Chapter VIII: The Old, Old Story

AFTER several days' fight with fever, Hira began to recover.

Though she could see nothing of her surroundings, she knew quite well that she was in a different world to that in which her life had been passed hitherto.

She heard no harsh, scolding voices, no complaining and quarrelling about money, but she seemed to be in an abode of peace and love; even Sukhiya's house, her old refuge, was nothing compared to this.

If she had learnt of heaven, she would certainly have thought she was there, and that Shushila, with her sweet voice and gentle touch, was one of the angels who ministered to her. But what did she know of heaven?

As she grew better, she began to wonder what could happen next. Would her uncle come and fetch her away, or would she stay always in this lovely, peaceful spot, where everyone was kind and good to her?

It all seemed like a dream: the terrible storm with the thunder, which had struck such terror to her heart, the noise and confusion, in the midst of which, she had felt so utterly helpless to think of anything. Then loving hands had lifted her out of the storm and noise into peace and quiet, and there she was still; but what would happen next?

She did not care to see her uncle and aunt again, but if only Sukhiya would come and speak to her, and tell her where she was! She had a kind of vague feeling that during the dream from which she was awakening, Sukhiya really had come, but perhaps it was only part of the dream.

Presently she grew tired of thinking and trying to understand, so she put out her hand, and asked, "Is anyone there?"

Immediately, the voice she had learnt to know and love answered, "Yes, little one, I am here; is there anything you want?"

"I want to know where I am and where I am going to?" said the child feebly.

Then Shushila answered, "You were lost in the storm, Hira, and God, who takes care of little girls, brought you here, and if you like to be with me and my father, we will keep you always, so that you will never be lost again. Will you be my little sister, and stay with me?"

Hira did not speak at once. Then she said, "Tell me about God, for I don't know anything, and there was no one who could tell me. Did you see Him when He brought me here?"

It was Shushila's turn to pause now. Where should she begin to tell this child, who knew nothing, but was so eager to learn, of the glorious truths which were so precious to her? While she was thinking what she should say, the blind child spoke again.

"But tell me first, who is Jesus Christ? And if He is alive and here, why does He not give me eyes? I thought it was a dream, but now I remember that you told me that He was here."

Then Shushila answered, "Hira, I will tell you all about Jesus Christ, but it is a long story, and I am afraid so much talking will make your head ache. Will you not wait a few days till you are quite well?"

The blind child laughed, as if the very thought amused her, as she said, "How can it make my head ache to hear you talk? When I had fever in my uncle's house, there was noise and talking all the time, and no one thought they must be quiet."

So Shushila said no more, but began to tell her story.

"Long, long ago Jesus Christ lived in heaven with God. We cannot tell what heaven is like, because we have never seen it, but we know that there is no sorrow nor crying there, nor pain nor sickness of any kind. No one ever dies, and, what is best of all, there is no sin there. That could not be, because heaven is God's house, and sin cannot be where God is.

"But the Lord did not stay in heaven. He knew that in this world in which we live there is sin, and sorrow, and crying; and so, when God said He would send Him down from heaven to come here, Jesus Christ was very, very glad to come.

"He might have come as a very rich man, or as a great king, but He chose instead to be quite poor, and live amongst poor people."

"Was He as poor as my uncle?" interrupted Hira.

"Yes, I expect He was poorer, because He had no house at all," said Shushila; "but though He had no money to give away, He helped everybody who came to Him, and He could help as no one else could, because He could do what no one else could. They all came to Him—the blind and lame, lepers, and sick people—and whatever was the matter with them, He healed them all, and even when they were dead, made them live again. But it was not to heal the sick, not even to make the dead alive, that Jesus Christ left His beautiful home in heaven and came into our world. He came to do something very much greater than that."

"But what could be more than making blind people see, and dead people alive?" asked Hira eagerly. "Tell me, for I cannot understand."

