Amy's new home, and other stories for boys and girls

CHILDREN'S BOOK
COLLECTION

LIBRARY OF THE

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

AMY'S NEW HOME,

OTHER STORIES

BOYS AND GIRLS.

PHILADELPHIA:

PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION.
NO. 821 CHESTNUT STREET.

CONTENTS:

PAGE

AMY'S NEW HOME, .... 5

A Bow DRAWN AT A VENTURE, . . 99

THE BLOT OF INK, 118

THE PINK SATIN LINING, . . . 134

THE PICTURE CLOCK, 157

THE TRIAL or THE TONGUE, . . . 184

THE LOST BOY, 194

JOY OVER ONE, 211

3

AMY'S NEW HOME.

PART I.

THE cottage window was thrown
wide open to let in the cooling
breeze, for the day had been very
hot, and Amy's mother wanted all
the fresh air she could get. She sat,
propped up by pillows, in a large
arm-chair. Her face was very white
and thin ; but there was a bright
colour in her cheeks, which made
her look better than she really was.
She had been ill for many weeks,
and the doctor said that she would
never be wrell again. She knew
this — knew that she was dying ; but

6 AMY'S NEW HOME.

she was not afraid, for she had long
trusted in Jesus, and served him,
and now she could say, in the sweet
words of the twenty-third Psalm,
" Though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death, I will fear
no evil : for thou art with me : thy
rod and thy staff they comfort me."
Amy stood by the side of her
mother, looking out into the garden.
She had finished the needlework
she had to do, and was watching
the sparrows pick up the few crumbs
which she had thrown in the path-
way for their supper. Her mother
wanted her to run about in the
garden, but Amy said she would
rather stay where she was ; she felt,
although she hardly knew why,
that she did not like to leave her

AMY S NEW HOME. 7

mother. Yet she had not the least
idea that her mother was danger-
ously ill.

"Mother," she said presently,
"how full our pear-tree is this
year ! What a many we shall have
if they all ripen ! Will you give
me a little basketful for myself,
when you gather them ?"

Her mother sighed, and hesitated.
Amy looked round for her answer.
" I shall not gather the pears this
autumn, dear," she said gently.

"Why not?" asked Amy in a
tone of surprise.

" Because I shall not be here
then, Amy."

11 Not here, mother? Are we
going away ?"

" I am going away, Amy, going

8 AMY'S NEW HOME.

to a better home than this, darling.
I wanted to tell you so before, but I
knew it would trouble you to hear
it.'7

Amy did not at first understand
her mother's meaning; but when
the sad truth rushed all at once in-
to her mind, it was almost more
than she could bear. Her heart
beat very fast, the crimson flush
rose in her cheeks, and her eyes
filled with tears. " Oh, mother, do
not talk so," she exclaimed ; " it is
not true, I am sure it is not. You
are a great deal better than you
were ; you eat more than you did
last week, and you are not nearly
so pale ; you will get stronger when
the weather is not so warm. Mrs.
Roberts says you will, mother."

9

" Amy, dear, it would be wrong
and unkind to deceive you; the
shock would only be the greater if
it came upon you quite unexpect-
edly. Dr. Martin says that he does
not think I can last many weeks
longer, and I feel that he is right.
It is only for }rour sake that I mind
it. I would gladly have lived till
you were a little older, if it had
pleased God ; but his will be done."

Amy burst into tears. She flung
herself on a stool at her mother's
feet, and, burying her face in her
mother's lap, sobbed out, " Oh,
mother, what shall I do without
you? You must not leave me, oh,
you must not leave me."

Her mother tried, in vain, to
soothe her. Amy had naturally

10 AMY'S NEW HOME.

very strong feelings, but she had
early been taught to control them,
and was generally able to keep
them within bounds. But she could
not now ; indeed, she made no at-
tempt to do so : her distress was so
great that it seemed as if she must
give way to it ; and it was not until
her mother said that she should not
get any sleep that night if Amy
kept on crying so, that she lifted
up her head again, and tried to wipe
away her tears.

Then her mother put her arm
round her, and kissed her tenderly,
and talked to her of that loving
Saviour who would always be with
her, to take care of her, and to bless
her ; and in whose kind ear she
might pour out all her little trou-

AMY'S NEW HOME. 11

bles, and feel certain that he would
help her out of them. She spoke,
too, of those beautiful mansions to
which she was going, where there
would not be any more sorrow or
sin, but where everybody was quite
holy, and quite happy; and she
bade Amy look forward to the
joyful meeting they should have
when, if she followed Jesus, he
would call her to the same bright
home, and they should live together
there for ever.

Amy did not take in the full
comfort of these words at the time ;
still, she grew calmer as she listened
to them, and they came into her
mind afterwards, when she much
needed them, and when she had no
one to tell her of such things.

12 AMY'S NEW HOME.

She got up now, with a less sor-
rowful look, to prepare the gruel
for her mother's supper, and each
tried to be as cheerful as they could,
that they might not add to the
other's grief. Poor Amy ! when she
was alone in her little room, her
tears burst forth afresh ; but she
knelt down, and asked God to pity
her and to make her dear mother
well again ; and she rose up with a
lighter heart. In a few minutes she
was fast asleep.

Amy Burton was an only child.
She had been carefully brought up
by her pious mother, who had
sought, with God's help, to train
her child for another world, as well
as for this. Mrs. Burton's husband
also feared God, but, being a sea-

13

man, he was generally away from
home, so that Amy saw very little
of her father, and learned but little
from him. About a year before our
story begins, he set out on a voyage
which he said should be his last
one ; for that, if he were spared to
return to his native land, he would
remain at home with his wife and
child, and get his living in a more
quiet and comfortable way. But,
alas ! he did not return. Tidings at
length came that the vessel in which
he sailed was lost in a storm at sea,
and that all on board had perished.
It was a terrible blow to Amy's
mother. She never recovered from
it. Her health failed from that time ;
and within the last few weeks she
had been so much worse, that she
2

14 AMY'S NEW HOME.

had given up all hope of ever being
well again.

The thought of going to her Sa-
viour was a glad thought to her,
but it was hard work to part from
her dear little girl ; to leave her an
orphan in the wide, wide world, not
knowing how she would be cared
for, and watched over. But Amy's
mother was a Christian, and she
was enabled, after a little struggle,
to trust her child in G-od's hands,
and to believe that she would be
safe in his keeping. This promise
was very sweet to her in that mo-
ment ; " Leave thy fatherless chil-
dren, /will preserve them alive."

Amy had an uncle, her father's
eldest brother, who lived in a large
manufacturing town, many miles

AMY'S NEW HOME. 15

distant from the village in which
she had been born and brought up.
The morning after Amy's sad con-
versation with her mother, a letter
came from this uncle, in answer to
one which Mrs. Burton had written
to him about her own illness, and
about Amy. It was short, but kind.
He offered to take charge of his
little niece when her mother died,
and to provide for her as he would
for one of his own children. Mrs.
Burton folded up the letter with a
thankful heart. It was a great re-
lief to her to feel that, whenever it
might please God to call her away,
there was a suitable home ready for
Amy. Had she known .more about
that home, she would have been
less satisfied with it. But she had

16 AMY'S XEW HOME.

not seen her brother-in-law for some
years, and she had never heard, for
there was no one to tell her, how
much he had altered for the worse
since they last met. Instead of be-
ing sober and industrious, as he
then was, as well as regular in his
attendance at the house of God, he
had grown careless and unsteady,
and had become the companion of
those who "make a mock at sin,"
and who refuse to heed the warn-
ings of their Maker. It was well
for Amy's mother that she was ig-
norant of this sad change, for she
had no other relations with whom
she could leave her child, and it
would have grieved her very much,
in her last hours, to think that
Amy's new home was to be one in

17

which the fear of Glocl was never
thought of, and his holy word was
unread and uncared for. She was
mercifully spared this trial.

Some weeks passed away, and
Amy's mother got weaker and
weaker. She could no longer sit up
in the arm-chair and look out into
the pleasant garden, but was obliged
to lie in bed, and to be waited upon
night and day. Amy was generally
with her ; for the child could not
bear to be out of her mother's sight
when she could possibly help it,
and she was so quiet and thought-
ful that she was never in any one's
way. Kind friends and neighbours
did everything for Mrs. Burton
that she wanted, and she was very
grateful for their services ; but still,

18

she never fancied anything so well
as when Amy brought it to her, or
seemed so easy and comfortable as
when Amy sat beside her. It was
natural that the mother and child
should cling so closely to each other,
for they loved each other dearly, and
had never been once separated.

The hours spent in that sick-room
were very precious to Amy. Her
mother, while she had strength,
conversed with her about many
things more freely than she had
done before, and gave her much lov-
ing advice about the future. Above
all, she often talked to her about
Jesus, that good Shepherd, who
gathers the lambs with his arms,
and carries them in his bosom, and
who never forsakes those who trust

AMY'S NEW HOME. 19

in him, but brings them safely at
last to his better fold above.

It was not long before his gentle
voice called Amy's mother to her
rest. She calmly fell asleep in
Jesus. Pier cares and sorrows were
for ever ended. But Amy's were
only just beginning. She had lost
her beloved mother, and she must
leave her old home for a new one,
amongst strangers. Poor little
Amy !

20

PART II.

AMY grieved deeply for the death
of her mother. She did not say
much to any one, but she would get
by herself, and think about her
mother, and cry as if her little
heart would break. Everybody
pitied her, and was kind to her ;
and Mrs. Roberts took her home to
her own house until the funeral was
over, and did all she could to com-
fort her. But Amy still looked
sorrowful and unhappy.

One day she went out by herself,
and wandered through the green

*

AMY'S NEW HOME. 21

shady lanes, till she was quite tired,
and sat down under a large tree to
rest. From this spot she could see
the roof and chimneys of her
mother's cottage, and as her eye fell
upon them, her tears burst forth
afresh at the thought of her home.
She sobbed out, " Oh mother,
mother ! why didn't you take me
with you ?"

" Because God knew that it was
better for you to stay here a little
longer, Amy."

Amy looked up through her tears.
It was the good clergyman who was
speaking to her. He was passing
that way, and happened to hear
what she had said. Amy knew
him very well, for he had visited
her mother in her illness, and he

22 AMY'S NEW HOME.

had often spoken to Amy when she
was in the room with her ; so that
when he now sat down beside Amy,
and began to talk to her, she did
not feel at all afraid of him, but
ventured to ask him whyii was bet-
ter for her to stay here.

" It is God's will that you should,
Amy ; and if we trust in his wisdom
and goodness, that is reason enough
for us. But he sees that you are
not ready for heaven yet, Amy.
Heaven, you know, is a prepared
place for a prepared people. We
must be fitted for it, as well as
allowed, for the sake of Jesus, to
enter it. And God sends us trials,
Amy, on purpose to make us holier.
He wants us to get rid of our wrong
desires and wrong tempers, and to

AMY'S NEW HOME. 23

grow Christ-like. And that is why
he keeps us in this world. He
waits till the fruit is ripe, before he
gathers it. Do you understand me,
Amy ?"

" Yes, sir," said Amy, thought-
fully.

" And then, Amy, Jesus Christ
has some work for us to do here,
and we cannot go home till our
work is done. Do you love Jesus,
Amy ?"

Amy's face brightened at this
question, and she said, "Yes, sir, I
think I do."

" Well then, Amy, I am sure you
will like to do all the work you can
for him."

" But what work can / do, sir ?"

" I do not know yet, neither do

24 AMY'S NEW HOME.

you ; but you will soon find out.
You are going to a new home, and
you will have new duties there, and
those new duties will be some of
the work you will have to do ; and
the rest will come as you can
manage it. Will you try, Amy,
when you are there, and when you
feel dull and lonely — as I know you
will sometimes feel — will you try
and think that you are just where
Jesus, your dear Saviour, has put
you, and that you are his little ser-
vant, doing his work ?"

It was with such simple words as
these that the kind minister strove
to comfort and teach Amy. And he
did her a great deal of good. She
became more cheerful and hopeful.
Her grief for the loss of her mother

AMY'S NEW HOME. 25

was softer, and less passionate ; and
she was able to think of her new
home without the strong dislike
which she had felt at first towards
it.

Amy's uncle was written to im-
mediately, and he came to the
funeral. He was a rough, good-
tempered man, and behaved, in his
way, very kindly to his little niece.
He told her not to fret so, but to
cheer up and be a good girl, and
she should go home with him and
play with her cousins, and see all
the wonderful sights of the town.
Amy tried to smile and look plea-
sant, but she felt sorry, rather than
glad, to think of leaving the village,
and the cottage, where she had
always lived ; and she shrank from
3

26 AMY'S NEW HOME.

her uncle's loud tones and hasty
manner, and wondered whether her
aunt would be like him.

Some of the furniture which be-
longed to Amy's mother was
sold, and the remainder was packed
up and sent to Amy's new home.
Amy's clothes, with her books and
playthings, and other little trifles,
were put carefully into a box by
Mrs. Roberts — a new box, which
Mr. Roberts, who was a carpenter,
made himself for Amy — and it went
with her and her uncle by the train.
Amy had never been on a railway
before, and she was a little frighten-
ed at first by the noise and the
speed, but she enjoyed the ride af-
ter she got used to it. The novelty
of the scene around her helped to

AMY'S NEW HOME. 27

make her forget the past ; and her
uncle's bustling ways, and constant
talking, did not allow her any time
for thought about the future. All
that reminded her of home, just
then, was a large bunch of flowers
which she carried in her hand, and
which had been gathered, before
she came away, out of the garden
in which she had spent so many
happy hours of her life.

It was nearly tea-time when Amy
reached her new home. Her uncle
carried her box, and she followed
him through the busy and dusty
streets, with rather a bewildered
air, until he turned down a quiet,
but gloomy-looking one, in about
the middle of which was his own
dwelling. The houses in that street

28 AMY'S NEW HOME.

were not very small, but they were
very dingy outside, and the paint-
ing and papering inside was very
faded and discoloured. The only
signs of anything like the country,
were a few sickly and stunted plants
in pots, that stood in some of the
windows.

Amy's uncle pushed open the
door, and bade her come in. She
stepped timidly inside, and the next
minute found herself in a large and
somewhat disorderly kitchen.

" Here's father, and here's our
new cousin!" shouted G-eorge, a
noisy, rough-headed boy, as he
sprang forward to meet them ;
" why, she is not as big as our
Esther."

" Hold your tongue, sir," said his

AMY'S NEW HOME. 29

mother, coming towards them with
a child in her arms, and giving the
boy a push at the same time ; " we
didn't expect you yet, John, or I
would have sent George to meet
you." She kissed Amy, and cleared
a chair for her to sit down. " You
are tired, I dare say," she said,
kindly, " but you will feel better
when you have had a cup of tea.
Dear ! how like your father you
are ! Don't stand staring there,"
she added, turning round to one of
the children, who, was looking at
Amy from top to toe; umake haste,
and set the table ; you ought to
have done it before now ; and you,
go and fetch some wood, George, to
make the kettle boil : look sharp,
now, both of you."
3*

30 AMY'S NEW HOME.

Amy in the course of the evening,
took a few quiet glances at her new
relations. Her aunt wore an old
black gown, and had large flowers
in her cap ; but her face looked
careworn and fretful, and she was
always finding fault with something,
or somebody. George, we have
already described. Little Alice,
.who generally sat on the floor, was.
a spoiled child, who cried when she
wanted anything, and generally had
what she cried for. Esther was not
at home when Amy arrived at her
aunt's : she did not return till late.
She was a pert, forward sort of girl
with long curls ; and Johnny, who
was next to her in age, was lame,
and could not move about without
crutches. He commonly was seen

AMY'S NEW HOME. 31

sitting on the steps of the street
door.

