The Scranton chronicle., 1903-02-21

~ Il years since James Grayson had
seen his brother. Business called the
wanderer to New Orleans. 1t was
an imperative business call. or he
would not have obeyed the summons.
He hated America. In New Orleans
he met man whom he had known in
Chicago. The man looked upon him
as one returned from the dead, and
then blunderingly spoke, saying:
'You know about6Bob. 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 trunk he took a packet of let
tiers, selecting one. 1t was the last
letter his mother had written to him
when he was schoolboy. She haa
written it just before her death.
James Grayson read: You are older
and stronger than Robert, and of a
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 a man who in the old
days was a friend of the family
James Grayson was not recognized,
for he had changed much with the
years. He did not make himself
known, but asked abruptly: rs 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 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 L
could only pray" he groaned. He
had not seen the inside of church
for more than IL 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 a voice
like that of the hermit thrush, was
singing:
20 Thou. by whom we come TO Cod
The life, the truth. the way.
The path of prayer Thyself hast troc:
Lord. teach us how 10 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 rejoice.
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
er. The choristcr came out. His
clothes were neat, but patched and
| threadbare. Grayson went to the
little fellow and said: "You did some
thing for me to-day-take this" and
he slipped ten-dollar bill into the
boys hand.
The little boy looked at it, ther
flushed and smiled. Papa will get
well now He can have what the doc
tors order"
us your father sick?" asked Gray
son.
ayes" 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
rear room. A mar wan and thin
lay upon 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 smile into
his face. "Jim." he cried, and held
out thin hand.
"Bobl | am here, thank God, AMI
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.-Cl
cago Record-Herald.