It
opened of itself at the Psalms, and he read the first line which he saw:
"Unto Thee, O God, do we give thanks "--No, not that, and he turned back
a couple of leaves. "Make a joyful noise "--No, no! he didn't want to
hear anything about joy; his heart was as heavy as lead. So he turned
over several leaves at once: he _must_ find something that would read as
if it meant him. "O Lord, rebuke me not in Thy wrath, neither chasten me
in Thy sore displeasure." Oh, that was it! God was very angry with
him,---had a right to be,--this was just what he ought to say. He read on
through the psalm; almost every verse seemed for him, and when he read
the one next to the last,--"Forsake me not, O Lord; O my God, be not far
from me,"--he said it over and over, and finally, in a great burst of
tears, got down and said it on his knees.
The short spring day was over, and the chilly night was setting in. Tip
had reached home finally, had split the wood for the next day, done
whatever he could find to do about the house, and then carried the vests
which his mother had just finished to the clothing-store,--going away
around behind the mill so as to avoid passing the schoolhouse, lest he
might chance to see some of the boys.
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