Then Shushila answered, "There is something, Hira, even worse than being blind, or lame, or ill, or even than being dead. The worst thing of all is to be sinful. Sin is the very worst of all diseases, worse even than leprosy. It is sin which makes all the sorrow and sadness that there is in the world. Some day I will show you that it is sin which has made you so unhappy, and not being blind. Jesus Christ came into the world not to keep us from being blind, and lame, and ill, because that does not matter so very much, but He came to keep us from sin, to make us holy like He Himself is holy, and like God is holy."

"But I would like best of all to be able to see," interrupted the listener, "and if Jesus Christ can give me eyes, why 'doesn't' He?"

"Listen, child, and I will tell you more, and by-and-by, you will understand," said Shushila, and then she continued, "God wants us to know Him and be like Him, and then He will be able to have us in His house to dwell with Him; but sin is like a black curtain which comes between us and God, and hides Him from us, and it makes us so unclean that we cannot possibly go to live with God unless we get rid of it."

"Then is that what the gentleman meant when he told us to get ready to meet God?" asked Hira.

"Yes," said Shushila, "that is just it."

"But what has that to do with making people see, and walk? And what have we to do to get ready?" questioned the child eagerly.

Again the speaker paused, there was so much to tell and the listener knew so little.

Then she continued, "Hira, that is why the Lord Jesus came down from heaven, that He might make us fit to meet God. We cannot make ourselves clean and holy, and there is no one in all the world who can do it for us, because all are alike, and there is not anyone who is not sinful; but Jesus Christ is holy, just as God is holy, and so He can make us holy too.

"Jesus Christ became a man like us that He might make us like God; He came down 'from' heaven that He might lift us up 'to' heaven.

"Now, little one, you are tired, and I must not talk to you any more. Every day I will tell you something more about the dear Lord Jesus, and all that He has done for us, and it will make you so happy to think that He loves you and cares for you, though you are only a little blind girl."

Hira's answer was to cling close to her friend as she bent over her and whisper, "Perhaps if I had not been blind, you would not have brought me into your house and taken care of me, so I think I am glad that I am blind, and I don't mind a bit being in the dark if you are with me."

Just then Shushila was called away, and she went with a light heart, rejoicing to think how the child to whom she was ministering would one day learn to know One who could bring light into the very darkest spot, and whose companionship can make the hardest lot shine with glory.

WHEN?

BY MABEL MACKINTOSH.

"YOU always want to talk about those sort of things, mother," said Jim Harris, hitching his shoulder away from the hand that lay on it. "You'd take all the heart out of a fellow if you could, talking of dying and another world, and such-like. I'm young and I ain't a-going to die yet. When I see death coming, I'll prepare, maybe."

He had shaken off her hand, but he glanced into the face that still bent over him, and his heart softened. It was his last night at home. To-morrow he would be on the wide sea. The wind was howling round the house, and the waves broke heavily and monotonously on the beach. "I don't want to be rough with you, mother," he said, pulling her down for a kiss; "you shouldn't vex me the last night, but you knows I loves you, if I am a bit hasty."

He rose up and went out into the night. There was a moon between the scudding clouds, and the foam broke up white at the water's edge. He looked at it all and at the few boats lying at anchor, or on the shore.

"To-morrow I shall be out there," he thought. "I'll go back to mother; it's her last night of me."

The next day he had gone.

It was not an eventful voyage. Day succeeded day, and his conversation with his mother was forgotten till one evening when he and his favourite mate, Ben Davis, turned in.

"Jim," said Ben, "I don't believe as I shall last long."

"What!" said Jim, aghast and staring. "You're playing, Ben."

"No," said Ben slowly, "I ain't; I've not been well all the voyage, and captain, he's tried all he knows; he thinks I'm better, but he's mistook. My father, he went just like me."

Jim sat down and looked blankly at him.

All suddenly, his own words came back to him. "I'm young; when I see death coming, I'll prepare."

Death was coming, not to him, but to Ben!

"Ben," he said hoarsely, "are you ready?"

There was a long, long pause, and then Ben answered.

"No, lad," he said.

There was no sleep for Jim that night. He might have seen death coming for him, and yet it was Ben who was to die. Jim lay and tossed and turned. All his mother's words came back to him that night. He had never sought Christ's salvation for himself, and yet he was torn with anxiety that Ben should be saved!