Oh, what a scene of confusion
the tea-table was ! The different
things were placed on it without
any attempt at order ; and if each
of the children did not help them-
selves, they tried to do so.

" Mother, I wish you would
speak to George!" exclaimed Es-
ther, angrily ; "he has taken a lot
more butter to his bread, and I put
plenty on at first."

Before the mother had time to
scold George, Johnny called out,
pouting, " I won't have my tea in
this blue mug : give me the green
one, George."

" No, I shan't."

" Give it him, there's a good boy,

32 AMY'S NEW HOME.

G-eorge, or there won't be a bit of
peace, and you may have my cup
and saucer if you like."

While this dispute was being set-
tled, Alice was digging her little
hand into the sugar-basin, and then
wiping her sticky fingers on her
clean pinafore. " Let that sugar
alone, Alice !" said her mother,
moving the basin to the other end
of the table. Alice began to cry, or
at least to make a noise like crying,
for no tears came, and her mother,
in order to quiet her, took some
of the sugar and spread it thickly
over a slice of bread and butter
for her.

In this way the uncomfortable
meal was got through. And when
it was ended, and Esther was wash-

AMY'S NEW HOME. 33

ing up the tea-things, Amy's uncle
put on his hat and went out, and
Amy.'s aunt came and sat down be-
side her, and asked her several
questions about herself and her old
home, partly from curiosity, and
partly from the desire to make the
little girl feel less of a stranger
with them. But Amy did not get
on very well with her answers, for
her cousins confused her very much
by their noisy shouts and move-
ments ; and her low, soft tones were
scarcely heard amongst their loud
voices.

" I do wish you would be still for
a little while," said their mother :
she might just as well have spoken
to the chairs and tables — "I am
sure I never saw such a set of chil-

34 AMY'S NEW HOME.

dren, in all my life, as you are ; I
don't know what your cousin will
think of you."

As if they cared what their
pale, shy, little cousin thought of
them !

There was not much quietness
until Johnny and Alice went to bed,
and then Amy seemed so tired and
sleepy, that her aunt asked her
whether she would not like to go
also. Amy said she should, and
gladly followed her aunt up stairs,
into a very little room that just
held two or three boxes and a small
bed, which she was to share with
Esther. It did not look half so
clean and inviting as her own little
bed at home ; but Amy was too
weary to notice anything much, or

AMY'S NEW HOME. 35

to care about it if she had. She
was worn out with the fatigue and
excitement of the day, and soon fell
asleep.

36 AMY'S NEW HOME.

PART III.

WHEN Amy awoke the next
morning, she could not at 'first tell
where she was. She rubbed her eyes,
and tried to think how she came
there. Then she recollected that she
was in her new home ; and if she
wanted any proof of this fact, she
found it the next minute, in the
sight of Esther kneeling on the
floor, and coolly examining the con-
tents of Amy's box! Amy raised
herself in bed, and looked, as she
felt, rather astonished ; but her looks

AMY'S NEW HOME. 37

were lost upon Esther, for she was
too busy to observe them.

" Oh, you are awake, are you ?"
she said as she lifted her head ; "I
thought you were going to sleep all
day ; but mother said I was not to
call you this morning."

" Have you had your breakfast,
then ?" asked Amy.

" No ; father has not come in yet,
and G-eorge is just going for some
bread, so you will have plenty of
time to dress yourself, if you make
haste. But I say, Amy, are these all
the frocks you have got?"

" Yes," said Amy.

" Why, here are only four, be-
sides what you are going to put on,
and they are half- worn out already.
It does not signify, though, because
4

38

they will be too short for you, when
you leave off your black, and I
dare say mother will cut them up
for Alice. But you might have had
your Sunday one made a little
smarter, I think ; / would not wear
it. Plain, tight sleeves, and no
trimming, nor flounces ! And is
this your best bonnet ?"

" To be sure it is," said Amy.

" Well, it is big enough for mo-
ther, I'm sure, and it is made of
such poor silk. What old-fashioned
notions country folks have !"

Esther went on talking, and tum-
bling over Amy's things at the
same time. She pulled everything
out of the bor, making her remarks
as she did so with great freedom
and rudeness. Amy hardly knew

AMY'S NEW HOME. 39

whether to be vexed or amused.
She did not certainly like to see
her work-box and two or three little
keepsakes so roughly handled, nor
her books turned over with so little
care, but she supposed that she
must not say anything about it.

Just as Esther had reached the
bottom of the box, her mother
called to know where she was, and
what she was doing, and why she
had not fried the bacon for her fa-
ther's breakfast. Esther ran quickly
out of the room, and, as she did not
shut the door, Amy heard her aunt
say to her, " You should not have
let Amy hinder you so long."

Esther did not answer ; she al-
lowed her mother to believe that it
was her cousin's fault she had stayed

40 AMY'S NEW HOME.

so long upstairs ; and Amy felt hurt
at the blame being unjustly cast
upon her. Besides, it was really
Esther who had hindered her, not
she who had hindered Esther ; for
the floor was strewed with the
things which Esther had carelessly
scattered about, and Amy was
obliged to fold them up and put
them back again before she could
leave the room, or, indeed, finish
dressing herself.

When Amy went into the kitchen
there were only Johnny and Alice
there, for George had not returned
from the baker's, and Esther and
her mother were hanging some
clothes out in the yard to dry. Alice
was seated on a low stool by the
window, eating a piece of bread and

AMY'S NEW HOME. 41

molasses ; and Johnny was standing
at the side-table, leaning on one of
his crutches, and destroying Amy's
flowers as fast as he could. These
flowers had been placed in a jug of
water the night before, and Amy
meant to untie and arrange them in
the morning ; she thought, of course,
that they were quite safe where she
left them. But there was Johnny,
picking the very best of them out
of the nosegay, and then tearing
them, leaf by leaf, to pieces. Even
if they had not been her own, Amy
would have been sorry to see him
doing so, for she was so fond of
flowers, that she could not bear to
have them injured. Forgetting her
shyness, she rushed towards her
cousin, and seizing hold of his arm,

42 AMY'S XEW HOME.

" Oh, you naughty boy !" she said,
" you must not touch these flowers ;
they are not yours."

" I don't care," said the little fel-
low, " I shall have them if I like ;
mother said I might." He snatched
a large white rose out of the bunch,
and then there came a struggle be-
tween the children ; for Amy prized
that flower more than any of the
others, and determined to save it.
It had grown on her mother's
favourite rose-tree, and was the only
one that had bloomed that summer.
Amy tried hard to get it from
Johnny, but he kept firm hold of
it ; he pushed and she pushed, and,
not being aware how very lame he
was, Amy accidentally knocked
aside his crutch, and Johnny turn-

AMY'S NEW HOME. 43

bled down. He was not hurt, but
he screamed loudly from passion,
and refused to let Amy help him
up again ; and at that minute both
his father and mother came in.

" Why, Johnny, my boy, what is
the matter ?" said his father.

" Amy pushed me down, father ;
she is so cross."

His father lifted him on his knee,
and said, " You ought to be ashamed
of yourself, Amy, to behave so to a
poor little cripple like him."

" I did not mean him to fall, un-
cle ; I did not know he was so lame,
or I would not have touched him ;
but he would not give me my
flower."

" Well, and why need you quar-
rel about a flower?" said her aunt ;

44

" there are plenty of them, and
surely he may have one to play
with."

" But this is a rose, a white rose,"
said Amy ; " may I have it now,
aunt ? I will give him another for
it."

" Don't be tiresome, child ; you
have made mischief enough already;
sit down and get your breakfast."

Amy burst into tears : she could
not help it ; everything seemed to
go wrong with her.

" Dear me," said her aunt, " who
would have thought you had such a
temper ? Now, you must either be
quiet or go up stairs out of the
way."

Amy dried her tears, and took
her seat at the table. But her heart

AMY'S NEW HOME. 45

was very heavy, and it was as much
as she could do to eat her breakfast
without showing any more of her
sorrow about the flower. What a
bad beginning she had made in her
new home ! Was this the way in
which she was to get on with her
cousins ? Amy wished herself back
again in her mother's peaceful little
cottage ; wished that she had never
come to live with her uncle and
aunt ; wished that she could run
away from the troubles that seemed
gathering around her. These were
natural wishes, but they were sel-
fish and useless ones ; and Amy
lived to own this, and to find out
that God's will is better than our
will.

As she was moving her chair af-

46 AMY'S NEW HOME.

ter breakfast, she picked up her
rose from under the table, where
Johnny, not really caring for it, had
dropped it, as soon as he had gained
his point. Some leaves were gone,
and it was a good deal shaken ; but,
not having been fully opened, it
had borne its rough treatment pretty
well, and was a nice-looking flower
yet. Amy carried it carefully up-
stairs and put it, with some water,
into an old broken bottle which she
had seen in the bedroom, and which
her aunt said she might have ; and
she thought that no flower ever
smelt so sweetly as that did.

The rest of the day passed much
more pleasantly with the little girl.
It was a very busy day, for it was
Saturday, ancf there was house-

AMY'S NEW HOME. 47

cleaning and ironing and mending
to do, and a pie and some cakes to
make for to-morrow. But Amy was
a busy little girl, and she had been
used to work when she was at home,
so she did not mind it. Her mother
always said that it was very wrong
to allow girls to be idle while they
were young, because it got them
into bad habits, which would4 be
very hard to overcome, even if
they tried to conquer them ; and
that, when they went out to service,
they would be ill fitted for it. She
therefore brought up Arny to be
active and tidy; teaching her, as
she was able to learn, whatever
would be useful for her to know in
after life. But it was done so quietly
and so gradually, that Amy found

48 AMY'S NEW HOME.

it a pleasure rather than a trouble,
and never thought it a hardship to
have her hands and her time well
occupied.

It was a good thing for Amy that
she had had such a wise mother ;
for, now that she was placed with
others, and would early have to
work for her own living, she would
be spared many little trials, through
her mother's careful training. The
very first day in her new home
showed this; for Amy was so handy,
and moved about so quickly, and
was so willing to do whatever was
wanted, that her aunt praised her
more than once, and said, that if
she kept on as she had begun, she
would be a nice help to her in the
house.

AMY'S ;NEW HOME. 49

How pleased Amy felt when she
, heard this ! It seemed to make up
for the little trials of the morning.
It was like a bright ray of sunshine
sending away a dark cloud. Amy
went to bed in good spirits, arid
thought that perhaps after all she
might be very happy in her new
home.

50 AMY'S NEW HOME.

PART IV.

THE glad sunshine had peeped
in at the little bed-room window
for some hours the next morning,
before Amy opened her eyes. The
light was so strong, that she was
afraid it was very late ; but as Es-
ther was asleep beside her, and no-
body had called them, Amy con-
cluded that it must be earlier than
usual. She began to get up, how-
ever, for she was wide awake ; and
she thought she would go down as
soon as she was ready, without dis-
turbing Esther, and light the fire

AMY'S NEW HOME. 51

and put on the kettle. She had
always done this at home since her
mother began to be ill, and she
wished to be as useful now. After
she had knelt down and prayed, she
crept softly down stairs, and opened
the shutters without any noise. No
one in the house was moving, and
as she went into the kitchen she
looked up at the old clock in the
corner. To her great surprise the
old clock told her that it only wan-
ted five minutes to nine. It was
very strange that nobody was up ;
but there was all the more need,
Amy thought, for her to bestir her-
self, and it was not long before the
fire was burning cheerfully in the
grate, and the hearth was tidily
swept up. Amy was spreading the

52 AMY'S NEW HOME.

table-cloth when her aunt appeared.
"What, Amy," she said, " up first?
— that is a good child, for your un-
cle is coming, and he will be glad
of his breakfast."

" It is very late, aunt, isn't it ?"
said Amy, glancing at the clock.

" I suppose you would call it late
in the country, Amy, but we never
hurry ourselves here on a Sunday.
We are thankful to get all the rest
we can, after a week's hard work ;
and the day is quite long enough for
what we have to do in it."

Amy thought that if this was one
of the " town ways," the country
ones were much better. She had
always risen early at home, that
she might have plenty of time to
get to her Sabbath school, for they

AMY'S NEW HOME. 53

lived nearly a mile from it ; but of
course no one at her uncle's went
to a Sabbath school, or they would
not lie in bed until nine o'clock.
She was afraid that her aunt and
uncle felt very differently about
such things, to what her mother
had done, for she had not noticed a
Bible anywhere in the house, except
a large one, covered with dust, at
the top of a cupboard, and there
had not been a word said about
the Sabbath which could have led
any one to suppose that it was a day
to be kept holy unto the Lord.

The breakfast was longer about
than usual, for Amy's uncle had no
work to do, and could sit as long
as he chose with his family ; and the
children either ate more, because
5*

5ft

there was toasted bread, or else
they did not eat so fast. Amy grew
very fidgetty on account of the time,
and at length she slipped away and
ran up-stairs. She made the bed,
and laid out her Sabbath things
upon it. The others had only just
left the table when she returned.
Her uncle was filling his pipe, and
her aunt was nursing Alice, and
bidding Esther wash the cups and
saucers instead of teasing George.

" Shall I help her, aunt?" asked
Amy, " because it is almost time to
get ready for church."

" For church ?" cried Esther.

Amy coloured, and said " yes."
She could not tell why Esther should
seem so surprised at her question.

" You went to church in the

AMY'S NEW HOME. 55

country, I dare say, Amy," said her
aunt ; " but then you had so much
time there, and there was only your
mother and yourself to do for. It
is very different in atown, especially
with a family like ours ; for your
uncle must have a bit of hot dinner
on a Sunday, when he has cold all
the week ; and then, when we do go
out, we are glad to take a walk and
get some fresh air, after being shut
up in this close street from Monday
morning to Saturday night."

Amy was more puzzled than con-
vinced by her aunt's words. If
want of time was one excuse for not
going, why did they lie so late in
bed ? and even if they must have a
hot dinner, were all obliged to help
to cook it ?

56 AMY'S NEW HOME.

" Could not /go, aunt ?" she said.

u Well, no, Amy, not very well,
for Esther wants to run in and see
Lucy Sparkes ; and there are the
gooseberries to pick for the pud-
ding, and the peas to shell for din-
ner, and ever so many other things
to do ; and Alice is so poorly and
fretful that she is quite one person's
work. You shall go when you can
be spared, if you wish to."

The tears stood in Amy's eyes,
but no one saw them, for no one
troubled themselves to look, and she
brushed them silently away ; for she
knew, poor child, that it was useless
to say any more then. The church
bells rang out their joyous peal,
but they only made Amy feel sad,
because she could not obey their

AMY'S NEW HOME. 57

call. She had not one quiet five
minutes all the morning ; for when
she was not running about to fetch
things for her aunt, she had to baste
the meat, and mind the potatoes, or
to play with the troublesome little
Alice. Her uncle went out with
one or two of his fellow- work men,
and he was not in a good temper
when he came back, and grumbled
very much because the meat was
rather overdone. There was a
plentiful dinner ; but Amy did not
enjoy it half so well as her mother's
more scanty rneal. As soon as it
was finished and cleared away, she
went timidly up to her aunt, and
asked, almost in a whisper, whether
she might go to church that after-
noon. Her aunt did not seem

58 AMY'S NEW HOME.

pleased, and said hastily, " Yes, go
if you like, child ; but you don't
know your way about yet."

" Oh, I can find it, aunt," answer-
ed Amy ; " there is a church not far
from here, Esther says."

