Chapter IV: Part 4

"Yes Edith, but _we_ are not always sweet-tempered, and you must remember that poor White has no mother and no father, no one in short to love." Edith found at first that it required more judgment than she possessed to make her visit to Joe White either pleasant or useful. Illness had increased his irritability, and so far from submitting patiently to the confinement and restriction imposed, he was quite fuming with impatience to be allowed to sit up and amuse himself at least.

How ingenious is affection in contriving alleviations! Here Joe sadly wanted some one whose wits were quickened by love. Mrs. Barton nursed him admirably; he was kept very neat and nice, and his room always had a clean tidy appearance; but it lacked the little tokens of love which oft-times turn the sick chamber into a kind of paradise. No flowers, no little contrivances for amusement, no delicate article of food to tempt his sickly appetite. Poor Joe! Edith soon saw this, and yet it needs experience in illness to adapt one's self to sick nursing. Besides she was afraid, she did not like to offer books and flowers, and these visits were quite dreaded by her.

"Will you not go and see Joe, Emilie?" asked Edith, one day of her friend, as she was recounting the difficulties in her way. "You get at people's hearts much better than ever I could do."

"My dear child," said Emilie, "did not Joe say that he begged you never would bring the preaching German to see him? oh no, dear, I cannot force my company on him. Besides you have not tried long enough, kindness does not work miracles; try a little longer Edith, and be patient with Joe as God is with us. How often we turn away from Him when He offers to be reconciled to us. Think of that, dear."

"Fred is very patient and persevering; I often wonder, Miss Schomberg, that John, who really did cause the accident, seems to think less about Joe than Fred, who had not any thing to do with it."

"It is not at all astonishing, Edith. It requires that our actions should be brought to the light of God's Word to see them in their true condition. An impenitent murderer thinks less of his crime than a true penitent, who has been moral all his life, thinks of his great sin of ingratitude and ungodliness."

CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

JOE'S CHRISTMAS.

Christmas was at hand; Christmas with its holidays, its greetings, its festive meetings, its gifts, its bells, and its rejoicings. That season when mothers prepare for the return of their children from school, and are wont to listen amidst storms of wind and snow for the carriage wheels; when little brothers and sisters strain their eyes to catch the first glimpse of the dear ones' approach along the snowy track; when the fire blazes within, and lamps are lit up to welcome them home; and hope and expectation and glad heart beatings are the lot of so many--of many, not of all. Christmas was come, but it brought no hope, no gladness, no mirth to poor White, either present or in prospect. The music and the bells of Christmas, the skating, the pony riding, the racing, the brisk walk, the home endearments were not for Joe--poor Joe. No mother longed for his return, no brother or little sister pressed to the hall door to get the first look or the first word; no father welcomed Joe back to the hearth-warmth of home sweet home. Poor orphan boy!

Joe's uncle and aunt wrote him a kind letter, quite agreed in Mr. Parker's opinion that a journey into Lincolnshire was, in the state of his back and general health, out of the question, were fully satisfied that he was under the best care, both medical and magisterial, (they had never seen either doctor or master, and had only known of Mr. Barton through an advertisement,) and sent him a handsome present of pocket money, with the information that they were going to the South of France for the winter. Joe bore the news of their departure very coolly, and carelessly pocketed the money, knowing as he did that he had a handsome property in his uncle's hands, and no one would have supposed from any exhibition of feeling that he manifested, that he had any feeling or any care about the matter. Once, indeed, when a fly came to the door to convey Harcourt to the railway, and he saw from the window of his room the happy school-boy jumping with glee into the vehicle, and heard him say to Mr. Barton, "Oh yes, Sir, I shall be met!" he turned to Fred who sate by him and said, "No one is expecting _me_, no one in the whole world is thinking of me now, Parker."

Fred told his mother of this speech, a speech so full of bitter truth that it made Mrs. Parker, kind creature as she was, shed tears, and she asked her husband if young White could not be removed to pass the Christmas holidays with them. The distance was not great, and they could borrow Mr. Darford's carriage, and perhaps it might do him good. Mr. Parker agreed, and the removal was effected.

For some days it seemed doubtful whether the change would be either for poor White's mental happiness or bodily improvement. The exertion, and the motion and excitement together, wrought powerfully on his nervous frame, and he was more distressed, and irritable than ever. He could not sleep, he ate scarcely any thing, he rarely spoke, and more than once Mrs. Parker regretted that the proposal had been made. In vain Edith brought him plants from the little greenhouse, fine camellias, pots of snow-drops, and lovely anemones. They seemed rather to awaken painful than pleasing remembrances and associations, and once even when he had lain long looking at a white camellia he burst into tears. It is a great trial of temper, a great test of the sincerity of our purpose, when the means we use to please and gratify seem to have just the contrary effect. In the sick room especially, where kind acts, and gentle words, and patient forbearance are so constantly demanded, it is difficult to refrain from expressions of disappointment when all our endeavours fail; when those we wish to please and comfort, obstinately refuse to be pleased and comforted. Often did Fred and Edith hold counsel as to what would give Joe pleasure, but he was as reserved and gloomy as ever, and his heart seemed inaccessible to kindness and affection. Besides, there were continual subjects of annoyance which they could scarcely prevent, with all the forethought and care in the world.