Early next morning, he turned over his few possessions and found his long-forgotten Bible. Ben was leaning dejectedly over the ship's side, and he went to him and slipped the Bible into his hand. Ben glanced at it, and then his eyes sought Jim's.

"Jim," he said, "I'm no reader; tell me the way."

It was a strange scene—the man who was to die listening to the old, old story told by the lips of one who hitherto had had no care for it. Jim's mother's teaching was bearing fruit; her boy knew the way of salvation well enough.

"Jim," said Ben slowly, "do you believe all that?"

Jim's face was hidden. "My mother does," he said huskily.

Ben opened the little Bible. "Can't you show me one place where it puts it plain?"

Jim took it and turned over the pages, and his eyes fell on an underlined text. He remembered his mother marking it the day she gave the book to him.

"'God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'"

"That's good," said Ben, with a long breath.

Three days later, when the evening sun was lighting up the sea with a crimson glow, Ben died. His last look was for Jim, his last word was, "I'm ready, lad."

And as Jim knelt beside him, looking down at the peaceful dead face, his heart went out in one great cry to Ben's Saviour,—

"God be merciful to me a sinner!"

A great peace filled his heart, and it seemed to him that he could almost follow Ben up the sunset path into that holy, happy land where he had gone to be with Christ.

That very night, he sat down and wrote to his mother, telling her how her words and her teaching had been the means used for Ben's salvation, and that when he came home again, she might talk about heaven and dying as much as she liked.

PULLING.

"I NEVER do what I don't want to!" exclaimed Poll. "I just 'don't.'"

"Oh! Well," said Ellen, "that's not my motto, is it, grandma?"

Grandma smiled. "I've seen a deal of life," she said thoughtfully, "and I could just tell you what I've found."

Ellen sat down by her affectionately, and leant her arm on her knee.

"The people that have the strongest wills 'do' the most!" said grandma.

"I told you so!" exclaimed Poll. "That's what I always say."

"But they have the most trouble with themselves, and with other people too," said grandma.

"How?" asked Poll.

"They're for ever knocking themselves against the fence," said grandmas, smiling.

"The fence!"

"Yes, and oh! What a job it is to get 'em to come into the shed!"

"The shed!" again echoed Poll.

"The shed where their food is! In my young days," said grandma, "I had an invalid father, and he was that gentle and patient. One day he said to me after I had had a self-willed fit, 'Mary, will you go out and get the calf in?'

"'Why, father,' I said, 'you know what a plague she is! She'll keep me ages pulling and pulling, and she'll knock against the fence, and she'll bang into the posts of the shed, and I shall be as hot and as uncomfortable as possible. I wish you'd send Bill out to get the calf in.'

"And so father smiled a bit, and he said, 'If you don't take care, Mary, you'll be as bad as the calf that doesn't know no better! Break your self-will now, my dear, and you'll be a happier girl ever after.'

"Well, I went out and got the calf in, but all the time, she was pulling this way and that way, for all that her nice food was waiting in the shed for her.

"I assure you, my dears, I did not forget his object lesson. And the more I saw of life, the more I saw that the self-willed people need a deal of discipline before they come out into tractable obedient folks."

Poll stood listening thoughtfully. There was "plenty of stuff in her," people were always saying, and she felt rather proud of it. But what if she should let that "plenty of stuff" cover over every other good quality?

She looked at the sweet patient face of her grandmother.

"And 'you' were like that calf," she said at last, incredulously.

"Exactly, my dear!" said grandma.

"And how did you get into—what you are now, grandma?" asked Poll, a little wistfully.

"By being watchful, and asking God to make me what would please Him."

Poll did not say anything, but as she went about her business, her proud heart humbled itself to say,—

"Teach me to do Thy will!"

And by-and-by, it came to be much easier than she had thought it ever could be.

MEMORIES.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"NOW, Milly! If you'll get through the work quickly, you and I will have a treat."

"Oh, what?" exclaimed Milly, looking up from her sweeping.