" You might show your cousin,
George," said his mother. But
George was busy cutting an apple
in pieces with his knife, and was not
inclined to move, and Amy was too
glad to have leave given her, to
mind about his company. She
quickly tied on her bonnet and cape,
and set off. She turned first to the
right, and then to the left, and then
down a narrow court, as Esther had
directed her, but she could not find
the church, and the chimes having
ceased, there was not the sound of

AMY'S NEW HOME. 59

the bell to guide her. She grew hot
and flurried, for she was not used
to a large town, and was afraid of
losing herself. Nor did she like to
go back, for they would all laugh
at her so ; besides, she should lose
the service. Just as she was ready
to give up the search in despair, a
few steps more led her right, and
she hastened into the church, and
sat down in the aisle.

It was not at all like the pretty
village church to which she had
been accustomed to go ; the walls
looked damp, the hangings were
faded, and the windows did not let
in much light ; but it was the house
of God, and Amy felt happy, and
at home there, directly. The prayers
and the singing calmed her ruffled

60 AMY'S NEW HOME.

spirit, and the sermon, she thought
seemed to be meant for her. So it
was. God never forgets any who
seek him, and he sends kind mes-
sages, and " words in season," to
children, as well as to grown-up
people. The sermon was about
God appearing to Jacob in a dream,
as he was travelling to his uncle's,
and promising to be with him, and
to keep him, and to bless him ; and
Amy, with no father nor mother to
watch over her, and forced to leave
her early home, and go amongst
strangers, felt almost as lonely as
Jacob, and heard with gladness that
God was as willing to be a friend
and Father to her, as he had been
to Jacob ; and she went away com-
forted, if no one else did.

AMY'S NEW HOME. 61

She needed the comfort, for very

unkind and taunting remarks were

made by George when she got

, home; he called her a saint, and

other names.

"It is very wrong to say such
things, Greorge ; you know it is."

" Come, come, no quarrelling,"
said Amy's aunt, as she poured out
the tea ; " if that is all the good you
get by going to church, Amy, I
think you would be as well at
home."

Greorge and Esther gave a mock-
ing look; Amy was troubled and
silent. Was it her fault, or theirs,
that they so often disagreed? Had
she really given any occasion for
this reproof? Why were they all
so ready to blame her ? She tried
6

62 AMY'S NEW HOME.

to suit her cousins : how was it that
she did not succeed ? She hoped
they would understand her better in
time.

Poor Ainy, she was beginning to
learn that life has its trials, and
that they are sometimes very diffi-
cult to bear.

After tea, Amy's aunt and uncle
got ready for a long walk. The
children were to go with them, if
they liked, but Johnny was obliged
to remain at home, because he was
too lame to walk so far, and his
father could not draw him up the
steep hill which they intended to
climb, in the little chaise which
they sometimes used for him. But
he was not very willing to stay by
himself. It was so dull, he said;

AMY'S NEW HOME. 63

there was nothing to be seen in the
street ; and Charlie Green could not
come over and play with him, for
he was away at his grandmother's.

" Well, Esther, you can stop in
to-night, for you were out most of
the morning, you know."

"No, I can't," said Esther, "I
am tired of being indoors ; and it is
George's turn to stay."

" It is not," said George. " Yes,
it is," repeated his sister.

" Well, I do not care if it is ; I
am not going to be shut up here
this fine evening : it is all nonsense
humouring Johnny so."

Amy gently interfered. " Aunt,"
she said, " might I be left with him?
I do not want a walk, and I would
much rather stay at home."

64 AMY'S NEW HOME.

« Her aunt paused for a minute,
but soon agreed ; and George mut-
tered something which sounded
very like " thank you," to his cousin.
Johnny seemed disposed to be a lit-
tle contrary, and to say that he
would not have Amy instead of his
brother ; but Amy promised to show
him some books and some pictures,
which she had brought with her,
and which he had not seen, and
he was satisfied.

Amy was not sorry to have the
opportunity of being alone with
Johnny ; for her little cousin had
not been very good friends with her
since the dispute about the white
rose, and she wished to show him
that she did not cherish any feelings
of ill-will towards him. So, when

AMY'S NEW HOME. 65

the rest were gone out, she did her
best to amuse him. She fetched
her pictures down, and described
them to him. Several of them were
Scripture scenes ; and when she
found that he did not know any-
thing about them, she told him, in
simple language, the histories be-
longing to them. There was David
the giant-killer, and Daniel in the
lion's den, and Joseph with his
bright-coloured coat, and others
equally pretty. Johnny was very
much interested. And when these
were put aside, Amy sang some of
her pretty little hymns to him, and
talked to him about her own home,
and of the happy way in which she
used to spend her Sabbaths there.
The hours passed so quickly and

66 AMY'S NEW HOME.

pleasantly, that Johnny was sur-
prised, when his father and mother
returned, to hear how late it was.
Nor had Amy enjoyed herself less
than Johnny had ; for this saying
of Jesus is always fulfilled to those
who act upon it, " It is more blessed
to give than to receive."

67

PART V.

AMY soon found that there was
plenty for her to do in her new
home. Her aunt was not very
strong ; the house was seldom tidy
and clean, except on a Sunday ; and
yet Amy saw that her aunt never
seemed to have time to rest or to
enjoy herself. Amy had been used
to such a different kind of life, and
had been trained to such different
habits in her mother's quiet cottage,
that she felt the present change
more than most children would.
But she did not talk about it, nor

68 AMY'S NEW HOME.

did she set herself the task of trying
to put everything to rights. She was
too young to undertake this, or
indeed to think of it. All she at-
tempted was to 'give all the help she
could, and to give it in the best
way she could. She knew that
since her uncle and aunt were kind
enough to provide for her, it was
her duty to make herself useful to
them in return. And she had not
many idle moments; for her aunt
finding her so handy and busy, kept
her pretty well employed from
morning till night. It was con-
stantly, "Amy, do this;" "Amy,
fetch that;" "Amy, run there;"
everybody, from her uncle down to
little Alice, applied to her if they
wanted any help, and seemed to

AMY'S NEW HOME. 69

take it as a matter of course that
she should attend to them. Amy
was often very tired, and longed to
have a little quiet time to herself;
but when the house-work was fin-
ished, there was a never-ending
quantity of needle-work to do ; and
besides that, there was always Alice
to be amused, or to be carried out-
of-doors.

Amy would not have minded the
hard work, if it had always had
kind words along with it. But her
aunt was often hard to please in lit-
tle things; and her cousins were
very trying at times. And Amy's
temper was by no means perfect.
She could not always return good
for evil, nor bear in mind that " a
soft answer turneth away wrath."

70 AMY'S NEW HOME.

She got angry, and made matters
worse by her efforts at self-defence.
And then afterwards she was very
unhappy.

Still, these little daily troubles
did Amy good. They taught her
that she was weak and sinful. She
would never have learned what
were her besetting faults, if such
trials had not brought them out
clearly to view. ]N"or would she
otherwise have known what a
precious Saviour Jesus is. But now
when she was vexed and sorrowful,
she told him what distressed her,
and asked him to forgive and help
her ; and she did not ask in vain.
He comforted her by the sweet
promises of his love, and he sent
his Holy Spirit to strengthen her,

AMY'S NEW HOME. 71

when she was tempted to do wrong,
and to make her gentle, and meek,
and forbearing. And he lightened
the work that Amy sometimes grew
weary of, by reminding her that it
was work to be done for him.

One day, Amy, quite worn out
with the fault-finding of her aunt,
and with Esther's ill-natured
speeches, ran away into her bed-
room, and, sitting down on her box,
began to cry. She felt very miser-
able. " Esther did not have to
work so hard, why should she?
Besides, take what trouble she
would, she could not please her
aunt. It was a shame she should
have to slave so." Then she thought
of her mother's soft tones, and of
the encouraging words she had so

72 AMY'S NEW HOME.

often heard from her lips in days
gone by: oh, how different all would
have been had her mother lived !
How gladly would Amy have toil-
ed for her !

Just then, Amy remembered
what the kind minister had said to
her about her new duties, in her
new home ; how she was to think
of them as the work which she was
to do for Jesus. " But I have not
looked at them in that way," said
Amy, in a tone of half-surprise to
herself; " I have quite forgotten it
till now. I will try and recollect
that the Lord has put me here, and
given me the work I have to do ;
and that he knows just how hard it
is, and sees the pains I take with it.
I think I shall get on better now.

AMY'S NEW HOME. 73

It is so nice to feel that he cares for
a poor child like me ; and that he
is pleased with me when I strive to
act rightly, and to do what aunt
wishes me."

From that time, Amy went to
work more cheerfully. She was
influenced by a new and better
motive now, and it helped her on
greatly. While her mother lived,
Amy's love for her was so strong,
that it led her to oblige and obey
her mother as often as she could.
But since her mother died, Amy
had worked from duty, not from
love, and it was not half so pleasant
to her. Now, all her little daily
duties were to be done from love to
Jesus. Oh, how that thought
sweetened each ! How much easier
7

74 AMY'S NEW HOME.

Amy found them when she met
them in this spirit ! Are you sur-
prised at this, dear young reader ?
Then I am sure you have never
tried the plan yourself. You have
not yet learned, as Amy had, to say,
with an old poet —

" Teach me, my God and King,

In all things thee to see,
And what I do in anything,
To do it as for thee.

All may of thee partake :

Nothing can be so mean,
Which with this tincture, 'for thy sake,'

Will not grow bright and clean.

A servant with this clause,

Makes drudgery divine :
"Who sweeps a room as for thy laws,

Makes that and the action fine."

" Sweeping a room" is a servant's
act ; but if it be done from love to

AMY'S NEW HOME. 75

Christ, from the desire to please
him by being faithful in little things,
he does not despise nor overlook it.
Amy believed this, and it often .
made her happy. Her aunt might
find fault with her unjustly, or
might forget to notice how diligently
she worked ; but her Saviour's gra-
cious eye was always upon her, and
he marked, her humblest effort to
serve him.

Not many months had passed
after Amy came to live with her
uncle and aunt, before there was
some improvement to be seen in
the house, and in the ways of the
family. You may wonder how a
gentle little girl like Amy could .
have begun it, or have helped it
forwards. But it was because she

76 AMY'S NEW HOME.

was so gentle that Amy was so use-
ful. She did not make much noise,
and she said very little ; but she
quietly did what wanted doing, and
she did it well.

Amy kept her own bed-room neat
and tidy. It was well aired and
well dusted. The small window
used to be so clouded that she could
hardly see through it ; but a little
rubbing soon made it bright and
clear. The old table with its three
legs looked none the worse for hav-
ing a white cover to it ; and a sheet
almanack, and two or three Scrip-
ture prints in frames, gave a cheer-
ful look to the white-washed walls.
Esther laughed at Amy for being
so particular about a room which
nobody but themselves saw; but

AMY'S NEW HOME. 77

she soon beg%an herself to try and
make the other rooms tidier also.
If one front, window was cleaned, it
was necessary to clean the other, in ,
order that they might both look
alike outside ; and as Amy was
willing to do all the roughest parts
of the work, Esther could hardly
help taking the lighter parts.

It was the same down-stairs.
Amy managed, after a time, to get
the meals in a more orderly fashion.
She generally laid the cloth and set
out the table, and she did it as care-
fully as if it had been in a lady's
parlour. Why should not she?
Why should poor people have
things " any-how," because they are
poor? If the cups were common
blue and white ware, they were

78 AMY'S NEW HOME.

quite clean ; if the old teapot was
common metal, it was bright as sil-
ver ; if the knives were much worn,
they were well polished, and each
article was put in its proper place.
At first, some remarks were made
about " Amy's fidgetty ways ;" but
as she took all the trouble upon her-
self, and did not ask any one to help
her, no one could very well find
fault : and when they were used to
the tidiness, they liked it better
than the former confusion. It was
so all through the house. Amy
never complained, but she did all
she could herself, according to the
nice methods which her mother had
taught her ; and her aunt and cous-
ins, almost without knowing it, fell
into the same plans. I think the

AMY'S NEW HOME. 79

great secret of Amy's success was
her quiet, humble spirit.

Amy's new home, merely in out-
ward comfort, was certainly all the
better for her living in it. Now,
you may not think it signifies very
much whether people are tidy or
untidy, orderly or disorderly. But
it does. Such habits have a great
deal to do with their tempers and
happiness. An uncomfortable home
often destroys peace, in-doors, and
drives boys into the streets. Will
the little girls who are reading this
story try to remember this ?

But Amy did even more good in
her new home by her gentle and
loving temper, than by her industry.
Being an only child, and living-
alone with her mother, she had not

80 A^IY'S NEW HOME.

mixed much with other children ;
and when she first came to her
aunt's she did not quite fit in with
her cousins. She had not found her
right place among them. But when
she got more used to them and their
ways, and above all, when she had
found grace to be kind, and meek,
and forgiving towards them, Ainy
seldom disagreed with them. She
tried to suit them, and was ready,
in general, to .give up her will to
theirs.

George and Esther went to school ;
Amy was to have her turn when
the spring came ; but Johnny and
Alice were always at home, and
Amy soon became their best friend.
She had quite won Johnny's affec-
tions, by staying at home with him

AMY'S NEW HOMI;. 81

and showing him her best pictures
that Sabbath evening, and she took
good care not to lose them. The poor
little fellow had been very much
indulged, on account of his lame-
ness ; but he was a thoughtful child,
and minded, more than either of
the others, what Amy said to him.
A look from her, or a half- whispered
word, when he was going to be dis-
obedient, checked him better than
all her aunt's scolding. Amy helped
him to be more patient and cheer-
ful, not only by telling him about
the meek and lowly Jesus, but also
by finding nice Httle employments
for him. He could not run about
like other little boys, and he often
got cross for want of something else
to do. Amv showed him how to

82 AMY'S NEW HOME.

draw little pictures, and lent him
her own paint-box to colour them ;
and she taught him how to write
copies and to do easy sums on his
slate ; and how to make a cabbage-
net with some twine that his father
gave him. And when he was not
in the humour to do these sort of
things, she would draw his thoughts
away from himself, by asking him
to mind Alice for a little while,
while her aunt and she were busy,
and thus make him feel that, lame
and feeble as he was, he was really
of some service to others. So Johnny
was much happier than he used to
be, and it was all through " Cousin
Amy."

Amy's new home had certainly
wanted her in it.

AMY'S NEW HOME. 83

PART VI.

WEEKS and months passed away,
and Amy and her cousins got on
nicely together. Johnny was Amy's
firm friend, and, in any trifling dis-
pute, was always ready to defend
Tier side. Amy's example had by
degrees made Esther ashamed of
her own idle and untidy ways ; and,
although she was very far yet from
being as neat and as busy as her
cousin, it was pleasant to see that
she had taken many steps towards
it.

Nor was George out of the reach

84

of Amy's gentle influence. He did
not, it is true, seem to care much for
her, and he often teased and vexed
her; but underneath his rough ways
there was a warm heart, and Amy
had, somehow or other, contrived to
gain his good opinion. She did not,
however, know it for a long time,
and I am not sure that he did ; but
it was true for all that, and the
rough boy was the better for it.
Little by little he left off his torment-
ing ways towards her ; and while he
pretended not to care for her say-
ings and habits, he often allowed
himself to be guided by them.
Amy's kind, unselfish conduct had
a good effect upon him.

He ran into the kitchen one
morning, where his mother was

AMY'S NEW HOME. 85

kneading the dough for the baker.
" Here, Amy," he shouted, " sew
this button on my sleeve, please ;
it has just come off.'

Amy was not there. "Amy is
gone out on an errand," said his
mother ; " but Esther will be down
directly, and she will do it for you."

" Oh, no," said George, " I shall
not ask her ; she will make such a
favour of it, and scold me into the
bargain for being so careless. I
would rather wait for Amy, for she
never grumbles at me."