The boys were very thoughtful, for boys; Mrs. Parker had it is true warned them not to talk of their out-of-door pleasures and amusements to or before Joe, and they were generally careful; but sometimes they would, in the gladness of their young hearts, break out into praises of the fine walk they had just had on the cliff, or the glorious skating on the pond, of the beauty of the pony, and of undiscovered walks and rides in the neighbourhood. Once, in particular, Emilie, who was spending the afternoon with the Parkers, was struck with the expression of agony that arose to Joe's face from a very trifling circumstance. They were all talking with some young companion of what they would be when they grew up, and one of them appealing to Joe, he quickly said, "oh, a sailor--I care for nobody at home and nobody cares for me, so I shall go to sea."

"To sea!" the boy repeated in wonder.

"And why not?" said Joe, petulantly, "where's the great wonder of that?"

There was a silence all through the little party; no one seemed willing to remind the poor lad of that which he, for a moment, seemed to forget--his helpless crippled state. It was only Emilie who noticed his look of hopelessness; she sat near him and heard his stifled sigh, and oh, how her heart ached for the poor lad!

This conversation and some remarks that the boy made, led Mr. and Mrs. Parker seriously to think that he entertained hopes of recovery, and they were of opinion that it would be kinder to undeceive him, than to allow him to hope for that which could never he. Mr. Parker began to talk to him about it one day, very kindly, after an examination of his back, when White said, abruptly, "I don't doubt you are very skilful. Sir, and all that, but I should like to see some other doctor. I have money enough to pay his fee, and uncle said I was to have no expense spared in getting me the best advice. Sir J. ---- comes here at Christmas, I know, to see his father, and I should like to see him and consult him, Sir, may I?" Mr. Parker of course could make no objection, and a day was fixed for the consultation. It was a very unsatisfactory one and at once crushed all Joe's hopes. The result was communicated to him as gently and kindly as possible.

Mrs. Parker was a mother, and her sympathy for poor Joe was more lasting than that of the younger branches of the family. She went to him on the Sunday evening following the physician's visit to tell him the whole truth, and she often said afterwards how she dreaded the task. Joe lay on the sofa before the dining room window, watching the blue sea sit a distance, and thinking with all the ardour of youthful longing of the time when his back should be well, and he should be a voyager in one of those beautiful ships. He should have no regrets, and no friends to regret him; then he groaned at the pain and inconvenience and privation of his present state, and panted for restoration. Mrs. Parker entered and eat down by him.

"Is Sir J. C---- gone, Ma'am?"

"Yes, he has been gone some minutes."

"What does he say?" asked the lad earnestly. "He said very little to me, nothing indeed, only all that fudge I am always hearing--'rest, patience,' and so on."

"He thinks it a very serious case, my dear; he says that the recumbent posture is very important."

"But for how long, Ma'am? I would lie twelve months patiently enough if I hoped then to be allowed to walk about, and to be able to do as other boys do."

"Sir J. C---- thinks, Joe, that you never will recover. I am grieved to tell you so, but it is the truth, and we think it best you should know it. Your spine is so injured that it is impossible you should ever recover; but you may have many enjoyments, though not able to be active like other boys. You must keep up your spirits; it is the will of God and you must submit."

Poor Mrs. Parker having disburdened her mind of a great load, and performed her dreaded task, left the room, telling her husband that the boy bore it very well, indeed, he did not seem to feel it much. The bell being already out for church, she called the young people to accompany her thither, leaving one maid-servant and the errand boy at home, and poor Joe to meditate on his newly-acquired information that he would be a cripple for life. Edith looked in and asked softly, "shall I stay?" but the "No" was so very decided, and so very stern that she did not repeat the question, so they all went off together, a cheerful family party.

The errand boy betook himself to a chair in the kitchen, where he was soon sound asleep, and the maid-servant to the back gate to gossip with a sailor; so Joe was left alone with a hand-bell on the table, plenty of books if he liked to read them, and as far as outward comforts went with nothing to complain of. "And here I am a cripple for life," ejaculated the poor fellow, when the sound of their voices died away and the bell ceased; "and, oh, may that life be a short one! I wish, oh, I wish, I were dead! who would care to hear this? no one--I wish from my heart I were dead;" and here the boy sobbed till his poor weak frame was convulsed with agony, and he felt as if his heart (for he had a heart) would break.