"Not but what there's heaps to do," added her elder sister cheerily; "but you and I can well do it, if we take one thing at a time. You shall have the dinner things to wash, and the hearth to clean, and the kitchen to sweep, and I will go up stairs and clean the bedrooms; we must have it all bright against mother comes back, mustn't we?"

"Oh, yes," assented Milly. It was so pleasant working under May's cheery direction. She felt as if she could do wonders.

May gathered the pail and broom and floor-cloth which she required for her share of the work, and disappeared through the little red door that led upstairs.

Then Milly looked round. Which should she do first? She was now sweeping up the kitchen, but May had spoken of that as the last thing. After an instant's thought, she decided that she had better finish what she was about, and then go to the dinner things. What a lot there were: should she ever get done, and what was the treat if she did?

She could hear May's spirited scrubbing overhead, and this nerved her to work away bravely. When at length, after an hour, her sister came down, a tidy smiling little girl stood by the clean hearth, and all was done.

"Why, you've scrubbed the table!" said May approvingly. "Now for the treat!"

She undid a long-shaped parcel and drew forth a large book. "This was one of father's greatest treasures," she said; "it is a book in which he used to draw all the things that happened. Father could draw beautifully, you know."

She sat down on a settee, and Milly edged up close to her, and laid her head on her sister's shoulder.

"That is a picture of the first house father and mother lived in, and I remember father telling us how he made a little trapdoor in the ceiling of the kitchen so that he could talk to mother if she was upstairs putting the baby to bed."

"Oh!" said Milly. "How funny! Did any one ever fall through?"

"No; it was made like a box upstairs, and I can remember mother peeping down and asking father something. And once, he had a joke and passed me up to mother through it! See, there is the picture of that!"

"Did he love us very much?" asked Milly, to whom her father was little else but a loved name.

"Love us!" echoed May, her dark eyes softening and glistening. "I've often understood more about God through thinking of father's love."

One day, little Mary was tiresome, and I had put her in the corner; and she sent word she was sorry. I was vexed with her, and I said, "I'd come presently."

"'Oh, don't keep her waiting for forgiveness,' said dear father tenderly; 'think how ready to pardon God is!' I never forgot that, Milly!"

"I wish I could remember him," said Milly wistfully.

"You'll see him some day in the Home above!" said May, kissing her. "But I never forget him—never!"

AT BETHANY.

THERE seems to have been one home where the Lord Jesus loved to visit.

We hear a great deal about the people who lived in this home, perhaps more about them than any other of the friends of the Lord Jesus.

Their names were Lazarus, Martha, and Mary.

"Oh, yes," you say, eagerly, "Lazarus was raised from the dead!"

And someone else remembers, "Yes, it was Mary who poured the precious ointment over the Lord Jesus only the week before He was crucified."

"Yes, and Martha served them at the feast," someone else remarks.

All these things are true, but our picture is not about either one of them.

One day the Lord Jesus was going about healing the sick and teaching people of His heavenly Father, and in His journey, He came to the village of Bethany, where Martha and Mary and Lazarus lived.

Now, you must imagine Martha as a very industrious, energetic woman.

When she saw Jesus and the disciples coming, I dare say she ran out to meet them, and invited them into her house to have something to eat.

She bustled about and spread the table; she told her servants what to bring to set before the large company who had suddenly come to her; and with joyful alacrity, she hurried to put before them whatever she could think of to make them welcome.

Suddenly her eyes fell upon her only sister, Mary. She was not bustling about and getting the dinner ready; she was sitting near Jesus eagerly listening to His words, and satisfied to be in His presence.

Poor Martha! She loved to hurry about and make Jesus welcome, but to have Mary sit idle and enjoy to hear Him talk was more than she could bear.

So she got quite cross and vexed. She felt that it was too hard, and she ran to Jesus and asked Him how it was He did not care that Mary had left her all the work to do alone, and begged Him to bid her come and help her.

And then, Jesus turned to her and said those words which have been a lesson to busy, bustling people all these hundreds of years: "Martha, Martha, you are too much troubled over these many things; only one thing is 'needful,' and Mary has chosen that good part which shall never be taken away from her."