Was not George's good word in
Amy's favour worth something?
She would have thought it was, if
she had heard it.

One Sabbath afternoon Amy got
ready to go to church, as usual.

8

86 AMY'S NEW HOME.

Since her first Sabbath in her new
home, Amy had kept steadily to
this practice. Her aunt neither
hindered nor helped her in so doing;
so long as Amy did all that she
wanted in the morning, she left her
to do as she pleased herself in the
afternoon ; but Amy's cousins had
often teased her about it, and her
uncle sometimes seemed annoyed ;
and once, when Amy, by mistake,
left her Bible in the kitchen, he
told her angrily to take it out of his
way, and not let him see it there
again. But Amy was not to be
turned out of the right way. She
knew that if she did not observe
Grod's day, she could not expect his
blessing to rest upon her. Besides,
she loved his house and his service,

AMY'S NEW HOME. 87

and was never so happy as when
she was meekly listening to his
word.

Well, this afternoon she came
softly down stairs, intending to slip
out, as she always did, without
making any noise, when George met
her in the passage with his best
jacket and cap on. " Amy," he said,
in his blunt way, " I shall go with
you this afternoon ; I want to see
how I like it." What a pleasant
surprise this was for Amy ! She
did not say much ; she only said,
"Oh, George, I am so glad!" but
her bright looks plainly showed
what were her feelings.

George behaved very well at
Divine worship, and told Amy af-
terwards that he was not at all tired,

88 AMY'S NEW HOME.

except a little towards the end.
When the heart is not really in-
terested in religion, there is not
much delight taken in the study of
God's word. The day did come,
although not for a long time, when
George could say for himself, " Oh
how love I thy law ! it is my medita-
tion all the day. How sweet are
thy words unto my taste : yea,
sweeter than honey to my mouth !"
At present, the only reason why he
went to God's house was to please
Amy, and to do as she did. Still, it
was a good thing to get him there
at all ; and Amy was very thankful
when the next Sabbath came, to
have him again for her companion ;
and after that he went with her
regularly. Amy was afraid that

AMY'S NEW HOME. 89

her uncle would be displeased, and
order George to stay at home ; but
he did not seem to trouble himself
about it. All the notice he took of
it was, to say to his wife, " It is only
a fancy of George's, and it will not
last long ; he will soon be tired of
it: let him do as he likes." Perhaps
George's father knew that his boy
was safer than if he were rambling
in the streets with idle lads.

Have you ever seen a tiny stream
flowing softly along from day to day,
a quiet blessing to all within its
reach ? Have you peeped at the
modest violet, half-hidden from
sight, that sheds such a sweet per-
fume around ? Such was our little
Amy's life in her new home. She
was happy herself, and she was

90 AMY'S NEW HOME.

helping to make others happy. Had
not she any troubles, then ? Oh
yes. The little stream, you know,
has to push its way over large stones
and tangled weeds ; and the lowly
violet has to bear the rough wind
and the smart shower : but what
then ? The stream gathers strength,
and the flower gains in sweetness.
So Amy's troubles, as we have
already seen, did her good, and
made her more useful. Her aunt
often said that she did not know
what she should do without her.
And her cousins loved her dearly.
Amy's mother little thought, when
she parted from her child, how
much good Amy would be the
means of doing in her new home.
The winter was gone away, and

AMY'S NEW HOME. 91

the spring had come. And spring
brought with it sickness and sorrow.
Amy's uncle was very ill. A ne-
glected cold brought on a severe
disease ; and the doctor, after he
had been to visit him two or three
times, shook his head, and looked
very grave. The next day that he
came, he spoke more plainly to
Amy's aunt, and said that he could
not hold out the least hope of her
husband's recovery. It was a sad
and trying time. It reminded Amy
of her mother's illness and death ;
but oh ! there was this difference —
" Was her uncle prepared ?" she
thought. " Is he a Christian? What
hope has he to rest upon now ?"

Amy wept, and prayed earnestly
that her uncle might repent of his

92 AMY'S NEW HOME.

past life, and find refuge in Jesus,
the Saviour of sinners. Another
day and night passed ; and in the
afternoon, Ainy went to stay in her
uncle's room for an hour, while her
aunt tried to get a little sleep,
which she much needed after being
up all night. Amy was struck to
see how much worse her uncle
looked. She sat down sorrowfully
beside him, and longed to speak to
him of that peace which Jesus alone
can give in a dying hour ; but she
did not know how to begin.

Presently her uncle opened his
eyes, and spoke to her. " Amy,"
he said, faintly, " what did the doc:
tor tell your aunt about me this
morning?"

Amy's heart beat quickly ; she

AMY'S NEW HOME. 93

was afraid to answer, and yet she
dared not keep her uncle waiting.
So she replied, in as steady a tone
as she could, " He said that you
were very ill, uncle."

" Yes, yes, I know that ; but did
he say that I was dying, Amy?
Tell ine the truth : the doctor does
not think I shall get better, does
he?"

Amy's sad whisper, " JN~o, uncle,"
was uttered without her knowing
it. She felt frightened when she
had said it. But her uncle seemed
to have expected it.

" It is just as I thought," he said,
mournfully. " But, Amy, I am not
fit to die ; oh ! I cannot die yet."
He turned away from her, and
moaned.

94 AMY'S NEW HOME.

" Would you like to have a min-
ister sent for, uncle?" she asked
timidly.

kt No, no, I don't want anybody
to come ; nobody can do me any
good ; I must die as I have lived :
there is no hope for me now."

" Yes, dear uncle," said Amy,
eagerly, " the Bible says there is
hope even for the chief of sinners.
' The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth
us from all sin.' "

" Not from mine," said her uncle;
" it cannot do that. I have despised
the Saviour, and rejected his love,
and I am beyond the reach of his
mercy."

" Oh, no," said Amy, " Jesus
prayed for his very murderers when
he was on the cross."

AMY'S NEW HOME. 95

Her uncle was silent. But Amy's
reply sank deep into his heart, and
he often thought of it afterwards.
She fetched her Testament, not feel-
ing quite sure whether he would
allow her to read to him ; but he
made no objection to her doing so,
and she chose the third chapter of
John, and went slowly through it.
He thanked her when she had fin-
ished it, but did not say anything
more to her, and seemeck disposed
to sleep.

Amy sat by him, with a full and
thankful heart, until her aunt re-
turned. From that afternoon she
was often with her uncle, reading
the Scriptures to him, and trying in
her own simple way to soothe his
fears, and tell him of Jesus. He

96 AMY'S NEW HOME.

listened eagerly to her, for lie longed
to find peace.

In his healthful days, Amy's un-
cle had looked on Christian people
as those who were " righteous over-
much ;" although, even then, Amy's
simple piety and upright conduct
had made some impression on his
mind. But when death seemed to
come near, his spirit sank within
him. He felt that the Bible was
true, and without a Saviour he
must perish for ever.

Happy are those who have found
Jesus before sickness comes, for it
is hard work seeking him on a dy-
ing bed. Remember that, dear
young reader. Ill and feverish,
Amy's uncle was often unable to
think calmly, and sometimes he was

97

quite insensible ; and all that Amy
could do was to pray for him.

But Amy's uncle did not die then.
The doctor's fears were removed.
He got slowly better, and was able,
before many weeks were over, to
come down stairs again. He was a
different man ever afterwards. His
vows did not fade away, as such too
often do. He was humble, thought-
ful, and prayerful. He could say
with David, " It is good for me that
I have been afflicted, that I might
learn thy statutes," Ps. cxix. 71 ;
and, in God's strength, he said, as
Joshua did, " As for me, and my
house, we will serve the Lord," Jos.
xxiv. 15.

We maysay, " good-bye" to Amy
now, with a light heart, for we are
9

98 AMY'S NEW HOME.

sure that her new home will, be a
happy home. And as we bid her
farewell, let us learn from her early
history this sweet lesson, that even
children may help to make happier
the homes in which they dwell.

WILLIAM TELL.

Page 99.

BOW DRAWN AT A VENTUKE. 99

A BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE.

PERHAPS some of our young
readers amuse themselves at times
by practising with the bow and
arrows, and a very pleasant pastime
I have no doubt it is. But, then,
instead of " drawing your bow at a
venture," you have an aim. You
set up your target, and try to fix the
arrows in the centre ; and the nearer
they come to this the more skilful
you think yourselves. Skill is
always of use, although its real
value must very much depend upon

100 BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE.

the way we employ it, and the end
to which it is applied.

I dare say most of you know the
story of William Tell ; but it is so
much to my purpose, and so good,
that I think it will bear telling once
more. About the year 1300, an
Austrian of the name of Gesler was
made the governor of the Swiss ; he
was very cruel and proud. He
caused his hat to be fixed on a pole
in the market-place of a town of
which William Tell was a native,
with a command to all the people,
upon pain of death, to bow before
it as they would to himself if he
were present. Tell would not pay
this homage, and was therefore
ordered to be hanged ; having,
however, the choice presented to

BOW DKAWN AT A VENTUEE. 101

him of shooting at a certain distance
an apple from the head of his own
son. This Tell accepted, and per-
formed his task so well, that he
succeeded in striking off the apple
without touching his boy. Was he
not, in this one successful act, well
repaid for all the pains he had taken
in becoming a good archer ?

'Another true story which I shall
mention is not quite so well known.
Aster, a celebrated archer of Greece,
offered his services to Philip, king
of Macedon, telling him, in proof
of his skill, that he could bring
down birds in their most rapid
flight. Philip said, "Well, I will
take you into my service when I
make war upon starlings." This
reply so enraged Aster that he went

102 BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE.

to Methone, a small city which
Philip was then besieging, and from
thence aimed an arrow at the
monarch, on which was written,
" To Philip's right eye ;" and so
sure was his aim that he put out
the sight of the king's right eye.
Philip then shot the arrow back
with these words on it, " If Philip
take the city he will hang up Aster."
And so it was, when the city was
taken, the archer was hung.

Both these stories show, though
in different ways, the truth of which
I have said — that the value of skill
very much depends upon the use we
make of it. William Tell's skill
was the means of saving his own
life and that of his child ; while
Aster employed his talent in wick-

BOW BRAWN AT A VENTURE. 103

edly revenging an insult, and in the
end losing his life.

Very often we find in Scripture
that the bow is spoken of. I will
notice only one instance ; and let us
look a little at the history connected
with it. But you must take up
your Bibles, for we cannot do with-
out them ; and turning to the
eighteenth chapter of the second
book of Chronicles, we shall find
that Ahab, the wicked king of
Israel, had requested Jehoshaphat,
the pious king of Judah, to go up
with him to Ramoth-Gilead to war
against the king of Syria. Now see
what it is to keep company with
wicked people, and how little trust
is to be placed in their friendship.
" The king of Syria had commanded

104 BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE.

the captains of the chariots that
were with him, saying, Fight ye not
with small or great, save only with
the king of Israel.'7 So the coward-
ly and selfish king of Israel said to
Jehoshaphat, " I will disguise my-
self, and go to the battle ; but put
thou on thy robes." He would
rather that he were slain than him-
self. But God appeared in behalf
of Jehoshaphat. And then comes
the verse, " And a certain man
drew a bow at a venture, and smote
the kingof Israel between the joints
of the harness" (or armour). The
archer did not know that it was the
king of Israel, and the bow was
drawn at a venture ; but it was the
most successful of all the arrows shot
that day.

BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE. 105

Now this is exactly my position
with regard to you, my young
readers. I do not know any of you.
I am ignorant of your tempers and
habits, your studies and pursuits
and sports. I do not know whether
you have any brothers or sisters, or
whether you are an only child. So,
in writing to you, I must " draw
my bow at a venture." But I want
my words to be like so many arrows,
and to reach your minds and hearts,
and fasten themselves in the faults
that are there. And I am going to
speak, first of all, about

SELFISHNESS.

The undue love of self is a very
common fault, and the source of
many others ; such as envy, jealousy,

106 BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE.

and backbiting : and, when people
are very selfish, they will sometimes
tell falsehoods, and cheat, and be
very unkind to others, for the sake
of serving themselves and getting
their own way. Selfishness is very
displeasing to God. It is a break-
ing of the command which teaches us
to " love our neighbours as our-
selves," and to " do to others as we
would they should do unto us ;" for
those who are selfish love them-
selves better than they love any one
else, and would be very sorry if
others were to do to them as they
do to others. Those who are selfish
are never loved by anybody, and
of course cannot be truly happy —
not half so happy as those who are
willing to give up their own wishes

BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE. 107

and pleasures for the sake of
others.

I know a youth, I will not tell
you his name, or where he lives, but
he is of a very selfish temper, and
it shows itself in all sorts of ways.
When he was quite young, he was
so jealous that he could not bear to
see his mother kiss his little brothers
and sisters ; and he wanted all their
toys, though he never gave them
any of his own ; and, if he could not
have them, he would .try to spoil
their pleasure by breaking them.
If any cake or fruit were handed to
him, he always picked the largest
and the best. In cold weather, he
always tried to get the seat next the
fire, and, in summer, one near an
open window ; and, if there were

108 BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE.

any sight to be seen, he always chose
the best place for seeing it, and he
did not mind pushing, or behaving
very rudely, for the sake of getting
it. He might have known, if he
had thought about it, that somebody
must have the worst seat and the
worst place ; but, the truth is, he
never thought of anybody but him-
self; and, if he had, he would not
have been willing to have given up
to them.

Arid he was just the same at
school as he was at home and in
company : he cheated so in his
games, that at last none of the boys
would play with him; and he almost
hated the schoolfellow who happen-
ed to take his place in his class, or
to keep the top for any length of time.

BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE. 109

As he could not bear that his master
should like anybody better than
him, he was always telling tales of
those who were favourites with the
master because they were diligent
and attentive boys. But it did not
serve his purpose, for his master
was too wise to be misled by it.

He has now left school, and has
grown to be almost a man ; but his
selfishness has kept pace, and grown
as fast as he has done.

What do you think of my story?
Would any of you choose this youth
for a companion, or desire to imitate
his example ? I hope none of you
resemble him already. But I think
I see a little boy there, shrugging
his shoulders and twisting about as
if he were not quite easy. Has the
10

110 BOW DRAWN AT A TEXTURE.

arrow hit him, and struck into
some selfish practice he is prone to
indulge in ? He may draw it out
by degrees. Giving up the habit
will soon ease the smart, and perfect
goodwill and kindness and love will
leave no selfishness for the arrow to
fasten in. But he can never alter
the past, or do right in the future,
in his own strength ; so we must
pray to God to forgive him, for
Jesus Christ's sake, what he has
done amiss, and to give him a new
heart, so that he may strive against
his selfishness in the time to come.
Perhaps some of you, who may
pride yourselves upon being what
is called rather sharp, may say,
" We do not see why selfishness
should be charged upon us young

BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE. Ill

people : we know many grown-up
persons that are quite as selfish as
we are." Very true ; and so do I.
But then, they were selfish when
they were children. And it is
because selfish children become
selfish men and women that I wish
you may alter now, while it is easier
than it will be when you are older.

Take care, take care, for I have
drawn my bow again, and intend to
let my arrows fly right and left. I
am going to shoot at pride and
vanity. So let all vain and proud
children get out of the way.

Pride and vanity in many res-
pects resemble each other. They
both arise out of our thinking too
much of ourselves, or of something
that belongs to us ; and some per-

112 BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE.

sons are vain of the very same
things that others are proud of.
Pride arid vanity are, however, un-
like in this — vanity does little harm
to anybody except those who in-
dulge in it, while pride affects the
comfort and happiness of others,
proud people often behaving very
rudely to those whom they consider
in any respect their inferiors.