In his wretchedness he longed for affection, he longed for some one who would really care for him, "but _no one_ cares for me," groaned the lad, "no one, and I wish I might die to night." Ah, Joe, may God change you _very_ much before he grants that wish! After he had sobbed a while, he began to think more calmly, but his thoughts were thoughts of revenge and hatred. "_John_ has been the cause of it all." Then he thought again, "they may well make all this fuss over me, when their son caused all my misery; let them do what they will they will never make it up to me, but they only tolerate me I can see, I know I am in the way; they don't ask me here because they care for me, not they, it's only out of pity;" and here, rolling his head from side to side, sobbed and cried afresh. "What would I give for some one to love me, for some one to wait on me because they loved me! but here I am to lie all my life, a helpless, hopeless, cripple; oh dear! oh dear! my heart _will_ break. Those horrid bells! will they never have done?"

* * * * *

At the very moment when poor Joe was thinking that no one on earth cared for him, that not a heart was the sadder for his sorrow, a kind heart not far off was feeling very much for him. "I shall not go to church to-night, aunt Agnes," said Emilie Schomberg, "I shall go and hear what Sir J.C.'s opinion of poor Joe White is. I cannot get that poor fellow out of my mind."

"No, poor boy, it is a sad case," said aunt Agnes, "but why it should keep you from church, my dear, I don't see. _I_ shall go."

So they trotted off, Emilie promising to leave aunt Agnes safe at the church door, where she met the Parkers just about to enter. "Oh Emilie," said little Edith, "poor Joe! we have had Sir J.C.'s opinion, and it is quite as had if not worse than papa's, there is so much disease and such great injury done. He is all alone, Emilie, do go and sit with him."

"It is just what I wish to do, dear, but do you think he will let me?"

"Yes, oh yes, try at least," said Edith, and they parted.

When Emilie rang at the bell Joe was in the midst of his sorrow, but thinking it might only be a summons for Mr. Parker, he did not take much notice of it until the door opened and the preaching German lady, as he called Emilie, entered the room. When she saw his swollen eyes and flushed face, she wished that she had not intruded, but she went frankly up to him, and began talking as indifferently as possible, to give him time to recover himself, said how very cold it was, stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze, and then relapsed into silence. The silence was broken at times by heavy sighs, however--they were from poor Joe. Emilie now went to the piano, and in her clear voice sang softly that beautiful anthem, "I will arise and go to my Father." It was not the first time that Joe had shown something like emotion at the sound of music; now it softened and composed him. "I should like to hear that again," he said, in a voice so unlike his own that Emilie was surprised.

She sang it and some others that she thought he would like, and then said, "I hope I have not tired you, but I am afraid you are in pain."

"I am," said Joe, in his old gruff uncivil voice, "in great pain."

"Can I do any thing for you?" asked Emilie, modestly.

"No _nothing_, nothing can be done! I shall have to lie on my back as long as I live, and never walk or stand or do any thing like other boys--but I hope I shan't live long, that's all."

Emilie did not attempt to persuade him that it would not be as bad as he thought--that he would adapt himself to his situation, and in time grow reconciled to it. She knew that his mind was in no state to receive such consolation, that it rather needed full and entire sympathy, and this she could and did most sincerely offer. "I am _very_ sorry for you," she said quietly, "_very_ sorry," and she approached a little nearer to his couch, and looked at him so compassionately that Joe believed her.

"Don't you think that fellow John ought to be ashamed of himself, and I don't believe he ever thinks of it," said Joe, recurring to his old feeling of revenge and hatred.

"Perhaps he thinks of it more than you imagine," said Emilie, "but don't fancy that no one cares about you, that is the way to be very unhappy."

"It is _true_," said Joe, sadly.

"God cares for you," however, replied Emily softly.

"Oh, if I could think that, it would be a comfort," Miss Schomberg, "and I do need comfort; I do, I do indeed, groaned the boy."

Emilie's tears fell fast. No words of sympathy however touching, no advice however wise and good, no act however kind could have melted Joe as the tears of that true-hearted girl. He felt confidence in their sincerity, but that any one should feel for _him_, should shed tears for him, was so new, so softening an idea, that he was subdued. Not another word passed on the subject. Emilie returned to the piano, and soon had the joy of seeing Joe in a tranquil sleep; she shaded the lamp that it might not awake him, covered his poor cold feet with her warm tartan, and with a soft touch lifted the thick hair from his burning forehead, and stood looking at him with such intense interest, suck earnest prayerful benevolence, that it might have been an angel visit to that poor sufferer's pillow, so soothing was it in its influence. He half opened his eyes, saw that look, felt that touch, and tears stole down his cheeks; tears not of anger, nor discontent, but of something like gratitude that after all _one_ person in the world cared for him. His sleep was short, and when he awoke, he said abruptly to Emilie, "I want to feel less angry against John," Miss Schomberg, "but I don't know how. It was such a cruel trick, such a cowardly trick, and I cannot forgive him."

"I don't want to preach," said Emily, smiling, "but perhaps if you would read a little in this book you would find help in the very difficult duty of forgiving men their trespasses."