Do you ask, children, what that one thing is?

It is learning of Jesus and hearing His voice.

Even if everything else is lost to us, if we have the Lord Jesus, we can be happy.

People who have everything that this world can give are often very miserable. But even the most wretched, ill, or poor person in the world, who has heard the voice of "Jesus," has the "one thing" which will make him happy here, and give him endless joy and glory by-and-by.

SCRIPTURE CLOCK.

CHOOSE A WORD FROM THE BIBLE, SUCH AS LOVE, AND WRITE IT NEATLY IN THE DIVISION OVER FIGURE I, WITH THE PLACE WHERE IT IS TO BE FOUND IN THE SPACE BETWEEN THE OUTER CIRCLES. THEN FIND A TEXT OF TWO WORDS, ONE OF WHICH IS LOVE, AS "HIS LOVE," (ISA. 63. 9), AND WRITE IT IN THE DIVISION OVER FIGURE II. NEXT, ONE WITH THREE WORDS, AS "WALK IN LOVE" (EPH. 5. 2), AND SO ON TILL YOU HAVE A TEXT CONTAINING TWELVE WORDS, AS "LOVE NOT THE WORLD NEITHER THE THINGS THAT ARE IN THE WORLD" (1 JOHN 2. 15).

WORDS SUGGESTED:—Faith, Peace, Jesus, Father, Trust, Believe, Forgive, Look, Seed, Sins, Blood, Glory, Everlasting.

THE NEW GOVERNESS.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"I AM certain I shan't like her."

"Oh, Miss Doris!"

"Quite certain. I heard mother talking about her to Mrs. Foster this afternoon; and I am certain she's the kind that I don't like."

"What kind?" asked the nurse, as she brushed out Doris' long curls.

"Oh, I don't know," said Doris carelessly; "it's a dreadful pity mother keeps on having governesses! They're always a plague, and there is not one in a hundred that—"

Her cousin Lilian looked up from the corner where she was sitting buried in a book. The book had been forgotten while Doris was speaking; instead of the printed words, a picture had come up before her eyes.

A far-off land, a wide shaded verandah, an invalid couch, a figure stretched upon it; sweet eyes resting on her face, an arm round her neck, gentle words of parting counsel—they came back now—

"Lilian! If the life is very different in England, and it must be, seek to please your Heavenly Lord, rather than yourself. Try to make other people happy, whether it is your aunt, or your cousins, or the governess who has such a lonely, trying life."

She remembered it all vividly, and how she had promised within her heart that she would.

Now she had come to England and these things seemed like a dream.

Directly she arrived, Doris had told her of the new governess, and then her mother's words had flashed across her. She was not inclined to want a governess any more than Doris, but what if she were lonely and Lilian should forget her mother's words!

Her earnest eyes looked across the nursery now, and Doris stopped in her tirade suddenly. Lilian was a funny girl, she thought, and one never could say anything spiteful before her!

Everybody in the house knew that Doris did not "get on" with the governesses. The nurse gave good advice, the parlourmaid thought it was rather a joke; and the cook said governesses always held their heads so high that she was not surprised.

So the governess came one morning just before lunch, and the little girls came to the schoolroom as the bell rang. It would be difficult to say which of the three dreaded the interview most!

"I will say grace and then we shall get more sociable," said Miss Smith with tremulous lips.

"We don't say grace," said Doris.

"Not, dear?"

"No—and I don't care about it, please."

Over Lilian's cheeks spread a burning blush, she could hardly raise her eyes to Miss Smith's face, which had turned very pale. Could she speak out? What was seemly and right for her to do?

Before Miss Smith had time to answer, the little girl said very gently but distinctly: "Please do, Miss Smith; I always do at home—and here—I couldn't be happy without—"

She knew months afterwards that that had been the one drop of comfort to the new governess on that first hard day.

ON THE MOORS.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"SLEEP, lambkin, sleep!" she sang softly, as she rocked the cradle to and fro in the shade of the doorway of her little cottage on the border of the moor.

