out of Frank's hand, and seized him by the collar. There is no telling what might have been the result, as the little country boy was very resolute and very angry; but Joe had waked up in the meantime, and being stronger than either, pulled them apart, saying, "Let him alone, Ned; you know we have got him into one scrape already; and, what is more, the less you have to do with him the better.

It was long before Frank could compose himself for sleep. He had sunk in his own estimation. He had flown into a passion, and had been almost engaged in a fight. And this had happened to him on the very day when he had made such good resolutions! Yet he did not see the whole evil. He felt ashamed and sorry for these particular faults, which many persons would think no faults at all; but he did not clearly perceive that the root of the evil was within. If the temptation had come upon him in another shape, it is likely he would have fallen in a different manner. The source of all was an evil nature and an unregenerate heart, which would have led him to the greatest sins, but for the preventing grace of God.

The next day Frank was unhappy. He felt humbled in his own eyes. His companions would not speak to him; but this did not trouble him half so much as his own sense of something wrong within. "How strange!" said he to himself, "that just at the time when I was trying to be so good, I should break out into such tempers, and even go to bed without a thought of prayer."

In one of the upper lofts of the store there was a dark corner, where the porter, a man of colour, used to keep an old Bible. Frank sometimes saw him sitting there,

on a box or a bale of goods, with a pair of rusty spectacles, trying to spell out a few verses. Cato was a poor reader; and this made Frank sometimes take the book and read aloud to him. On the day we are speaking of, he found the old man at his usual task. He was puzzling over the seventh chapter of Romans. Frank very kindly took the book, and soon came to these words: "For the good that I would, I do not; but the evil which I would not, that I do."

"Do you know what that means?" said Frank.

"Yes, indeed, sir," answered the old man; "I understand it too well: and if you ever undertake to be good, in your own strength, you will know what it means, too."

These few words of the coloured porter sunk into his mind. This was an exact description of his own case. He had been undertaking to be good in his own strength, and he had learned his own weakness, and found out that a resolution is a very different thing from a reformation.

CHAPTER V.

SOLITUDE IN A CROWD.

Do you think anybody can feel lonely in such a city as New York, where there are hundreds and thousands of people? Yes, it is possible; and our Frank felt it to be his own case, as many a country boy has done before him. He met hundreds after hundreds in the streets, almost always looking brisk and animated, and often conversing and seeming happy. But as for him, he was

alone. No one cared for him; scarcely any one spoke to him; his employers never said a word to him, except to give him orders. It was the same with the elder clerks. The younger lads held their heads too high, to have much to do with him; and their profane language made him willing to avoid them. At his lodgings, he found no one who took the least interest in him.

It is one of the great evils of our city business, that the young men who are employed in stores and shops cannot be said to have any home, except in cases where they live with their parents. Where shall a poor boy go when work is over? To the store? It is locked up. To the house of his employer? He would as soon think of going to the house of the Mayor. To the boardinghouse parlour? He is not expected there, and would often find no welcome. To his own chamber? It is small, dark, and cold. In truth, he has no home! And hence the temptation is so much the greater to spend the evenings in bad places.

Frank felt all this; and often did he think how different it was at Coventry. Father, mother, and sisters were all gathered around the fire; neighbours were dropping in; good things were served round; there were kind looks and gentle words. Oh, let no boy desire to leave his father's house until called away by a plain duty!

One evening Frank felt the need of a walk; so he put on his coat, and proceeded up Broadway. This crowded street was brilliant with gas. The shop-windows were far more showy than by day; and the multitude of persons was greater. Now and then, he would stop before a brighter lamp than usual; it was at some oyster

saloon, refectory, bowling-gallery, or café. These are the names given to various grog-shops. They are well lighted and well warmed, and hold out a powerful inducement to the shivering, the lonely, and the sad. But those who go there to drink away their sorrows are almost sure to perish, soul and body. Frank passed by.

Next he came to Park Row, and stood before the theatre. The row of lamps was bright. He could catch the sounds of fine music. Gay-looking people were going in or coming out. A crowd of boys surrounded the entrance, eager to be admitted and clamouring for checks. Frank remembered the great posting-bills which had told of the wonders to be seen and heard; but he passed on, feeling very solitary.

As he went further and further, he found the grogshops more numerous; the windows less rich; the houses poorer; and the liquors more publicly displayed. At open doors he could hear the sound of merriment within. He saw boys of his own age coming out of these shining rooms, full of gaiety, and knew how easy it would be to go in himself. O parents! who send tender youth to cities, can ye wonder that they fall into these snares? Frank felt very, very lonesome, but he passed on.

Weary of rambling, he at length turned to go home. A poor ragged boy offered him a small box, saying, "Three for two cents-matches-please buy-please buy-I am hungry."

"Other people are in trouble besides me," thought Frank. He declined buying, and the child gave him a volley of curses. It shocked the country boy to hear such words, and made him even more afraid than before to make street acquaintances.

Old Cato once said to him, "Mr. Frank, what is the reason that I never see you with any playmates?"

"I have no playmates, Cato. I used to have plenty of them in the country, but I am a stranger here." "Have you got no friends?"

"Not any here, Cato. I have a good father and mother and sisters, in Coventry."

When I go to my
The stove is hot,

"Then you are poorer than I am. poor house at night, I find a welcome. and something is cooking on it. There I find my 'old woman' and three daughters. My boys come in during the evening, and we have a dozen of friends looking in. We are all glad to see one another. I could not live without friends."

"Yes, Cato, you have a home: but I am a stranger." "I often wonder," said Cato, "why the rich gentlemen don't do something to keep the young men out of mischief in the evenings. Boys are boys; they will have company. If they are not cheerful in some good place, they will go to some bad one. I wonder if masters will not have to answer for this to the Master of all."

To this Frank made no reply; for he thought as Cato did; and his mind was wandering away to his father's house, and the delightful winter evenings which he had spent there.

As he was entering Dey Street, on his return to tea, he met Ned and Joe, with a gang of about a dozen boys and men, very loud and merry. One of the men was a stable-keeper, to whom he had taken errands. "Come, Frank," cried he, come. There is to be a great poultry raffle in Leonard Street." This is a sort of lottery, in which the prizes are turkeys, ducks, and chickens; but

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