I knew a little girl that was al-
ways looking at herself in the glass,
admiring her fair complexion and
her curls. She was continually
watching to see who noticed her,
and she liked to be with those who
were foolish enough to call her
pretty, and to praise her dress and
flatter her. This was a vain child.

And she had a cousin who was

BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE. 113

as proud as she was vain. His fa-
ther had a handsome house and a
carriage, and a great many servants.
And this proud boy fancied himself
quite a little lord, and looked so
scornfully on those who were not so
grand or well dressed as himself,
and spoke so haughtily to the ser-
vants, that he was very much dis-
liked.

Now I think you will see the
similarity and the difference between
pride and vanity.

I am going to talk about a few
of the many things of which chil-
dren are either vain or proud, and
to show the folly of their being so.
And, as I go along, let each ask,
" Is this like me ? Do I conduct
myself in this way ?"

114 BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE.

Some are vain of their persons.
Of this I have already given an in-
stance, and therefore shall not dwell
upon it now, farther than to remark
that beauty, however pleasing in
itself, is quite spoiled by vanity.

Others are vain of their dress. If
they happen to have a new robe, or
sash, or hat, they want everybody
to see it, and seem to think them-
selves of great consequence. And
it is not only the children of rich
people who act in this wa}7. Did
you never see a girl in the school
seem very full of herself because
she had got a smart bonnet ? And
did you not notice how she looked
down upon the shabby frock and
old shoes of the poor little girl who
sat next to her, and whom she

BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE. 115

ought rather to have pitied ? Oh !
it was very offensive in the sight of
God.

Some are proud of their circum-
stances, or, I should rather sa}r, are
proud because their parents are rich
and live in grandeur. But wealth
is God's gift, and no cause for pride,
but demands gratitude for his un-
deserved goodness. Thinkest thou,
0 child of rich parents, that it is
for any merit in thee that these
blessings are bestowed ?

Others, again, are proud of their
abilities and attainments. They think
themselves very clever, and love to
talk and show off. But nobody likes
these conceited children ; and if
they would only consider how very
little it is that they do know, com-

116 BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE.

pared with the much that they do
not know, they would be more hum-
ble, and be willing to listen and
learn instead of thinking much of
themselves and exhibiting before
others.

To conclude, Beauty, and goodly
attire, and wealth, and talents, and
knowledge, are not naturally our
own. In wh ate ver degree we possess
them, they have been bestowed
upon us by God. " What hast thou
that thou didst not receive ? Xowr,
if thou didst receive it, why dost
thou glory, as if thou hadst not re-
ceived it ?"

Above all things, remember the
disapprobation of pride God inva-
riably expresses throughout the
Scriptures. Perhaps there is no sin

BOW DRAWN AT A VENTURE. 117

excepting idolatry that more excites
his displeasure. Remember also his
sweet promises of mercy and favour
to the humble. He has said that he
will have " respect unto the lowly,"
and will "dwell with 'him that is
of a humble and contrite spirit."

118 THE BLOT OF INK.

THE BLOT OF INK.

" WHO has made this blot of ink
on my notebook ?" said a school-
master, as he came into the school-
room, and again took his seat at the
desk, which he had left a few
minutes before, in order to speak to
the mother of one of his scholars.

A deep silence was the only
answer to this question. — " I ask,"
repeated Mr. Bernard, " who has
made this blot of ink on my note-
book ?"

At the first summons, forty pairs

THE BLOT OF INK. 119

of eyes were raised to the face of the
master, and as quickly brought
back to the slates ; at the second all
the heads remained down, and no-
thing was to be heard but the sound
of the pencils, which scratched the
slates more than usual, as the figures
were being written down.

"When a master asks a question,"
said Mr. Bernard, " it is the duty
of the scholars to answer him ; now
there is one among you who is
guilty, there is one who left his seat
and came, most probably, to look
for the answer to his sum in this
key-book ; my pen, which had ink
in it, must have slipped from his
hand, and blotted the note-book as
it fell. I now call upon the guilty
one to stand up."

120 THE BLOT OF IXK.

There was still the same silence
all round.

The master sighed, for he loved
his little scholars very much ; it
grieved him to punish them ; but he
knew that these young souls had
been entrusted to his care by the
Saviour, to teach them his ways and
to guide them in the path which
leads to life ; and while his heart
was grieved at the thought that he
must at any cost find out the
offender and punish him, especially
as his obstinacy threw suspicion on
his companions, he resolved not to
act rashly.

He now slowly left his desk, and
standing in front of the forms
where his scholars were seated, he
said, " I do not like tell-tales ; it is

THE BLOT OF INK. 121

a proof of a very bad spirit when a
boy discloses his schoolfellows'
faults ; but it is necessary for the
good" — and he laid a stress on the
word, " for the good of the offender,
that I should know who he is. Now,
I do not want you to say, it is such
and such a one, but I desire you all,
beginning with the first division, to
leave this room, and to go into the
passage, with the exception of the
one among you who is guilty."

They then began to file off. One,
two, three forms were soon empty ;
the fourth class, which was composed
of the youngest boys, went more
slowly ; the last child but one had
gone, the one who remained seemed
just about to rise, but, after a slight
movement, he reseated himself.
II

122 THE BLOT OF INK.

Mr. Bernard shut the door of the
room, and then came and sat down
by the little boy, and taking both
his hands in his, he said : " So it
was you, Paul, who went in this
deceitful way to find out from my
book whether your sum was correct?
It was you who left your seat with-
out my permission ? It was you
who insulted your master by re-
fusing to answer him ; for, as you
are the guilty one, it was to you
that I spoke. You are right not to
look me in the face ; but tell me,
how will you look at your dear
mother when she calls you this even-
ing to say your prayers to God
before you go to bed ? And how will
you pray ? What will you say to
the Lord, whom you have offended ?"

THE BLOT OF INK. 123

Two tears rolled down poor little
Paul's cheeks. " My child," con-
tinued the master, " your conduct
grieves me all the more, because,
up to this time, I have observed
your good conduct and love of
truth."

Paul's cheeks became like crim-
son ; he raised his head, and cried,
'"Sir, I didn't lie."

" Do not try to excuse yourself,
my boy," said Mr. Bernard; "if
you did not tell a lie, at least you
let your schoolfellows be suspected
of a fault of which you alone were
guilty, and that was not honest.
However much it grieves me, I
must punish you ; to-day is Wednes-
day, so this evening and for the rest
of the week, I shall keep you in till

124 THE BLOT OF INK.

eight o'clock in the evening ; and
each day, during the extra hours,
you shall write out ten pages of
grammar."

Mr. Bernard opened the door,
and, the time being up, he dismiss-
ed his scholars, telling Louis, Paul's
brother, to explain to their mother
the cause of his brother's absence.
While he was speaking to him, all •
the other boys had left, and the
master and the two brothers were
alone in the schoolroom. Paul was
sitting with downcast eyes, so that
he did not see how pale and be-
wildered Louis looked, when he
heard his master's message. Louis
was twelve months younger than
his brother, who was in his eleventh
year : the love of the two boys for

THE BLOT OF INK. 125

each other was so great and so
strong, that it had often excited the
admiration of their schoolfellows,
and even of their master.

Mr. Bernard had stopped speak-
ing some minutes, but Louis did
not move ; he seemed fixed to the
spot, and his eyes were fixed on
Paul, who did not look up. "Louis,
my child, you must go ; it is long
past five o'clock. Paul, get your
grammar and begin to copy."

Paul rose to get his book, but
Louis threw his arms round his
neck, sobbing aloud. " Oh, brother,
brother !" he cried. He would have
added more, but Paul, kissing him
affectionately, tried all he could to
comfort him. " Never mind, Louis;
hush, hush ; I will write fast, and I

126 THE BLOT OF INK.

shall have finished before eight
o'clock, and when I come home, I
will explain it all to my mother:
be quiet ; there, run away. I wish
you would go, Louis ; I don't like
to see you cry so : if you would only
go." And Paul tried to get free
from his brother ; but Louis would
not leave him.

" /will stay too, I will stay," he
cried ; " it is you who ought to go ;
I dare not go to my mother ;" and
his sobs increased.

At last Mr. Bernard took Louis'
hand, and said, " My child, you
must go : as your brother is guilty
of a serious fault, you can under-
stand that he must be punished."

But what was his astonishment
when the little boy answered, " You

THE BLOT OF INK. 127

are mistaken, sir, I am the guilty
one."

" Louis !" cried Paul, seizing him
by the arm, " you were punished
enough, without saying that." And
the two brothers threw themselves
into each other's arms.

Mr. Bernard watched them with-
out knowing what to think. Was
Louis really guilty, and not Paul ?
Had the latter done this in order
to save his brother from punish-
ment ? And now, whom was he to
punish ? His perplexity was great.
The two brothers were standing
there before him clasped in each
other's arms, and their heads rest-
ing on each other's shoulders. The
master's eyes filled with tears as he
watched them, but after a few mo-

128 THE BLOT OF IXK.

ments he drew them towards him,
and said :

" Dear children, I like to see this
great love between you, and never
would I wish that you should love
each other less ; but while you have
this brotherly love, you must also
love each other as unto the Lord.
When one of you commits a fault,
the other must love him so much,
as not only to wish to bear his pun-
ishment, but also to tell him frankly
that he has done wrong. I know
that this is more difficult for a lov-
ing heart. I now understand what
happened this afternoon. In a mo-
ment of thoughtlessness, Louis com-
mitted the first fault; his courage
failed him when I asked the ques-
tion ; and, as one sin generally leads

THE BLOT OF INK. 129

to another, he had not the courage
and frankness to confess himself
guilty by remaining in his seat.
Was it not so, Louis ?"

" Yes, sir," he answered, his eyes
swimming with tears.

" But you, my boy," said Mr.
Bernard, turning to Paul, "why
did you not leave your seat ?"

" Because, sir," said Paul, colour-
ing, " I said to myself, c My brother
has done wrong, but as he will not
confess it, I must take his place,
because then our schoolfellows will
not be suspected any longer :' that
is the truth, sir. And now may my
brother go home ?"

" No, no !" cried Louis, " it is I
who ought to stay ;" and his tears
began again.

130 THE BLOT OF IXK.

" You see, dear boy," said Mr.
Bernard, " how much wiser it is, in
youth as well as in old age, to act
with uprightness and perfect hon-
esty. Solomon says, ' He that cover-
eth his sins shall not prosper ; but
whoso confesseth and forsaketh
them shall have mercy,' Prov.
xxviii. 13. This is perfectly true,
as everything is which the Bible
teaches us ; and if, as soon as I
asked, ' Who has made a blot of
ink on my note-book ?' you had an-
swered, 4 Sir, it was I ; I had the
curiosity to look into it, but I am
sorry for it, and please to forgive
me,' most probably I should have
received your confession, with no-
thing more than a simple rebuke,
and a warning never to do it again.

THE BLOT OF INK. 131

Instead of that, you paid no atten-
tion to my repeated questions ; your
fault is the greater, and you have
forced your brother, although he
was innocent, to represent himself
as being the guilty one. As he has
offered himself for you, he must
bear the punishment ; and you, you
are free.

"No, no," continued Mr. Bernard,
gently repelling Louis' entreaties,
" I cannot mjsay what I have said ;
it is Paul whom I punished ; he
must finish the task which he has
undertaken out of love for his guilty
brother. You, my child, I pardon,
and I will love you just as much as
before, for I*am sure you are sorry
for your sin, and in future you will
try to show your gratitude to your

132 THE BLOT OF IXK.

brother for what he has done for
you, and you will avoid falling again
into the same fault."

The good master was right ;
from that day, in which the innocent
was punished for the guilty, Louis
understood better than ever the
great love which his brother had for
him, and he never ceased trying to
show by his conduct the gratitude
he felt for that love.

And now, my dear little friends,
I must ask you one question. Have
you understood the moral of this
tale ? Does it not remind you of
an important, a solemn fact, which
refers to each of you personally?
Yes, surely it must recall to your
minds our Lord Jesus Christ, who
came to pay the debt of all your

THE BLOT OF INK. 133

sins — the sins of all those who
believe in him. And as the good
master forgave Louis, for his broth-
er's sake, so our heavenly Father
forgives us our many sins for the
. sake of the blood of Jesus Christ,
which was shed for us. And what
have we to do ? A very simple
thing, for one who loves his Saviour;
we must, like Louis, prove our
gratitude, by our conduct and by
our love for him, by obeying the
commands which he has given us.
12

134 THE PINK SATIN LINING.

THE PINK SATIN LINING.

PART I.

" I WONDER your mother lets you
wear such a shabby bonnet, Mary
Lee," said a girl about twelve years
old to a younger companion, " after
the fine beaver you had last winter."

" Yes, so do I," said another ;
" with all her boasting about grand
relations, it seems they cannot
afford to buy her another."

At this moment the two girls
reached the door of their father's
cottage, and, turning to their morti-

THE PINK SATIN LINING. 135

fied schoolfellow, made her a mock-
ing curtsy, and hoped they should
see a fine new bonnet next Sunday.

No sooner had they entered the
house, than Mary Lee began to run
to wards home, and in a few moments
her mother was surprised to see her
little girl enter the cottage out of
breath, and, throwing herself into
her arms, sob as if her heart would
break. " What can be the matter
with you, Mary ?" said Mrs. Lee ;
" tell me, my child, and do not sob
in that way. Are you hurt? or in
disgrace?" " Oh, mother, my old
bonnet !" sobbed Mary ; "the girls
have been jeering me about it."

" If that is all you are crying
about, Mary, dry your tears ; I did
not think my little girl would be so

136 THE PINK SATIN LINING.

foolish and proud as to wish to be
dressed finer than other children in
her own station- — your bonnet is
still very neat ; and I try to keep
you so in your other dress. But,
Mary, even if I could afford to buy
you better or finer clothes, I should
not do so, lest I should encourage
that love of finery which I find you
possess. Besides, I cannot quite
understand why your schoolfellows
should expect you to be dressed bet-
ter than themselves. They know I
cannot afford, even if I considered it
right, to dress you always as well as
you appeared last winter. Ah, Mary,
I am sorry I allowed you to wear
the presents your aunts sent to you,
if you are dissatisfied with what I
am able to afford for you now."

THE PINK SATIN LINING. 137

" Oil, dear mother," said Mary,
" I know it is very wrong to be dis-
satisfied with the clothes you give
rne ; I will try not to mind what the
girls say about my bonnet ; but
they are so spiteful, and do so
mock me, it makes me cry."

" It need not do that, my child,
if you would remember the words
of Scripture, ' Be clothed with hu-
mility,' and the apostle's command,
that women, instead of adorning
themselves with costly apparel,
should seek for ' the ornament of a
meek and quiet spirit, which is in
the sight of God of great price.' )!

Mary had almost expected her
mother to take her part, and sym-
pathize with her mortified pride.
She well knew that her own con-

138 THE PIXK SATIX LIXING.

duct was the principal, if not the
only, cause of the annoyance she
received from her school-fellows ;
but she dried her tears, and made a
resolve not to give way again to
such foolish pride. Mary did this
in her own strength ; no wonder,
then, that she fell before a new and
unexpected temptation.

The town in which Mary lived
was more than two hundred miles
from London. Mrs. Lee and her two
sisters had been brought up in this
town, by pious parents. Her eldest
sister had married about the same
time as herself, and had gone to
London with her husband. Mrs.
Lee's youngest sister soon followed,
and obtained a situation in a family
'as lady's maid.