The September sunshine shone brightly without, and far away she could hear the tinkle of the sheep-bells, while she dreamily pictured to herself her husband walking among his flock, leading them to the greenest grass, tending them with love and care such as only a shepherd knows.

"I'm glad he's a shepherd!" thought the young wife. "It is so nice to think he's something like the Lord in that!"

A shadow fell across the sunshine of the door, and she looked up to see her husband stagger into the cottage and guide himself uncertainly to the nearest chair.

"Alec!" she said, springing to his side. Was he ill, was he dying? What could it be?

He leant his head upon her bosom, but was dumb. Something in his action told her it was grief and not illness which had struck her husband.

"What is it, Alec?" she asked, bracing herself to be strong to bear for his sake. "Can't you tell me?"

"I telled ye lang syne that I'd hed a son that had gone awa' to Amerikay—and had got lost! He's come—back—Jeannie!"

She guessed it all in those few broken words.

She knew without telling that he had come back dishonoured.

"Where is he?" she whispered.

In that moment's pause, she had seen her own baby a man, wandering away in a far country, having spent all he had—ruined, hopeless, forsaken.

She had pictured him turning towards his father's home on the moors; she had seen him crossing the ocean and making his weary way home!

Should she have pity, or should she turn away?

"Where is he?" she whispered, with her eyes fixed on the cot where her innocent babe slept.

"In the wood juist beyond—"

When the poor wanderer looked up as he heard a rustle on the path, he saw a gentle face gazing down upon him, and two hands held out to him.

"Come home!" she said tenderly. "And I'll nurse you and love you for Christ's sake. He gave His life for you!"

"I've come to die," he groaned. "Can you have such as me?"

For answer, she raised him from the bank, and together they slowly made their way to the cottage, and straight into the little room she called her parlour.

There she laid him upon the little sofa and bidding him rest, she went to her husband.

"Jeannie?" he said, raising his eyes to her face.

"Yes," she answered simply, "I shall take him as my own, and some day—"

"Some day?" he asked with a groan.

"There'll be joy in the presence of the angels of God over a sinner that repents. I know it will be so.

"Cheer up, Alec, and trust the Good Shepherd who is seeking His lost sheep!"

ROYALTY AND LOYALTY.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

GLADYS pushed away her lessons impatiently, and laid her head down on the table.

"Why, Gladys," said her governess, "so tired as all that?"

"I hate learning, and I hate French, and I'm so vexed at this tiresome cough that I'm sick of everything."

"Yes, it is disappointing!"

"And I wanted to go out to-day ever so much; this afternoon father was going to take me to see the Queen when she went for a drive, and I 'did' want to see the dear Queen."

"I am so sorry," said her governess gently. Then she added brightly, "Did you see the picture in this week's 'Illustrated News' of our Queen distributing Christmas gifts to the soldiers' children?"

"No," said Gladys, raising her head.

"Well, here it is—see what a sweet picture! Should not you have liked to be there?"

"Oh! Should I not!" Gladys looked at it long and earnestly. She thought she would almost like to be a soldier's child for such a privilege as that. But then—oh, the poor soldiers!

She sat for a good while silent, and her next remark was not of the soldiers, for whom her childish heart bled, but of scenes long past.

"I wonder what sort of a 'girl' the Queen was when she was my age," she said thoughtfully, "to have been such a good and true woman all these years."

"I can tell you that, for I was reading yesterday what her governess said about her. It was just this, Gladys; she told her governess in the sweetest way, when looking out on life and all its responsibilities, 'I will be good!'"

"Did she?" asked Gladys earnestly, her face flushing with a new thought.

"Indeed she did, and she has kept her promise nobly, Gladys; and when now she sympathises with the sorrowful and rejoices with the happy, and wins love and admiration of her people by all her acts, we follow her exultingly, and thank God for such a sweet and such a noble woman as our beloved Queen!"

Gladys smiled through two bright tears, and she said naïvely, "I mustn't fret about my cough after that!"

POLLIE'S NEW MISTRESS.