"Ah, the Bible, but I find that dull reading; it always makes me low spirited, I always associate it with lectures from uncle and Mr. Barton. When I did wrong I was plied up with texts."

Emilie did not know what answer to make to this speech. At last she said, "Do you remember the account of the Saviour's crucifixion, how, when in agony worse than yours, he said, 'Father forgive them.' May I read it to you?"

He did not object, and Emilie read that history which has softened many hearts as hard as Joe's. He made but little remark as Emilie closed the book, nor did she add to that which she had been reading by any comment, but; bidding him a kind good night, went to meet Aunt Agnes at the church door, and conduct her safely home.

There is a turning point in most persons' lives, either for good or evil. Joe White was able long afterwards to recall that miserable Sunday evening, with its storm of agitation and revenge, and then its lull of peace and love. He who said, "Peace, be still," to the tempestuous ocean, spoke those words to Joe's troubled spirit, and the boy was willing to listen and to learn. Would a long lecture on the sinfulness and impropriety of his revengeful and hardened state have had the same effect on Joe, as Emilie's hopeful, gentle, almost silent sympathy? We think not. "I would try and make him lovable," so said and so acted Emilie Schomberg, and for that effort had the orphan cause to thank her through time and eternity.

Joe was not of an open communicative turn, he was accustomed to keep his feelings and thoughts very much to himself, and he therefore did not tell either Fred or Edith of his conversation with Emilie, but when they came to bid him good night, he spoke softly to them, and when John came to his couch he did not offer one finger and turn away his face, as he had been in the habit of doing, but said, "Good night," freely, almost kindly.

The work went on slowly but surely, still he held back forgiveness to John, and while he did this, he could not be happy, he could not himself feel that he was forgiven. "I do forgive him, at least I wish him no ill, Miss Schomberg," he said in one of his conversations with Emilie. "I don't suppose I need be very fond of him. Am I required to be that?"

"What does the Bible say, Joe? 'If thine enemy hunger feed him, if he thirst give him drink.' '_I_ say unto you,' Christ says, '_Love_ your enemies.' He does not say don't hate them, he means _Love_ them. Do you think you have more to forgive John than Jesus had to forgive those who hung him on the cross?"

"It seems to me, Miss Schomberg, so different that example is far above me. I cannot be like Him you know."

"Yet Joe there have been instances of persons who have followed his example in their way and degree, and who have been taught by Him, and helped by Him to forgive their fellow-creatures."

"But it is not in human nature to do it, I know, at least is not in mine."

"But try and settle it in your mind, Joe, that John did not mean to injure you, that had he had the least idea that you would fall he would never have tempted you to climb. If you look upon it as accidental on your part, and thoughtlessness on his, it will feel easier to forgive him perhaps, and I am sure you may. You are quite wrong in supposing that John does not think of it. He told Edith only yesterday that he never could forgive himself for tempting you to climb, and that he did not wonder at your cold and distant way to him. Poor fellow! it would make him much happier if you would treat him as though you forgave him, which you cannot do unless you _from your heart_ forgive him."

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

THE CHRISTMAS TREE.

The conversation last recorded, between Emilie and Joe, took place a few days before Christmas. Every one noticed that Joe was more silent and thoughtful than usual, but he was not so morose; he received the little attentions of his friend more gratefully, and was especially fond of having Emilie talk to him, sing to him, or read to him. Emilie and her aunt were spending a few days at the Parkers' house, and it seemed to add very much to Joe's comfort. This Emilie was like a spirit of peace pervading the whole family. She was so sure to win Edith to obey her mamma, to stop John if he went a little too far in his jokes with his sister, to do sundry little services for Mrs. Parker, and to make herself such an agreeable companion to Emma, and Caroline, that they all agreed they wished that they had her always with them. Edith confessed to Emilie one day that she thought Emma and Caroline wonderfully improved, and as to her mamma, how very seldom she was cross now.

"We are very apt to think other persons in fault when we ourselves are cross and irritable, this may have been the case here, Edith, may it not?"

"Well! perhaps so, but I am sure I am much happier than I was, Emilie."

"'_Great peace_ have they that love God's law,' my dear, 'and nothing shall offend them.' What a gospel of peace it is Edith, is it not?"

The great work in hand, just now, was the Christmas tree. These Christmas trees are becoming very common in our English homes, and the idea, like many more beautiful, bright, domestic thoughts, is borrowed from the Germans. You may be sure that Emilie and aunt Agnes were quite up to the preparations for this Christmas tree, and so much the more welcome were they as Christmas guests.

"I have plenty of money," said Joe, "but I don't know, somehow, what sort of present to make, Miss Schomberg, yet I think I might pay for all the wax lights and ornaments, and the filagree work you talk of."

