; he had at no time any breath to spare, and to be called upon to expend it, first in working with the big hammer, and then in blowing trumpets, was a little more than his good-nature could stand. He was very red in the face, breathed short and heavy, and with his old straw hat flapping violently to catch fresh supplies of air, looked wildly about for some loophole whereby to creep out from this dilemma. Just at that moment, and as Billy was again upon the point of asking for more light on the obscurity of the last sound that reached him, the shop door was darkened by the entrance of no less a personage than Sally Bloodgood herself. She came in so rapidly, that she was nigh being foul of Uncle Sam; as it was, she only impeded the motion of the old hat. She was not at all in a visiting dress, having come, as she said, 'just as she was,' to see her neighbor, Mrs. Cutter, for a minute. 'But do, la, Uncle Sam, what ails you? your face is as red as a turkey's comb. You seem to be all blowed out. It's Bloodgood, I know it is. He's been asking you questions, I know he has. You hadn't ought to try to talk to him, Uncle Sam; it's enough to kill you.'

'I believe you,' turning his eyes up at her very expressively; 'you're right there, Sally.'

Billy Bloodgood now engrossed his wife's attention, by telling her the great news, 'that there was a preacher come, a nice-looking young man.'

Mrs. Bloodgood looked at Mr. Cutter for an explanation.

'Do tell, Uncle Sam, was he a very youngerly man, very fine and delicate like?'

Mr. Cutter nodded assent.

'La, me, I wonder if it's the same one that called to see Bloodgood, this mornin'. A preacher?—who upon airth would have thought it? he never said nothin' about preach'n'.'

Mrs. Bloodgood had her own reasons for being so surprised; and as Uncle Sam Cutter saw clearly that her thoughts were very much troubled about the matter, he came to the conclusion to let her enjoy her mistake:

'It will teach her, may be, to be a little more careful of her tongue.'

But, as Billy Bloodgood was the principal man to whom Mr. Cutter looked for aid in sustaining and encouraging the young man, the fact that he wished to teach a young school among them, must be communicated to him. Utterly hopeless of any power in himself to do the thing, he, without any ceremony, took hold of the loose covering which hung about the person of the lady, and fairly forcing her down upon a rough seat, near himself,

'Now you see, woman, I give it clean up; I shan't never try no more to drive a word into Billy's head. I can't do it—it will kill me.'

''Tis hard work, Uncle Sam, ain't it? it takes such a power of wind. But you see somebody's got to make him hear, and I 'spose it's my lot; and what a body's got to do, you know, Uncle Sam, why, they must submit to it: but it takes my breath clean away sometimes, and makes me so faint and gone, that I can't hardly hold myself together.' And the good woman, pressing her hands very hard against her sides, exhibited to Uncle Sam the desperate efforts she had to make, at times, to keep things in their place.

Billy stood close by, with one hand on Uncle Sam's shoulder, looking very complacently at his wife, and nodding every once in a while, as though he understood perfectly what she was saying.

'Fine-looking young man; smart, I guess.' And then stooping over, and looking into Mr. Cutter's face, 'You didn't tell me what place he came from.'

'Where is it, Uncle Sam? jist tell me, and I'll make him hear, I'll warrant.'

'Why, Sally, I don't know where he's come from. No doubt Heaven has sent him from somewhere or another, and I don't much care, I am so glad to see any thing in a decent shape come to do a little good among us: he may have dropped right down, for all I know.'

'Do, la, Uncle Sam, how you talk; you're enough to frighten a body. But I must tell Bloodgood somethin' or another.' So, raising herself a little, putting one hand on each knee, and placing her prominent member close to her husband's ear, who was still bending down and looking earnestly at Mr. Cutter, she was about to give one of her blasts, when she was suddenly arrested by the powerful hand of the latter.

'Stop, Sally, stop!—not now: none of your hollering here, I can't stand it. Wait till you git home, and then you can tell Billy all about it.'

Billy, finding that there was a sudden interruption to all correspondence for some cause he could not well define, and being accustomed to such events, put a stop to his inquiries for the present.

How vast a change of feeling is sometimes effected by the passing away of sunlight, with the bustle of its busy hours and the silent shades of evening!

Henry Tracy had made a busy day of it; he had met with unexpected success in engaging scholars, and had procured a room in a building, once used as a court-house, in which to hold his school. Gratified with his prospects, he sat down to the clean supper table with the Widow Andrews and her daughter, with feelings much more buoyant than could have been expected in one so young, for the first time a sojourner among strangers. He delighted them by the ease and pleasantness of his manners, so that when he retired, which he did soon after supper, the Widow Andrews looked at her daughter, and lifting her hands in expression of her admiration—

'Who could ever ha' thought of it? Why, it's jist as easy talkin' to him as to Uncle Sam Cutter.'

'Oh, mother! its as easy agin'.'

The moon was in all her splendor, and her pale rays fell trembling through the foliage of the cottage. Taking a seat by the window, Henry looked out upon the beautiful night, and his heart filled with emotions to which he had hitherto been a stranger.

Home, that idea so satisfying to the soul, that spot to which our wishes fly when in sickness or sorrow, was nought to him now but the resting-place of his past joys and trials—a beautiful vision that had left an impress on his heart, which time could not obliterate; although, like a vision, it had passed away, his bosom heaved with the swelling thoughts that rolled like ocean waves heavier and mightier in upon him. He drew from his breast a golden locket and unclasping it, held the miniature it enclosed beneath the rays of the moon; his lips trembled, as the sacred name of 'mother' broke from them. 'Yes, I will ever think of thee, thy sweet love has made my home a paradise, and thy pure piety and gentle counsels have won me to the path of peace. My Saviour's image hast thou ever borne before me, until my heart has learned to love Him as my best and dearest friend. Oh, may my life be such as thy last dying prayer entreated it might be; and may I be led by the Holy Spirit in the way that leads to where thou art.'