THE PINK SATIN LINING. 139

Years rolled on full of sorrow to
Mary's mother, who became a
widow, and was obliged to support
herself and her little girl by taking
in needlework. She had plenty of
work to do, for every one seemed to
take an interest in the diligent, yet
delicate-looking widow. During all
this time her sisters had been pros-
perous and successful, but she had
never met them ; the distance from
London to their native town was,
in those days of coach-travelling, a
tedious and expensive journey.'1 At
length an opportunity offered for
Mrs. Lee to accept for Mary a long-
talked-of invitation to see her aunt
in London. Under the *care of a
friend, therefore, her mother allowed
her to visit " the good and evil city,"

140 THE PINK SATIX LIXING.

as the Rev. Richard Knill once
called it, when addressing the wri-
ter, who was about to return to
London.

Mrs. Lee would have trembled to
part with her little girl, had she
known how prosperity had drawn
the hearts of her sisters from God ;
while adversity had made her cling
more closely to him.

After dazzling the child with
what, to her eyes, appeared the ut-
most gentility and grandeur, they,
with* mistaken kindness, sent her
back with a new smartly trimmed
frock and a beaver bonnet and fea-
thers. Mrs. Lee, pained as she was
herself, was yet unwilling to pain
her sisters, otherwise she would
have sent back both bonnet and

THE PINK SATIN LINING. 141

dress, as being totally unsuitable
for a little girl in Mary's station of
life, in a country town. As it was,
she took off the gay trimming from
the dress, and removed the feathers
from the bonnet, before she would
allow her to wear either.

The sorrow, and even temper,
shown by Mary at this, proved to
her mother how quickly the seeds
of pride had sprung up in her
child's heart: and she earnestly
prayed to be enabled to counteract
their evil effects. She was not, how-
ever, aware of half the injury her
once humble little girl had received.
In her new London frock and bon-
net, Mary excited sufficient notice
from her school-fellQws to gratify
her awakened vanity; but it did

142 THE PIXK SATIX LINING.

not satisfy her. Vanity is almost
the greediest of all the meaner
vices. Nothing is too little to be
received as a token of admiration.
And Mary took every opportunity
to describe to her schoolfellows
the fine rooms, fine clothes, and
sums of money possessed by her
aunts in London, not omitting a
description of the scarlet trimming
and feathers which her mother had
refused to allow her to wear.

This vain boasting, and the man-
ner in which she now looked down
upon those more meanly dressed
than herself, excited their envy and
dislike. When, therefore, the fol-
lowing winter, the same bonnet and
dress, their freshness and beauty
gone, still continued to be worn by

THE PINK SATIN LINING. 143

Mary as best, they took every pos-
sible means of " paying her back,"
as they called it, for her pride and
vanity the winter before.

Not many days after the conver-
sation with which we commenced
this true history of a little girl,
Mary's mother was taken very ill ;
so serious indeed did her disorder
become, that it was thought neces-
sary to send for one of her sisters.
Aunt Jane, the youngest, arrived as
quickly as possible, and nursed her
sister with every care ; yet it was
some days, even after the disease
took a favourable turn, before Mrs.
Lee could be considered out of dan-
ger. During this sad time Mary's
kind heart was too full of sorrow
and terror at the thoughts of losing

144 THE PINK SATIN LINING.

her mother, to have room for silly
fancies about dress and pride. At
length Mrs. Lee was able to get up
and sit in her arm-chair, and Mary
heard with joy that she might soon
expect to see her dear mother about
the house and garden as usual, with
her accustomed health.

With the removal of her fears
came back the recollection of her
dress. Aunt Jane had inquired
respecting her appearance ; and, on
seeing the bonnet and frock, decided
upon turning the one, and sending
the other to be cleaned, without
consulting her sister. She had dis-
covered a little of what she called
Mrs. Lee's peculiarities, and
thought, very justly, that to this
she could have no objection, and

THE PINK SATIN LINING. 145

Mary quite agreed with her; but
when aunt Jane proposed to line the
bonnet with pink satin, Mary, who
knew how much her mother would
disapprove of unnecessary finery,
was too pleased at the idea to tell
her aunt the truth. She therefore
readily agreed to the arrangement,
only begging that it might be kept
a secret until the bonnet was
finished.

By this, the foolish child hoped
to be able to wear the pink lining
for one Sabbath at least ; and then,
if her mother wished, it could be
taken out again. Sabbath morning
came ; Mrs. Lee was still in her
room, when Mary entered to wish
her good-bye before going to the
house of God. She had purposely
13

146 THE PINK SATIN LIXIXG.

omitted to put on her bonnet ; and
Mrs. Lee, after noticing and approv-
ing the frock, inquired for it. I am
sorry to say the answer was an un-
truthful one. " It is in aunt Jane's
room ; I cannot go in till she is
ready." The blush of confusion
which covered Mary's face as she
said this convinced her mother that
it was not all true, and a pang of
sorrow thrilled through her heart.
At the same moment aunt Jane's
voice was heard calling the child.
Mary hastily kissed her mother,
glad to escape from that earnest
look. .

In that lonely chamber, with the
Bible open before her, in the calm
quiet of a Sabbath morning, the
mother prayed for her erring child.

THE PINK SATIN LINING. 147

PART II.

MARY'S fine bonnet was quickly
tied on, and with her aunt Jane she
went on her way to the house of
God. As we have before said, her
mother was ill, and confined to her
room. All the thoughts of Mary
were about the best and quickest
way of showing her fine pink satin
lining to the two girls who had
laughed at her. They generally sat
with their father, two seats behind
Mrs. Lee ; therefore, as the finery
Mary so much wished to display
was inside her bonnet and round

148 THE PINK SATIN LINING.

her face, she could only do so by
turning round and looking at them.
I am sorry to be obliged to write it,
but I am telling a true story, and
therefore I must relate the truth :
Mary's whole thoughts after she
entered her pew were how she
should contrive this.

While singing the hymn Mary
stood up, and the moment it was
finished, she turned and looked to-
wards her schoolfellows. By so
doing she certainly attracted their
attention to her pink satin lining ;
but scarcely had her gratified pride
made this discovery, than she re-
collected herself, and, blushing with
shame and confusion, sat down,
feeling that every eye must be upon
her. In her folly and pride she had

THE PINK SATIN LINING. 149

forgotten that other parts of the
service were to be attended to. In
the utmost confusion she took up her
book, and with trembling fingers
tried to find the place. She had not
heard the number of the psalm, but
she needed it not. Upon her
tingling ears fell the words of the
139th Psalm, like a voice from
heaven : u 0 Lord, thou hast search-
ed me, and known me. Thou
knowest my downsitting and my
uprising, thou understandest my
thought afar off. Thou compassest
my path and my lying down, and
art acquainted with all my ways."

Her aunt, seeing her confusion,

gave her a book open at the place.

She took it, but she could not read

— she could only hear; and as she

13*

150 THE PINK SATIN LINING.

listened it seemed as if the presence
of God filled the place. Above,
around, on every side was the
glorious God, whose service she had
mocked, whose house she had pro-
faned, and whose presence she had
forgotten. The service continued.
When the minister gave out his
text, Psalm cxxxix. 23, 24: "Search
me, 0 God, and know my heart ;
try me, and know my thoughts : and
see if there be any wicked way in
me, and lead me in the way ever-
lasting,"— Mary listened with burn-
ing cheeks, as every word he ut-
tered seemed meant for her ; and
when the service was at an end, her
heart was too full to speak. She
walked home by her aunt's side in
silence. Xo sooner, however, had

"THAT BONNET/' Page 151.

THE PINK SATIN LINING. 151

she entered the house, than she
hurried up stairs, burst into her
mother's room, dashed off her bon-
net on the ground, fell on her knees,
and, burying her head in her
mother's lap, sobbed convulsively.

Mrs. Lee, in her weak state, was
at first terribly startled by this vio-
lent grief; but a glance at the smart
bonnet, as it lay before her on the
floor, gave her some idea of what
was the matter. She let her little
girl weep on, and waited for her to
speak, with a heavy heart. " Oh,
mother," at length said the sobbing
Mary, " that bonnet — that sad bon-
net— oh, never let me see it again."
" Mary, you are very foolish ; how
can your bonnet have done anything
to cause all this sorrow?" "Oh,

2 THE PIXK SATIN LINING.

mother, it can — it lias made me
wicked and proud in God's house
this morning: I can never, never
wear it again."

" Stop, my dear Mary ; I am
afraid you are laying your own
faults upon an article of clothing :
you cannot mean what you say.
Compose yourself, and tell me what
has happened.'* Mary, with many
tears, told her mother all that had
occurred ; her sinful pride, her for-
getful ness of God's presence, and
the manner in which she had be-
trayed her pride to every one near
her.

Mrs. Lee was very grieved to
hear all this ; yet amidst her sorrow
there arose a hope that the effect
upon her child would be for her

THE PINK SATIN LINING. 153

good. She desired her to sit on a
little stool by her side, and then
tried to lay open to her the real
cause of her sinful conduct. " My
dear Mary, how many sins have you
committed this day through the in-
dulgence of one — pride in dress,
the meanest and most contemptible
of them all. You sinned against
Grod before you went out this morn-
ing, Mary ; you were untruthful,
for you deceived your mother. You
promised also to wear the bonnet
as long as I thought proper for you
to wear it ; but you broke your
promise by hiding from me the
whole of the alteration that was
going to be made in it. You con-
cealed it from me, but you can hide
nothing from God. You had for-

154 THE PINK SATIN LINING.

gotten to ask him for strength to
keep your promise to me, and to
resist temptation, and he left you
to yourself, to fall ; but I thank him,
my dear child, that he did not say
of you, as he said to the Jews,
4 Ephraim is joined to idols : let him
alone.' If this has in some measure
shown you the sinfulness of your
own heart, and if it teach you to
pray for strength to resist tempta-
tion, then I shall not even regret
that my little girl had a pink satin
lining to her bonnet."

" Oh, dear mother," said Mary,
" I think I shall never be vain or
proud of fine clothes again. I did
not think pride could ever make
me so wicked as I was this morn-

THE PINK SATIN LINING. 155

" My little girl can give me one
proof that she hopes never to he
proud of fine clothes again," said
Mrs. Lee, glancing at the honnet.

" How, mother?" said Mary, look-
ing up eagerly, then following the
direction of her mother's eye. She
hesitated ; the soft shining folds of
the satin, as the bonnet lay face
towards them, were certainly very
enticing ; hut Mary felt, that if she
wore it again she should be as vain
as ever. u Mother," she said, " I
know what you mean ; I will wear
my bonnet without the lining ; it
shall be taken out."

Mrs. Lee raised her little girl in
her arms and kissed her fondly, ex-
claiming, " Thank God, my dear
child; now I have hopes of you."

156 THE PINK SATIX LINING.

The pink lining was taken out,
much to aunt Jane's surprise ; yet
she could not but own the wisdom
of her sister's decision. And Mary
completely silenced the remarks of
her companions by owning her
faults, and telling them her mother
did not wish her to be dressed finer
or better than the children of her
neighbours.

I am happy also to be able to say,
that Mary grew up modest and sim-
ple in her dress, and never forgot
the lesson she had learned when
vain and proud of the pink satin
lining.

THE PICTURE CLOCK. 157

THE PICTURE CLOCK,

OR WILLIE'S LESSON.

" OH, mamma, just see what baby
has done!" exclaimed Willie Upton,
running into the library where his
mamma sat writing. " My beauti-
ful new puzzle ! And now just
look at this piece ;" and the little
fellow's face lengthened into a
dismal expression of concern.

Certainly the trial was not a small

one for the fortitude of seven years

old to support. His " beautiful new

puzzle," a large dissected map of

14

158 THE PICTURE CLOCK.

the world, had been sent to him as
a birthday present only three days
before, and was consequently very
precious in his eyes ; and now the
piece which he extended to his
mamma bore sad tokens of baby's
destructive powers. South America
had become almost a blank under
the action of his busy little teeth —
new-found implements which he
was particularly fond of using, and
nothitfg was left, but a surface of
wet, rough, discoloured paper.

" Why, my dear boy, how could
you be so careless?" asked Mrs.
Upton : u you might have known
that baby would spoil that piece if
you let him have it."

" Yes, mamma ; but he was out
in the garden when I began it ; and

THE PICTURE CLOCK. 159

directly nurse set him down, that
she might take off her things, he
crawled up to it while my back was
turned, and I never knew anything
about it till he threw that piece
down, and I saw that it was spoiled.
Oh, mamma, I am so sorry !"

u So ani I, Willie," was the kind
reply ; " but I am glad, at the same
time, to see that my little boy can
bear a vexation like this without
crying about it or being angry. If
you will ask me to-morrow morn-
ing, perhaps I can put it all to
rights again. I can paste a fresh
piece of paper over this, and draw
the country and paint it, .and we
will ask papa to print the names
when he comes home. What do
you think of that?" added his

160 THE PICTURE CLOCK.

mamma, smiling as she saw his face
brightened again.

" Oh, mamma, thank you, it will
be beautiful ; and then I can choose
the colours. And may I bring my
map down here to finish putting it
together ?"

" You must be very quiet, if you
do, Willie ; for I have a long letter
to write to papa, to tell him that I
got home safely yesterday, and how
the poor people are that I went to
see this morning. If you will
promise not to fidget or talk to me
till I have done, you may have the
map at that end of the table."

Willie joyfully gave the required
promise, and, sealing it with an af-
fectionate kiss, ran to fetch his puz-
zle. For about half an hour all

THE PICTUKE CLOCK. 161

went on quietly, but by that time
he began to get tired of his map,
and his mamma's letter was still
unfinished. Just then he happened
to look up at the clock, which hung
just opposite to him on the library
wall, and he saw in a moment that
it had stopped. Now this clock was
a great favourite of Willie's, and I
think you would have liked it too,
my little reader, if you had ever
seen it. It was not like the clock
in the kitchen, and not like the
drawing-room time-piece, or any of
the pretty ones you see in the
jeweller's window, but one much
more curious. At first sight you
would have thought it was only a
pretty picture, as it hung in its
broad gilt frame against the wall.

14*

162 THE PICTURE CLOCK.

There was a little church, with a
curious wooden spire, standing
among some trees near a quiet river ;
and there were cows standing in the
water to drink, and blue hills in the
distance, and blue sky above, which
made it altogether very pretty.
Then, if you noticed rather more
particularly, you would see a clock
in the church tower ; but, perhaps,
you would hardly think it was a
real one till you saw the hands move
and heard it strike. But it was a
real clock; and, besides doing all
the work of a common one and
looking very pretty, it would play
tunes when any one touched a
spring at the side; so it was no
wonder that Willie liked it. He
used to think and wonder about it

THE PICTUEE CLOCK. 163

sometimes for a long while together,
especially when he was tired of play
in the evening. Then he loved to
sit on his mamma's footstool by the
fire, and look at it and listen to its
music.

But this afternoon, though the
staircase clock had just struck four,
the hands of the one in the little
tower pointed to a quarter to seven,
and. its usual low ticking was silent.

" Oh, mamma," exclaimed Willie,
the moment he perceived it, forget-
ting his promised silence, " see, the
picture clock has stopped."

Mrs. Upton looked up from her
letter, and answered quietly, " So
it has. I suppose Susan forgot to
wind it up yesterday. I generally
do it, you know."

164 THE PICTURE CLOCK.

" Will you set it going now,
mamma, and let me see you? or
may I just get on a chair, and move
the hands back to four o'clock ? Do
let me."

" No, dear, it must wait now till
seven, then you shall see me wind
it up ; but you must not interrupt
me now. I am just telling papa
about Mrs. Lockey's poor little blind
boy ; you know he is very ill, and I
went to see him this morning on
purpose to send word. Get your
1 Far off,' and read a little till I
have finished, and then you shall
come and sit by me, and I will tell
you about him."