"A capital thought," said Emilie, and she took his purse, promising to lay out what was needful to the best advantage. Joe helped Emilie and the Miss Parkers very efficiently as he lay "useless," he said, but they thought otherwise, and gave him many little jobs of pasting, gumming, etc. It was a beautiful tree, I assure you; but Joe had a great deal of mysterious talk with Emilie, apart from the rest, which, however, we must not divulge until Christmas eve. A little box came from London on the morning of the day, directed to Joe. Edith was very curious to know its contents; so was Fred, so was John; Emilie only smiled.

"Joe, won't you unpack that box now, to gratify us all?" said Mr. Parker, as Joe put the box on one side, nodded to Emilie, and began his breakfast. No, Joe could not oblige him. Evening came at last, and the Christmas tree was found to bear rich fruit. From many a little sparkling pendant branch hung offerings for Joe; poor Joe, who thought no one in the world cared for him. He lay on his reclining chair looking happier and brighter than usual, but as the gifts poured into his lap, gifts so evidently the offspring of tenderness and affection, so numerous, and so adapted to his condition, his countenance assumed a more serious and thoughtful cast. Every cue gave him something. There is no recounting the useful and pretty, if not costly, articles that Joe became possessor of. A beautiful tartan wrapper for his feet, from Mrs. Parker; a reading desk and book from Mr. Parker; a microscope from John and Fred; a telescope from Emilie and Edith; some beautiful knitted socks from aunt Agnes; a pair of Edith and Fred's very best canaries.

When his gifts were arranged on his new table, a beautifully made table, ordered for him by Mr. Parker, and exactly adapted to his prostrate condition, and Joe saw every one's looks directed towards him lovingly, and finally received a lovely white camellia blossom from Edith's hand, he turned his face aside upon the sofa pillow and buried it in his hands. What could be the matter with him? asked Mrs. Parker, tenderly. Had any one said any thing to wound or vex him? "Oh no! no! no!" What was it then? was he overcome with the heat of the room? "No, oh no!" but might he be wheeled into the dining room, he asked? Mr. Parker consented, of course, but aunt Agnes was sure he was ill. "Take him some salvolatile, Emilie, at once."

"No aunt," said Emilie, "he will be better without that, he is only overcome."

"And is not that just the very thing I was saying, Emilie, child, give him some camphor julep then; camphor julep is a very reviving thing doctor! Mr. Parker, won't you give him something to revive him."

"I think," said Emilie, who understood his emotion and guessed its cause, "I think he will be better alone. His spirits are weak, owing to illness, I would not disturb him."

"Come," said Mrs. Parker, "let us look at the tree, its treasures are not half exhausted." Wonderful to say, although Joe had given his purse to Emilie for the adornment of the tree, there still were presents for every one from him; and what was yet more surprising to those who knew that Joe had not naturally much delicacy of feeling or much consideration for others, each present was exactly the thing that each person liked and wished for. But John was the most astonished with his share; it was a beautiful case of mathematical instruments, such a case as all L---- and all the county of Hampshire together could not produce; a case which Joe had bought for himself in London, and on which he greatly prided himself. John had seen and admired it, and Joe gave this prized, cherished case to John--his enemy John. "It must be intended for you Fred," said John, after a minute's consideration; "but no, here is my name on it."

Margaret, at this moment, brought in a little note from Joe for John, who, when he had read it, coloured and said, "Papa, perhaps you will read it aloud, I cannot."

It was as follows:--

DEAR JOHN,

I have been, as you must have seen,
very unhappy and very cross since my accident; I have
had my heart filled with thoughts of malice and revenge,
and to _you_. I have not felt as though I could forgive
you, and I have often told Emilie and Edith this; but
they have not known how wickedly I have felt to you,
nor how much I now need to ask your forgiveness for
thoughts which, in my helpless state, were as bad as actions.
Often, as I saw you run out in the snow to slide
or skate, I have wished (don't hate me for it) that you
might fall and break your leg or your arm, that you might
know a little of what I suffered. Thank God, all that is
passed away, and I now do not write so much to say I
forgive you, for I believe from my heart you only meant
to tease me a little, not to hurt me, but to ask you to pardon
me for thoughts far worse and more evil than your
thoughtless mischief to me. Will you all believe me, too,
when I say that I would not take my past, lonely, miserable
feelings back again, to be the healthiest, most active
boy on earth. Emilie has been a good friend to me, may
God bless her, and bless you all for your patience and
kindness to.

JOS. WHITE.

Pray do not ask me to come back to you to night, I
cannot indeed. I am not unhappy, but since my illness
my spirits are weak, and I can bear very little; your
kindness has been too much.

J.W.

