Waterbury Democrat., 1903-01-15

Asyear went~b by. It was now near Ny 12 years since James Grayson had seen his brother. Business called the wanderer to New Orleans. It was an imperative business call, or he would not have obeyed the summons. He hated America. In New Orleans he met a man whom he had known in Chicago. The man looked upon him as one returned from the dead. and then blunderingly spoke, saying: NYou Aknow about Bob, of course. He lost his money, saving only enough to pay his just debts. Then he be- came i'll, and hear he is dead" James Grayson went his way. He worked at his business affairs all day, but in his mind and heart and soul were the words: Bob is dead" He went to his hotel, and from a recess in his trunkahe took packet of let ters. selecting one.l It was the last letter his mother shad written to him when he was a schoolboy. She had written it just before her death. James Grayson read: You are older and stronger than Robert, and of al deeper nature. Look after the boy when your mother is not here, for she cannot stay long," !.
 James Grayson paced his room again. The next morning he left New Orleans for Chicago. He reached the city on Saturday, and went direct to the office of man who in the old days was d friend of the family j. James Grayson was not recognized, for he had changed much with the years. He did pot make himself known. but asked abruptly: 'Is Rob- ert Grayson dead?''.
 "No." came the answer, but"
 James Grayson did not wait to hear the answer in full He turned on his heel and left.
 Living! The old hate stole back into his heart. Dead he could have forgiven him. but living never. 1t was Sunday morning. Grayson went to the North side and walked past the old familiar places where he had played and lived as a boy. and where he had grown to manhood. He stood in front of gray}stone church. He had worshiped there with his fa- ther and mother and-Bob. Some thing stole over James Grayson at the sight of the old church. "If I could only pray" he groaned. He had not seen the inside of church for more than 12 years, but some thing moved him and he went in Fate and the usher led him to the old pew. He was late. A cherub-faced choir boy was singing solo. Was it fate again? The boy. with voice. like that of the hermit thrush, was singing:
 70 Thou. by whom we come to God
 The life, the truth, the way, &
 The path of prayer Thysen hast trod;
 Lord, teach us how to pray"
 James Grayson felt something come into his throat. The boy sang on:
 Prayer Is the contrite sinners voice.
 Returning from his ways;
 While angels in their songs rejoices
 And cry: Behold. he praysr"
 Was it the voice itself or was it the words? Robert Grayson was on his knees.
 After the service Grayson waited for the appearance of the boy sing CT. The chorister came out. His clothes were neat, but patched and GnTeaQDHTe. uTaySCn WCHG LO Une little fellow and said: "You did some thing for me to-day-take this,'' and he slipped ten-dollar bill into the hoy's hand.
 The little boy looked at it, then flushed and smiled. Papa will get we'll now. He can have what the doc tors order"
 "Is your father sick?" asked Gray son.
 { "Yes," said the boy, simply.
 "Take me to him. Grayson's heart was warm that morning, though it was the first bitter cold day of the year.
 The lad led him west to Market street and up some dark stairs into a rear room. A man wan and thin lay upon a bed in the corner. A little woman stood near.
 James Grayson looked and stag gered back. A light came into the eyes of the sick man and a smile into his face. ".Jim," he cried, and held out a thin hand.
 tBobl I am here, thank God. and not too late to save you"
 And James Grayson was at the bed side and on his knees for the sec ond time that day in prayer.--Chi- scago Record-Herald.
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