" If you please, ma'am," said
Susan, opening the door, " Mrs.
Rawlins is come again. She called

THE PICTURE CLOCK. 165

yesterday before you came back, and
I told her you would be home to-
day."

" Very well, Susan, I will come
and speak to her. Willie, my dear,
do not go back into the nursery
just now ; I daresay baby is gone
to sleep after his walk ; and do not
touch anything while I am away.
I daresay I shall not be long."

Mrs. Rawlins had, however, a
long and sad story to relate, and
more than half an hour slipped
away before she got up to go. Du-
ring the absence of her kind minis-
ter and his wife, her eldest boy, who
had always been a great trouble to
her, had run away — gone no one
knew whither — and all her hus-
band's efforts to trace him had been

166 THE PICTURE CLOCK.

in vain. She came to ask if Mr.
Upton, while he was in London,
whither they supposed the lad had
gone, would try to get some infor-
mation about him. This was at once
promised, and Mrs. Upton's words
of hope and sympathy seemed to
relieve the poor mother of a heavy
burden, and it was with a lighter
and a thankful heart that she turned
at length from her pastor's friendly
door.

How had the time been spent by
the little prisoner in the library ?
For a while he amused himself with
his book ; then put his map back
into the box, piece by piece, that the
lid might fit nicely ; and then,
hardly knowing what to do, he sat
still for a few minutes and looked

THE PICTURE CLOCK. 167

out of the window. There was not
much to be seen, for the vicarage
stood in a garden separated from
the road by a low paling, so he
very soon grew tired of that. I dare-
say you know the little hymn that
says —

" Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do."

So it proved with Willie. He be-
gan first to wish that his mamma
would come back ; then to wonder
how long she would be ; then he
looked at the clock, and, remember-
ing that it did not go, wondered
why she did not let him put it back,
and make it strike. He had so often
wanted to touch it, and he wotfld
have done it very carefully. " I
daresay it was only because mamma

168 THE PICTURE CLOCK.

thought I should do it too quickly,
or break the hands, and I am sure
I should not/' murmured the little
boy to himself; for a restless, dis-
contented spirit was beginning to
rise up in his heart : but then he
remembered that his mamma said
she could not do it herself till seven
o'clock. " Well, it was only because
she did not like to be interrupted,"
answered the fretful voice within ;
" mamma never likes to be inter-
rupted when she is doing anything."

" Oh, Willie, Willie," whispered
conscience and gratitude together,
" how often mamma has left off
when she has been most busy, to do
things for you !"

Willie almost started when that
inward whisper came, it made him

THE PICTURE CLOCK. 169

feel that he was so ungrateful ; but
in a moment the other voice went
on again.

" No doubt that was the reason,"
it persisted ; " and, if she could not
do it herself, she might have let
you — why cannot you do it now ?"

Poor Willie ! the temptation was
strong, and it found him unprepared.
He was alone, and he forgot the
Eye that saw him — forgot all his
mamma's gentle teachings, and her
patient love — forgot everything, in
the eager desire to do that forbidden
thing. Moving the arm-chair directly
under the clock, he mounted on it
— that was not quite high enough ;
by stepping on the arm he could
just reach it. And with a beating
heart and flushed cheek he had laid

15

170 THE PICTURE CLOCK.

his finger on the long hand, when
the door opened, and, turning round
with a start, he met his mamma's
grieved and astonished look.

For a moment Mrs. Upton did
not speak, and Willie stood as if
fixed to the arm of the chair where
he had perched himself. Then she
went forward, and lifting him gently
down, pointed to his low chair in
one corner of the room, and said
quietly, " Go and sit down there,
Willie, till I can attend to you."

The child obeyed in silence, and
without lifting his eyes. He did not
see the sorrowful look that clouded
his mother's face ; but the low sad
sigh with which she seated herself
at the table, and drew her desk
towards her, went to his heart. He

THE PICTURE CLOCK. 171

loved her dearly ; and the long
silence that ensued gave time for
conscience, silenced before, to whis-
per to him the folly and sin of the
reasoning by which he had been
tempted to disobey her.

At length the letter was finished,
sealed, and despatched. Willie's
heart beat quick as the servant
closed the door, but his mamma did
not speak, and at last he looked up
at her. She was' sitting at the table
still, her head resting on her hand
and turned towards the fire. If he
could have listened to her thoughts
at that moment, he would have
heard them shaped into an earnest
prayer to God for wisdom towards
him ; but he only saw her face turn-
ed away, still, he thought, in dis-

172 THE PICTURE CLOCK.

pleasure, and he could not bear it
any longer. His low sob caught her
ear, and she turned in a moment
and called him to her. Willie felt
that there was no anger in her tone,
and in an instant he was by her side.
Mrs. Upton drew him close to her,
and, laying his head against her
shoulder, his tears flowed without
restraint.

" Dear mamma," he said at last,
" will you forgive me ? I am very
sorry that I was so disobedient."

Mrs. Upton pushed back the
bright hair fondly from his forehead,
and printed on it a long silent kiss
— one of those mother's kisses that
often seem in after years to linger
on the brow. " Yes, dear boy," she
said, " I do forgive you; but it was

THE PICTURE CLOCK. 173

not only against me you did the
wrong. God saw you, though you
forgot him, and he was displeased.
Let us ask him to forgive you."

She pressed her child closer to
her, and he felt in the hushed still-
ness of the few moments that fol-
lowed that she was praying for him.
His own heart, deeply touched and
humbled, grew calm and earnest
with the awe of the thought that
God was listening, and he prayed
too, silently, to be forgiven.

After a few minutes, silence, he
put his arms round his marnma,
and kissed her fondly ; then draw-
ing the little stool up to her feet,
sat down, still keeping hold of her
hand, and looking very grave, but
not unhappy.

15*

174 THE PICTURE CLOCK.

" Please, mamma, will you tell
me one thing ?" he said at length,
breaking the silence suddenly. " I
know I ought not to have touched
the clock when you told me not;
but will you tell me why you said
so ? Was it because you thought I
should not do it carefully?"

" No, my dear ; I dare say you
would have taken care not to do
any mischief that you knew of; but
there are a great many little springs
and wheels inside, some to make it
go, some to make it strike, and
others to make it play, and if you
had moved the hands back as you
wished, you would have put several
of them out of order. I should have
had to send it to London to be set
right, for no one understands these

THE PICTURE CLOCK. 175

foreign clocks here. Now if I wait
till the right time, and wind it up,
that will set going what is called
the main-spring, which will make
all the others begin to work in
proper order, as if it had not stop-
ped. Do you understand ?"

" Yes, mamma ; and I am very-
glad I did not do it. I have often
wondered what made the hands al-
ways keep going round, and why
that clock and the kitchen clock and
your watch tell the right time ; and
that little watch uncle John gave
me never does, except when I move
the hands."

" Now, then, you know the differ-
ence. One has a spring Hidden
inside it that keeps it going on all
the while; and the other has no

176 THE PICTURE CLOCK.

inside spring, and so can only go as
it is moved. Which is the best do
you think?"

" Oh, mamma, the one with the
spring, to be sure."

"But why? One looks just as
good as the other, and you can
always set yours right when you
like."

" Yes, mamma ; but then the
hands only stay where I put them.
You know the first day I had it I
set it by this clock, and left it on
the table, and when I came back it
was all wrong. I could not keep it
right except by watching it and
moving the hand every minute, and
so it Js no good at all."

" My dear boy, you have answer-
ed quite right, and there is a serious

THE PICTURE CLOCK. 177

lesson in those words that I hope
you will remember. Suppose I alter
them a little, so as to use them
about you instead of the watch, and
say, ' I cannot keep my little boy
right, except by watching him and
telling him every minute ; and if I
leave him quite right, and come
back in half an hour, I am sure to
find him doing something wrong.
Such obedience as that is no good
at all."

Willie coloured deeply ; for he
felt all the force of his mamma's
words, gently as they were spoken.
" But, mamma," he answered, after
a pause, " I am not always doing
wrong when you are not looking at
me."

"Jfo, dear child, because there

178 THE PICTURE CLOCK.

are many other things that move
you besides my presence. There is
the wish to please me, and the fear
of being punished, and the satisfac-
tion of going on well, or the hope
of a reward. All these move round
the hands of my little clock in the
right direction ; and because one or
other of them is generally at work,
many people who only see it now
and then think it is a very good lit-
tle clock. You know Mrs. Evan a
said so this morning. Was she right,
Willie ?"

" Xo, mamma ; I see just what
you mean. Perhaps if my little
watch had been lying there, point-
ing right, she would have thought
the same of that, only she would
soon have found it out ; and if she

THE PICTURE CLOCK. 179

had seen me this afternoon she
would have known that I had not
the inside spring either. Mamma,
I know what the inside spring is.
You have often told me that I want
the love of Grod in my heart to keep
me from doing wrong."

" Yes, dear, that is the only
spring that can be relied on to keep
any one right. Other motives might
keep you for a time from doing any-
thing very wrong, but temptations
are sure to arise, when they will
not act or will not be strong enough ;
and as you grow older some of them
will pass away altogether. Your
papa and I, for instance, might be
taken from you, and you would no
longer be kept right by the wish to
please us 5 but if God's Holy Spirit

180 THE PICTURE CLOCK,

fixed the love of him in your heart,
it would be a constant spring of
right feeling and action. Do you
understand?"

" Yes, mamma. I don't often do
anything wrong when you are by ;
and God is always by, so if I loved
him, that would always keep me."

" If you ask him, he will teach
you to love him. We should often
think of all his goodness to us, of
his dear Son's coming down to die,
and of the happy heaven that he
has promised — then we should learn
to love him. Every day we should
know hin^ better, and our hearts
would turn to him more and grow
truer to his will, so that we should
want no outward motive, but should
be kept right by this holy spring

THE PICTURE CLOCK. 181

within. Without this, if a child is
thrown among bad companions he
soon becomes like them ; but this
can keep him going right, whether
he is praised or blamed, or left
quite unnoticed. It was this that
kept Joseph right — not only in his
father's home, but as Potiphar's
slave, in the prison, and in Pha-
raoh's heathen court."

" And Daniel, mamma. I wish I
was like Daniel. It was so noble of
him not to be afraid to worship
God."

"God grant, my darling boy, that
you may have this blessed love and
fear for the main-spring of your
life. Remember, that only his Spirit
can fix it in your heart, and we
must pray to him to do it, and only

16

182 THE PICTURE CLOCK.

the same Holy Spirit can keep it
acting when it is given. Just as the
spring of my watch cannot go on
without being wound up every day,
so as long as we live we want the
constant influence of the Holy
Spirit to keep our faith and love
working on. Your papa and I could
no more keep from doing wrong
without it than you could."

" Then, mamma, everything must
come from Grod all through, if he
both gives the spring and keeps it
going."

" Yes, dear, all good is from him.
How thankful we should be, that
he has promised to give all, if we
ask him !"

Little reader, perhaps you are
called a good child. Is your good-

THE PICTURE CLOCK. 183

ness outward or inward ? Is love to
God the inward spring that moves
you through the round of daily
duty, or are you only pushed on by
outward influences like the hands
of Willie's watch ? If the last, let
me tell you seriously that such good-
ness is good for very little. It may
please those around you ; but it is
of no value at all in the sight of
God, and it is God who will judge
you at the last clay. Oh, pray to him,
that for the sake of Jesus he will
put his love and fear into your
heart, and make them the ruling
principle of all your life.

184 THE TRIAL OF THE TONGUE.

THE TRIAL OF THE TONGUE.

A MERRY little party met one
evening at the Grange. Nina and
Annie Blyth had come to spend a
few hours with their cousins, Jessie,
Kate, and Mary, bringing with
them a little visitor, Lizzie Forrest,
who only a week before had arrived
from London for the holidays. Six
girls, the eldest only fourteen, the
youngest seven, and all determined,
for that evening at least, not only
to be happy themselves, but to
make others so.

Tuna and Jessie, the most grown

THE TRIAL OF THE TONGUE. 185

of the party, were great friends, and
whenever they got together had
much to say to each other ; but this
afternoon, instead of getting into a
corner to whisper, nod, and smile,
nobody knew about what, they were
polite enough to join in the sports
of the younger children, and found
how pleasant it is to be obliging.

The first visit of all was, of course,
to the garden, where the strawber-
ries were red and ripe. It was de-%
lightful to stoop over the sunny
bank and pick the tempting fruit,
which hid so modestly under its
shade of broad green leaves. Every-
thing was new to Lizzie, who was
familiar only with city life, and her
joy was unbounded. After tea,
when the long shadows fell on the

16*

186 THE TRIAL OF THE TONGUE.

grass, and the children were almost
tired from out-door play, Mrs. Blyth
called them into the drawing-room,
and begged of them to rest.

" What a nice hour for talk !"
said Annie, settling herself comfort-
ably on the sofa beside her aunt :
" a dull world it would be to us girls,
but for our tongues."

" It would be a far happier world,
I think," replied Nina, "if people
.only learned to use them right."
Annie blushed at her sister's remark,
for conscience told her of some
foolish gossip in which she had
been just indulging.

" You seem to think, Nina," said
her aunt, " that there is aright and
a wrong use of the tongue, and I
quite agree with you ; but. that we

THE TRIAL OF THE TONGUE. 187

all may learn the one and avoid the
other, let us hear something more
about it."

" Well then, mamma," cried Jes-
sie, " let us have a court ; you shall
be judge, and I shall be counsellor
for the poor tongue, while Nina can,
if she like, take the opposite side ;
and Lizzie Forrest, Annie, Mary,
and Kate must stand in the place
of twelve jurymen."

" Agreed," said all the girls at
once.

" But before we proceed to the
trial of this unruly member," urged
Mrs. Blyth, " are you quite sure you
are familiar with the laws he was
bound to obey ? Bring out the
statute book, that my young pleaders
may be able to refer in any case of

188 THE TRIAL OF THE TONGUE.

difficulty. And remember with
reverence that they are no human
laws you hold in your hand, but the
laws given by the King of kings.
JS"ow, 2una, open the case against
the prisoner."

44 Let us, then, find out the laws
on this subject," said jVina : ' Thou
shalt not bear false witness against
thy neighbour,' Ex. xx. 16. ' Lie not
one to another,' Col. iii. 9. ' Every
idle word that men shall speak,
they shall give account thereof in
the day of judgment,' Matt. xii. 36.
K"ow for the witnesses. ' The tongue
is a fire, a world of iniquity ; so is
the tongue among our members,
that it defileth the whole body, and
setteth on fire the course of nature ;
and it is set on fire of hell. But the

THE TRIAL OF THE TONGUE. 189

tongue can no man tame ; it is an
unruly evil, full of deadly poison,'
James iii. 6, 8. ' His mouth is full
of cursing and deceit and fraud :
under his tongue is mischief and
vanity,' Ps. x. 7.

