It was a very joyful evening to Abraham as he bore that Life of Washington home, and sat down about the middle of the evening to read the first chapter therein.

“Keep it nice,” said his mother. “Remember that it is a borrowed book.”

“I will try,” he replied. “Mr. Crawford was perfectly willing to lend it, and I shall be none the less careful on that account.”

Those were pleasant hours of leisure that he devoted to reading Weems’s Life of Washington. Every evening, after his day’s labour was completed, he read the work with absorbing interest, and at other times, when he could find a spare moment, it was in his hand. He had nearly completed it when the following mishap caused him many unpleasant thoughts and feelings.

A driving storm was raging, so that he could perform little labour except what could be done under cover. Of course his book was in his hand much of the time, and the whole of the dreary evening, to a late hour, was his companion. On going to bed, he laid it down directly under a large crack between the logs, and, the wind changing in the night, the rain was driven into the house, and the book was wet through. The first sight that met Abraham’s eyes in the morning was the drenched book, and his feelings can be better imagined than described.

“Oh, dear!” he exclaimed. “That book is spoiled!” And he could scarcely restrain the tears that welled up to his eyes.

“How did you happen to lay it there?” asked his mother.

“I never thought about its raining in there. But only look at it! it is completely soaked!” and he lifted it up carefully to show his mother.

“Oh, I am so sorry! it is ruined!” she said.

“I can dry it,” answered Abraham, “but that will not leave it decent. See! the cover will drop off, and there is no help for it. What will Mr. Crawford say? I told him that I would keep it very carefully, and return it to him uninjured.”

“Well, it is done, and can’t be helped now,” added his mother; “and I have no doubt that you can fix it with Mr. Crawford.”

“I have no money to pay him for it, and I don’t see how I can make it good to him. He ought to be paid for it.”

“Of course he had, and he may want you to do some work for him, which will be the same as money to him. You’d better take the book to him to-day and see what you can do.”

“I am almost ashamed to go. He will think that I am a careless fellow.”

“Never be ashamed to do right, my son.”

“I am not ashamed to do right. I was only saying how I felt. I told him that I would keep it nicely.”

“And so you meant to; but accidents will happen sometimes, even if we are careful.”

“He shall be paid for it somehow,” continued Abraham. “I will see him to-day.”

The volume was exposed to the heat of the fire that day, and when Abraham was ready to go to Mr. Crawford’s in the evening, it was dry enough for transportation. The storm had passed away, and the stars were looking down from the skies, as he took the book carefully wrapped in a cotton handkerchief,