The contents of the little box were now displayed. It was the only costly present on that Christmas tree, full as it was, and rich in love. The present was a little silver inkstand, with a dove in the centre, bearing not an olive branch, but a little scroll in its beak, with these words, which Emilie had suggested, and being a favourite German proverb of hers. I will give it in her own language, in which by the bye it was engraved. She had written the letter containing the order for the plate to a fellow-countryman of hers, in London, and had forgotten to specify that the motto must be in English; but never mind, she translated it for them, and I will translate it for you. "Friede ernährt, unfriede verzehrt." "In peace we bloom, in discord we consume." The inkstand was for Mr. and Mrs. Parker, and the slip of paper said it was from their grateful friend, Joe White. That was the secret. Emilie had kept it well; they rather laughed at her for not translating the motto, but no matter, she had taught them all a German phrase by the mistake.

Where was she gone? she had slipped away from the merry party, and was by Joe's couch. Joe's heart was very full, full with the newly-awakened sense that he loved and that he was loved; full of earnest resolves to become less selfish, less thankless, less irritable. He knew his lot now, knew all that lay before him, the privations, the restrictions, the weakness, and the sufferings. He knew that he could never hope again to share in the many joys of boyhood and youth; that he must lay aside his cricket ball, his hoop, his kite, in short all his active amusements, and consign himself to the couch through the winter, spring, summer, autumn, and winter again. He felt this very bitterly; and when all the gifts were lavished upon him, he thought, "Oh, for my health and strength again, and I would gladly give up _all_ these gifts, nay, I would joyfully be a beggar." But when he was alone, in the view of all I have written and more, he felt that he could forgive John, that in short he must ask John to forgive him, and this conviction came not suddenly and by chance, but as the result of honest sober consideration, of his own sincere communings with conscience.

Still he felt very desolate, still he could scarcely believe in Emilie's assurance, "You may have God for your friend," and something of this he told Miss Schomberg, when she came to sit by him for awhile. She had but little faith in her own eloquence, we have said, and she felt now more than ever how dangerous it would be to deceive him, so she did not lull him into false peace, but she soothed him with the promise of Him who loves us not because of our worthiness, but who has compassion on us out of his free mercy. Herein is love indeed, thought poor Joe, and he meditated long upon it, so long that his heart began to feel something of its power, and he sank to sleep that night happier and calmer than he had ever slept before, wondering in his last conscious moments that God should love _him_.

Poor Joel he had much to struggle with; for if indulgence and over-weening affection ruin their thousands, neglect and heartlessness ruin tens of thousands. The heart not used to exercise the affection, becomes as it were paralyzed, and so he found it. He could not love as he ought, he could not be grateful as he knew he ought to be, and he found himself continually receiving acts of kindness, as matters of course, and without suitable feeling of kindness and gratitude in return; but the more he knew of himself the more he felt of his own unworthiness, the more gratefully he acknowledged and appreciated the love of others to him. The ungrateful are always proud. The humble, those who know how undeserving they are, are always grateful.

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

THE NEW HOME.

Let us pass by twelve months, and see how the law of kindness is working then. Mrs. Parker is certainly happier, less troubled than she was two years ago; Edith is a better and more dutiful child, and the sisters are far more sociable with her than formerly. The dove of peace has taken up its abode in the Parker family. How is it in High Street? Emilie and aunt Agnes are not there, but Miss Webster is still going on with her straw bonnet trade and her lodging letting, and she is really as good tempered as we can expect of a person whose temper has been bad so very long, and who has for so many years been accustomed to view her fellow creatures suspiciously and unkindly.

But Emilie is gone, and are you not curious to know where? I will tell you; she is gone back to Germany--she and her aunt Agnes are both gone to Frankfort to live. The fact is, that Emilie is married. She was engaged to a young Professor of languages, at the very time when the Christmas tree was raised last year in Mr. Parker's drawing room. He formed one of the party, indeed, and, but that I am such a very bad hand at describing love affairs, I might have mentioned it then; besides, this is not a _love story_ exactly, though there is a great deal about _love_ in it.

Lewes Franks had come over to England with letters of recommendation from one or two respectable English families at Frankfort, and was anxious to return with two or three English pupils, and commence a school in that town. His name was well known to Mr. Parker, who gladly promised to consign his two sons, John and Fred to his care, but recommended young Franks to get married. This Franks was not loth to do when he saw Emilie Schomberg, and after rather a short courtship, and quite a matter of fact one, they married and went over to Germany, accompanied by John, Fred, and Joe White. Mr. Barton, after the sad accident in the plantation, had so little relish for school keeping, that he very gladly resigned his pupils to young Franks, who, if he had little experience in tuition, was admirably qualified to train the young by a natural gentleness and kindness of disposition, and sincere and stedfast christian principle.

Edith longed to accompany them, but that was not to be thought of, and so she consoled herself by writing long letters to Emilie, which contained plenty of L---- news. I will transcribe one for you.

The following was dated a few months after the departure of the party, not the first though, you may be sure.