" Another witness," continued
Nina, "as to 'the character of the
prisoner. * He that uttereth a slan-
der is a fool.' Prov. x. 18. * A tale-
bearer revealeth secrets,' Prov. xi.
13. < The Lord shall cut off all flat-
tering lips, and the tongue that
speaketh proud things,' Ps. xii. 3.
Not to tire you," resumed Nina, " I
shall refrain from bringing up more
witnesses, although there are some
present at this moment, who could
prove the prisoner guilty not only
of lies, deceit, flattery, evil speak-

190 THE TRIAL OF THE TOXGUE.

ing, tale-bearing, hasty words, and
foolish talking, but even of false
and profane swearing. Enough,
however, has been said to show that
the prisoner deserves the severest
punishment permitted by law."

j^ina then sat down, and Jessie
rose for the defence. '" I shall not
attempt," she said, " to deny the
statement of the witnesses, but shall
endeavour to show some of the
claims which the prisoner still has
to the mercy of the court, and how
useful, under proper restraint, he
may yet become ; let me then intro-
duce a witness on behalf of the
prisoner. ' A wholesome tongue is
a tree of life,' Prov. xv. 4. ' There-
with bless we God, even the Father,7
James iii. 9. ' The tongue of the

THE TRIAL OF THE TONGUE. 191

wise is health. The lip of truth
shall be established for ever,' Prov.
xii. 18, 19. ' Evening, and morn-
ing, and at noon, will I pray, and
cry aloud : and he shall hear my
voice/ Ps. Iv. 17. ' Seven times a
day I praise thee,' Ps. cxix. 164.

" You have heard the evidence
of these witnesses ; and I plead
that, considering the useful services
my client has rendered to the state
in time past, and the important du-
ties he may yet perform, his life be
spared ; for I doubt not, under due
care, he shall again become what he
once was — the glory of the king-
dom."

When the judge had summed up
the evidence, Lizzie, Kate, Annie,
and Mary, the jury, retired, but re-

192 THE TRIAL OF THE TONGUE.

turned after a few moments, bring-
ing in a verdict of " Gruilty,"
strongly recommending, however,
the prisoner to mercy.

The judge then said, " It only re-
mains for me to pass sentence on
the prisoner. I desire that hence-
forth he be bound in the golden and
silken chains of truth and love,
placed under a guard, and permit-
ted to exercise to the utmost the
various parts of his proper calling ;
kind words, soft answers, gentle
teachings, loving warnings, holy
conversation, prayer, and praise."

Twilight had deepened almost
into night when the young people
separated, for they lingered long to
listen to Mrs. Blyth, as she en-
treated them to beware of sins of

THE TKIAL OF THE TONGUE. 193

the tongue ; and before they parted
she offered an earnest prayer, be-
seeching God, for Christ's sake, to
keep their tongue from evil, and
their lips from speaking guile.

17

194 THE LOST BOY.

THE LOST BOY.

AN INCIDENT IN THE OHIO PENITENTIARY.

BY THE WARDE.V.

I HAD been but a few months in
charge of the prison, when my at-
tention was attracted to, and deep
interest felt in, the numerous boys
and young men who were confined
therein, and permitted to work in
the same shops with old and hard-
ened convicts. This interest was in-
creased on every evening, as I saw
them congregated in gangs, march-
ing to their silent meals, and thence
to their gloomy bed-rooms, which
are more like living sepulchres,

THE LOST BOY. 195

with iron shrouds, than sleeping
apartments. These young men and
boys, being generally the shortest in
height, brought up the rear of the
companies, as they marched to the
terrible " lock step," and conse-
quently more easily attracted atten-
tion. To see many youthful forms
and bright countenances mingled
with the old and hardened scoun-
drels, whose visages betokened vice,
malice, and crime, was sickening to
the soul. But there was one among
the boys, a lad about seventeen
years of age, who had particularly
attracted my attention ; not from
anything superior in his counte-
nance or general appearance, but
by the look of utter despair which
ever sat upon his brow, and the

196 THE LOST BOY.

silent, uncomplaining manner in
which he submitted to all the hard-
ships and degradations of prison
life. He was often complained of,
by both officers and men, and I
thought unnecessarily, for light and
trivial offences against the rules of
propriety ; yet he seldom had any
excuse or apology, arid never denied
a charge. He took the reprimand,
and once a punishment, without a
tear or a murmur, almost as a mat-
ter of course, seemingly thankful
that it was no worse. He had evi-
dently seen better days, and enjoyed
the light of home, parents and
friends, if not the luxuries of life.
But the light of hope seemed to
have gone out — his health was
poor — his face pale — his frame fra-

THE LOST BOY. 197

gile — and no fire beamed in his
dark gray eye ! I thought every
night, as I saw him march to his
gloomy bed, that I would go to him,
and learn his history — but there
were so many duties to perform, so
much to learn and to do, that day
after day passed, and I would ne-
glect him — having merely learned
that his name was Arthur Lamb,
and that his crime was burglary
and larceny, indicating a very bad
boy, for one so young. He had al-
ready been there a year, and had
two more to serve ! He never could
outlive his sentence, and his coun-
tenance indicated that he felt it. He
worked at stone-cutting, on the
State House — hence my opportuni-
ties for seeing him were less than

17 *

198 THE LOST BOY.

though he had worked in the prison
yard — still his pale face haunted me
day and night — and I resolved that
on the next Sabbath, as he came
from school, I would send for him
and learn his history. It happened,
however, that I was one day in a
store, waiting for the transaction of
some business, and having picked
up an old newspaper I read and
re-read, while delayed, until at last
my eye fell upon an advertisement
of " A Lost Boy ! — Information
wanted of a boy named Arthur

," (I will not give his real name,

for perhaps he is still living ;) and
then followed a description of the
boy — exactly corresponding with
that of the young convict — Arthur
Lamb ! Then there was somebody

THE LOST BOY. 199

who cared for the poor boy, if, in-
deed it was him ; perhaps a mother,
his father, his brothers and sisters,
who were searching for him. The
advertisement was nearly a year
old — yet I doubted not — and soon
as the convicts were locked up, I
sent for Arthur Lamb. He came,
as a matter of course, with the same
pale, uncomplaining face and hope-
less gait — thinking, no doubt, that
something had gone wrong, and
been laid to his charge.

I was examining the Convicts7
Register when he came in ; and
when I looked up, there he stood, a
perfect image of despair. I asked
him his name. He replied,

" Arthur."

" Arthur what ?" said I, sternly.

200 THE LOST BOY.

" Arthur Lamb," he an-
swered, hesitatingly.

" Have you a father or mother
living?"

His eye brightened — his voice
quivered, as he exclaimed :

u Oh ! have you heard from mo-
ther ? Is she alive ? Is she well ?"
and tears, which I- had never seen
him shed before, ran like great rain
drops down his cheeks. As he be-
came calm from suspense, I told
him I had not heard from his pa-
rents, but that I had a paper I
wished him to read. He took the
advertisement which I had cut from
the paper, and as he read it he ex-
claimed,

" That's me! that's me!" and sobs
and tears choked his utterance.

THE LOST BOY. 201

I assured him that the advertise-
ment was all I could tell him about
his parents — and that as it requested
information, I desired to know what
I should write in reply. The adver-
tisement directed information to be
sent to the editor of the Christian
Chronicle, New York.

" Oh, do not write !" he said, " it
will break poor mother's heart !"

I told him I must write ; and that
it would be a lighter blow to his
mother's feelings, to know where
he was, than the terrible uncertainty
which must haunt her mind day
and night. So he consented ; and
taking him to my room, I drew from
him, in substance, the following
story :

His father was a respectable and

202 THE LOST BOY.

wealthy mechanic in an interior
town of the State of Xew York.
At the holding of the State Agri-
cultural Fair, in his native town,
he got acquainted with two stranger
boys, older than himself, who per-
suaded him to run away from home,
and go to the West. He foolishly
consented, with high hopes of hap-
py times, new scenes and great for-
tune! They came as far as Cleve-
land, where they remained several
days. One morning the other two
boys came to his room early, and
showed him a large amount of jew-
elry, &c., which they said they had
won at cards during the night.
Knowing that he was in need of
funds to pay his board, they pres-
sed him to take some of it, for

THE LOST BOY. 203

means to pay his landlord. But be-
fore he had disposed of any of it,
they were all three arrested for bur-
glary, and as a portion of the pro-
perty taken from the store which had
been robbed was found in his pos-
session, he too, was tried, convicted
and sentenced. He had no friends,
no money, and dared not to write
home — so, hope sank within him —
he resigned himself to his fate,
never expecting to get out of pri-
son, or see his parents again.

Upon inquiring of the two young
convicts who came with him on the
same charge, I learned that what
Arthur had stated was strictly true,
and that his crime was keeping bad
company, leaving his home, arid
unknowingly receiving stolen goods.

204 THE LOST BOY.

Questioned separately, they all told
the same story, and left no doubt in
my mind of Arthur's innocence.
Full of compassion for the unfor-
tunate little fellow, I sat down and
wrote a full description of Arthur,
his condition and history, as I ob-
tained it from him, painting the
horrors of the place, the hopeless-
ness of his being reformed there,
even if guilty, and the probability
of his never living out his sentence,
and describing the process to be
used to gain his pardon. This I
sent according to the directions in
the advertisement. But week after
week passed, and no answer came.
The boy daily inquired if I had
heard from his mother ; until at last,
" hope long deferred seemed to

THE LOST BOY. 205

make his heart sick," and again he
drooped and pined. At last a letter
came — such a letter ! It was from

the Rev. Dr. B , of New York.

He had been absent to a distant
city, but the moment he read my
letter the good man responded. The
father of the poor boy had become
almost insane on account of his son's
long and mysterious absence. He
had left his former place of resi-
dence, had moved from city to city,
from town to town, and travelled
up and down the country seeking
the loved and the lost! He had
spent the most of a handsome for-
tune ; his wife, the boy's mother,
was on the brink of the grave,
" pining for her first born, and
would not be comforted." They then

18

206 THE LOST BOY.

lived in a Western city, whither
they had gone in the hope of finding
or forgetting their boy ! or that a
change of scene might assuage their
grief. He thanked me for my letter,
which he had sent to the father, and
promised his assistance to procure
the young convict's pardon.

This news I gave to Arthur ; he
seemed pained and pleased — hope
and fear, joy and grief, filled his
heart alternately ; but from thence
his eye beamed brighter, his step
was lighter, and hope seemed to
dance in every nerve.

Days passed — and at last there
came a man to the prison, rushing
frantically into the office, demand-
ing to see his boy.

•4 My boy ! Oh, let me see him."

THE LOST BOY. 207

The clerk, who knew nothing of
the matter, calmly asked him for
the name of his son.

« Arthur "

" No such name on our books:
your son cannot be here."

" He is here ! Show him to me !
Here, sir, is your own letter ! Why
do you mock me ?"

The clerk looked over the letter,
saw at once that Arthur Lamb was
the convict wanted, and rang the bell
for the messenger.

" There is the warden, sir, it was
his letter you showed."

Too much of a good thing is of-
ten unpleasant. The old man em-
braced me and wept like a child. A
thousand times he thanked me, and,
in the name of his wife, heaped

208 THE LOST BOY.

blessings upon my head. But the
rattling of the great iron door, and
the grating sound of its hinges in-
dicated the approach of Arthur,
and I conducted the excited parent
into a side parlour. I then led his
son to his embrace. Such a half
shriek and agonizing groan as the
old man gave, when he beheld the
altered appearance of the boy, as he
stood, clad in the degrading stripes
and holding a convict's cap in his
hand, I never heard before ! I have
seen many similar scenes since, and
become inured to them ; but this
one seemed as if it would burst my
brain.

I drew up and signed a petition
for the pardon of the young convict;
and such a deep and favourable

THE LOST BOY. 209

impression did the perusal of the
letter I wrote in answer to the ad-
vertisement make upon the direc-
tors, that they readily joined in the
petition, though it was a long time

before McL , consented. He was

exceedingly cautious and prudent ;
but the old man clung to him — fol-
lowed him from his office to his
country residence, and there in the
presence of his family plead anew
his cause. At length, excited by the
earnest appeal of the father, the
director looked over the papers
again — his wife, becoming inter-
ested, picked up the answer to the
advertisement, read it, and then
tears came to the rescue. Mac said,
rather harshly, that the warden
would let all those young rascals

18*

210 THE LOST BOY.

out if he could. Those who know
Grov. Wood, will not wonder that
he was easily prevailed upon in such
a case ; and the pardon was granted.

Need I describe the old man's
joy — how he laughed and wept —
walked and ran, all impatient to see
his son free. When the lad came
out in citizen's dress, the aged pa-
rent was too full for utterance. He
hugged the released convict to
his bosom — kissed him — wept and
prayed ! Grasping my hand, he ten-
dered me his farm — his watch —
anything I would take.

I never saw them more ! But the
young man is doing well ; and long
may he live to reward the firm affec-
tion of his parents.

JOY OVER ONE. 211

'JOY OVER ONE."

THE sharp, quick sound of a
crier's bell was heard above the
rattle of carriages and the hum of
multitudes hastening home as night
came on, and the words, "Child
lost ! child lost !" fell upon their
ears, and sent a thrill of pain to the
hearts of fathers and mothers.

How many held their breath and
listened! "Child lost! child! A
little girl — not quite three years of
age — her hair light and curly — eyes
blue. When she left home she was

212 JOY OVER ONE.

dressed in a scarlet frock and white
apron ; has been missing four
hours !" And again the bell was
heard as the crier went on, pro-
claiming as he went the same mourn-
ful story.

And where, all this time, was lit-
tle Lily Ashton ? Soon after she
left her father's door she made the
acquaintance of other children in
the street, with whom she played
awhile, and then many things
amused her as she ran along on the
crowded sidewalk, but at length she
discovered that her home was no
longer in sight, and the poor little
lost one sat down on a doorstep and
wept bitterly. A kind-hearted gen-
tleman came that way — one who
loved children, and was always ready

JOY OVER ONE. 213

to speak comforting words when
they were in trouble. " What's the
matter, little Blossom ?" he asked.

His voice was so full of love that
Lily stopped crying, and brushing
back her curls, looked up to see who
it was that spoke to her. The light
from a street lamp above her shone
full upon his benevolent face. " I
isn't ' little Blossom ;' I is Lily, and
I want mamma," she said ; and the
tears began to flow again.

" Lily need not cry any more be-
cause we will go and find mamma.
Will Lily go with me ?"

Her tears ceased flowing, and she
looked up into the kind face once
more. " Have you got a little girl,
and is she ' little Blossom ?' "

u JSTo, my dear ; I have no Lily

214: JOY OVER ONE.

nor Blossom, only when I find one
such as you ; but I love little girls
and boys, and I don't like to see
them cry. Will you go with me to
find your mamma?" Lily stood up
and put her hand in his, for her
heart was won.

The kind gentleman lifted the
tired little girl in his arms and car-
ried her to the nearest police station,
where he knew he would learn what
she could not tell him about her
home. And in a short time he
placed the lost darling in the arms
of her mother, whose anguish was
thus turned into joy. He found
other children — brothers and sisters
— in that home, and as the parents
and children gathered around little
Lily, lost an hour before, but now

JOY OVER ONE. 215

found, they laughed and wept by
turns, for joy at her return..

I know you do not wonder that
this family were so glad to see Lily
again. But their gladness reminds
me — perhaps it has reminded you
also — of some of the words of Jesus :
" Joy shall be in heaven over one
sinner that repenteth." Can you tell
why the happy family of the re-
deemed in heaven are joyful when
a sinner repents ? A sinner, you
know, is one who is disobeying God ;
who does not love or trust in Christ ;
who is lost in the world, and who
will never find the way to that
beautiful home above, unless he
repents. Do you not think that if
you were in heaven, and could hoar
that some one on earth, who had

216 JOY OVER ONE.

been wicked, had repented and be-
gun to love Jesus, and was coming
to be in heaven too — happy and
holy for ever — you would be glad ?
Perhaps some dear friends of
yours are there now, and they are
hoping to hear that you are in the
way to the same home. Dear child,
have you begun to walk in that path
which leads to the a beautiful city
above?" Come with the children
of God ; and there will be joy in
heaven over you, far beyond that
which was felt in Lily's family when
she was found. One is there who
loves you far more than any friend
here on earth can love, and he will
receive you gladly into the number
of the blessed.

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