L----, Dec, 18--
DEAREST EMILIE,

I am thinking so much of you to-night
that I must write to tell you so. I wish letters
only cost one penny to Frankfort, and I would write to
you every day. I want so to know how you are spending
your Christmas at Frankfort. We shall have no Christmas
tree this year. We all agreed that it would be a melancholy
attempt at mirth now you are gone, and dear Fred
and John and poor Joe. I fancy you will have one
though, and oh, I wish I was with you to see it, but
mamma is often very poorly now, and likes me to be
with her, and I know I am in the right place, so I
won't wish to be elsewhere. Papa is very much from
home now, he has so many patients at a distance, and
sometimes he takes me long rides with him, which is
a great pleasure. One of his patients is just dead,
you will be sorry to hear who I mean--Poor old Joe
Murray! He took cold in November, going out with
his Life Boat, one very stormy night, to a ship in
distress off L---- sands, the wind and rain were very
violent, and he was too long in his wet clothes, but he
saved with his own arm two of the crew; two boys about
the age of his own poor Bob. Every one says it was a
noble act; they were just ready to sink, and the boat in
another moment would have gone off without them. His
own life was in great danger, but be said he remembered
your, or rather the Saviour's, "Golden Rule," and could
not hesitate. Think of remembering that in a November
storm in the raging sea! He plunged in and dragged
first one and then another into the boat. These boys
were brothers, and it was their first voyage. They told
Joe that they had gone to sea out of opposition to their
father, who contradicted their desires in every thing, but
that now they had had quite enough of it, and should
return; but I must not tell you all their story, or my
letter will he too long. Joe, as I told you, caught cold,
and though he was kindly nursed and Sarah waited on him
beautifully, he got worse and worse. I often went to see
him, and he was very fond of my reading in the Bible
to him; but one day last week he was taken with inflammation
of the chest, and died in a few hours. Papa says he
might have lived years, but for that cold, he was such a
healthy man. I feel very sorry he is gone.

I can't help crying when I think of it, for I remember
he was very useful to me that May evening when we
were primrose gathering. Do you recollect that evening,
Emilie? Ah, I have much to thank you for. What a
selfish, wilful, irritable girl I was! So I am now at times,
my evil thoughts and feelings cling so close to me, and
I have no longer you, dear Emilie, to warn and to encourage
me, but I have Jesus still. He Is a good Friend
to me, a better even than you have been.

I owe you a great deal Emilie; you taught me to love,
you showed me the sin of temper, and the beauty of peace
and love. I go and see Miss Webster sometimes, as you
wish; she is getting very much more sociable than she was,
and does not give quite such short answers. She often
speaks of you, and says you were a good friend to her; that
is a great deal for her to say, is it not? How happy you
must be to have every one love you! I am glad to
say that Fred's canaries are well, but they don't _agree_ at
all times. There is no teaching canaries to love one
another, so all I can do is to separate the fighters; but
I love those birds, I love them for Fred's sake, and I love
them for the remembrances they awaken of our first days
of peace and union.

My love to Joe, poor Joe! Do write and tell me how
he goes on, does he walk at all? Ever dear Emilie,

Your affectionate

EDITH.

There were letters to John and Fred in the same packet, and I think you will like to hear one of Fred's to his sister, giving an account of the Christmas festivities at Frankfort.

DEAR EDITH,

I am very busy to-day, but I must
give you a few lines to tell you how delighted your letters
made us. We are very happy here, but _home_ is the place
after all, and it is one of our good Master's most constant
themes. He is always talking to us about home, and
encouraging us to talk of and think of it. Emilie seems
like a sister to us, and she enters into all our feelings as
well us you could do yourself.

Well, you will want to know something about our
Christmas doings at school. They have been glorious I
can tell you--such a Christmas tree! Such a lot of
presents in our _shoes_ on Christmas morning; such dinings
and suppings, and musical parties! You must know every
one sings here, the servants go singing about the house
like nightingales, or sweeter than nightingales to my
mind, like our dear "Kanarien Vogel."

You ask for Joe, he is very patient, and kind and good
to us all, he and John are capital friends; and oh, Edith,
it would do your heart good to see how John devotes himself
to the poor fellow. He waits upon him like a servant,
but it is all _love_ service. Joe can scarcely bear him out
of his sight. Herr Franks was asked the other day, by
a gentleman who came to sup with us, if they were brothers.
John watches all Joe's looks, and is so careful
that nothing may be said to wound him, or to remind
him of his great affliction more than needs be. It was a
beautiful sight on New Year's Eve to see Joe's boxes
that he has carved. He has become very clever at that
work, and there was an article of his carving for every
one, but the best was for Emilie, and she _deserted_ it.
Oh, how he loves Emilie! If he is beginning to feel in
one of his old cross moods, he says that Emilie's face, or
Emilie's voice disperses it all, and well it may; Emilie
has sweetened sourer tempers than Joe White's.

But now comes a sorrowful part of my letter. Joe is
very unwell, he has a cough, (he was never strong you
know,) and the doctor says he is very much afraid his
lungs are diseased. He certainly gets thinner and
weaker, and he said to me to-day what I must tell you.
He spoke of his longings to travel (to go to Australia was
always his fancy.) "And now, Fred," he said, "I never
think of going _there_, I am thinking of a longer journey
_still_." "A longer journey, Joe!" I said, "Well, you have
got the travelling mania on you yet, I see." He looked
so sad, that I said, "What do you mean Joe?" He
replied, "Fred, I think nothing of journeys and voyages
in this world now. I am thinking of a pilgrimage to the
land where all our wandering's will have an end. I
longed, oh Fred, you know how I longed to go to foreign
lands, but I long now as I never longed before to go to
_Heaven_." I begged him not to talk of dying, but he said
it did not make him low spirited. Emilie and he talked
of it often. Ah Edith! that boy is more fit for heaven
than any of us who a year or two ago thought him
scarcely fit to be our companion, but as Emilie said the
other day, God often causes the very afflictions that he
sends to become his choicest mercies. So it has been
with poor White, I am sure. I find I have nearly filled
my letter about Joe, but we all think a great deal of him.
Don't you remember Emilie's saying, "I would try to
make him lovable." He is lovable now, I assure you.

I am sorry our canaries quarrel, but that is no fault of
yours. We have only two school-fellows at present, but
Herr Franks does not wish for a large school; he says he
likes to be always with us, and to be our companion, which
if there were more of us he could not so well manage. We
have one trouble, and that is in the temper of this newly
arrived German boy, but we are going to try and make
him lovable. He is a good way off it _yet_.

I must leave John to tell you about the many things I
have forgotten, and I will write soon. We have a cat
here whom we call _Muff_, after your old pet. Her name
often reminds me of your sacrifice for me. Ah! my dear
little sister, you heaped coals of fire on my head that day.
Truly you were not overcome of evil, you overcame evil
with good. Dear love to all at home. Your ever affectionate
brother,

FRED PARKER.

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

THE LAST.

"Hush, dears! hush!" said a gentle voice, pointing to a shaded window. "He is asleep now, and we must have the window open for air this sultry evening. I would not rake that bed to-night, John, I think."

"It is _his_ garden, Emilie."

"Yes, I know"--and she sighed.--

"It _is_ his garden, and his eye always sees the least weed and the least untidiness. He will be sure to notice it when he is drawn out to-morrow."

"John there may be no to-morrow for Joe, he is altered very much to-day, and it is evident to me he is sinking fast. He won't come down again, I think."

"May I go and sit by him, Emilie?" said the boy, quietly gathering up his tools and preparing to leave his employment.

"Yes, but be very still."

It was a striking contrast; that fine, florid, healthy boy, whose frame was gaining vigour and manliness daily, whose blight eye had scarcely ever been dimmed by illness or pain, and that pale, deformed, weary sleeper. So Emilie thought as she took her seat by the open window and watched them both. The roses and the carnations that John had brought to his friend were quietly laid on the table as he caught the first glimpse of the dying boy. There was that in the action which convinced Emilie that John was aware of his friend's state and they quietly sat down to watch him. The stars came out one by one, the dew was falling, the birds were all hurrying home, children were asleep in their happy beds; many glad voices mingled by open casements and social supper tables, some few lingered out of doors to enjoy the beauties of that quiet August night, the last on earth of one, at least, of God's creatures. They watched on.

"I have been asleep, Emilie, a beautiful sleep, I was dreaming of my mother; I awoke, and it was you. John, _you_ there too! Good, patient, watchful John. Leave me a moment, quite alone with John, will you, Emilie? Moments are a great deal to me now."

The friends were left alone, their talk was of death and eternity, on the solemn realities of which one of them was about to enter, and carefully as John had shielded Joe, tenderly as he had watched over him hitherto, he must now leave him to pass the stream alone--yet not alone.

Emilie soon returned; it was to see him die. It was not much that he could say, and much was not needed. The agony of breathing those last breaths was very great. He had lived long near to God, and in the dark valley his Saviour was still near to him. He was at peace--at peace in the dying conflict; it was only death now with whom he had to contend. Being justified by faith, he had peace with God through the Lord Jesus Christ. His last words were whispered in the ear of that good elder sister, our true-hearted, loving Emilie. "Bless you, dear Emilie, God _will_ bless you, for 'Blessed are the peacemakers.'"

* * * * *

NORWICK: PRINTED BY JOSIAH FLETCHER

NEW WORKS AND NEW EDITIONS

Published by Arthur Hall, Virtue & Co.

25, PATERNOSTER ROW.

* * * * *

Third Edition, in post 8vo. with numerous illustrations, price 8s. bound in cloth, or 17s. morocco antique,

NINEVEH AND PERSEPOLIS:

An Historical Sketch of Ancient Assyria and Persia, with an Account of the recent Researches in those Countries,

By W.S.W. VAUX, M.A., of the British Museum.

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