"I'M sure I shall be miserable, mother, and I shan't stop. I'll let her get settled in, and then I'll go away to Miss Edith. She always wanted me to be with her, she said so when she went away. I shall be miserable here, and then the baby will be miserable." And with that, Pollie burst into tears, and hugged the baby so tight that he cried too.

"Miserable!" echoed her mother. "What nonsense, girl! The master did right to marry again, and bring home a mother to his child, and a good one, too, as he writes. What are we, plain people too, to bring up his son in a gardener's cottage? Not but what we would bring him up as good as we knew. And the master's been considerate and good to us; he'll not part us from the boy, for you're to be nurse in the grand house and have the charge of him. As for going to Miss Edith, why, she's married."

"I know that," sobbed Pollie, still holding the baby tight, "but I know I shan't like it, and the new mistress will be cross if the baby loves me, and of course he loves me."

"You're a silly girl," said her mother. "Give me the child to dress, and go and get the flowers to deck the rooms, and then make yourself neat. We must be ready for them in two hours. Are the master and his lady to come and find us not ready?"

Pollie went slowly away down the garden. How sweet and peaceful the flowers looked! How little they knew that the master and a new wife were coming home that day, and that Pollie's heart was sore at the thought of the change and that she had determined to leave her precious charge rather than endure it.

But God knew. Somehow Pollie's thoughts went straight from the flowers to God, and her eyes filled with tears. God knew what was best for the baby, God knew what was best for her, and what was best for the master who had been so sorely bereaved a year ago.

Pollie hardly saw what flowers she gathered into her muslin apron. There was a battle in her heart, a battle between right and wrong, a battle between being a good girl to her new mistress and being a naughty girl and going away to serve Miss Edith.

But the right conquered, and before Pollie went back to her mother, she had looked up through the leafy trees and asked God to help her to be a good girl and to do right.

Two hours later, the flowers were all arranged, the baby wore his best frock and his blue ribbons, and Pollie and her mother stood in the hall to welcome the master home, for the rest of the servants were not to come till the new mistress had settled in.

Then there was the sound of carriage wheels, and the master, tall and handsome, leaped out, and behind him came —Pollie's head seemed to swim, and she held the baby tighter that she might not drop him—behind the master came her dear Miss Edith.

Pollie knew now that God had been planning happiness for them all, even while she had been encouraging that discontented spirit!

How joyfully she held the baby out to its father and new mother, and what a happy smile lighted her eyes as she hurried to help her mother prepare the travellers' meal!

And often in after-days, when things seemed to be dark, she remembered how good God had been, and that He was always the same.

THE CALL OF PETER.

WHEN the Lord was on earth, He did so many kind and loving things, and made so many people well who were sick that the multitude followed Him about everywhere, so that sometimes Jesus and His disciples had not even time to eat.

One day, when He was by the Lake of Gennesaret (which is sometimes called the Sea of Galilee), the people pressed so close to Him that, seeing two ships drawn up on the shore, He entered one of these and asked the owner to put his ship a little way out from the land, so that He might speak to the multitude where they could all hear. The boats were empty, for the fishermen were gone out of them and were washing their nets in the lake.

The one that the Lord Jesus entered belonged to Simon Peter, whose wife's mother had been healed by Jesus a very short time before. Peter loved Jesus very much, but he had not yet been chosen to be His disciple.

So when the Lord had done talking to the people, He told Simon to launch the ship out into deep water, and let down their nets to catch some fishes.

But Simon told Him that they had been up working hard all night, but it had all been for nothing, as they had not caught any fish.

But Simon did not stop there; he added what has been a comfort to hundreds and thousands of people since then—"Nevertheless, at Thy word I will let down the net."

Do you think they caught nothing this time?

Ah, if you do, you have not thought what it is to be in the boat with Jesus!

When He commands, He also makes it possible to obey. You will find that out, children, the more you love Him and trust Him.

So they let down the net, and now they enclosed such an immense number of fishes that their net began to break, and they were obliged to beckon to their partners, who were in the other ship, to come and help them.

So they filled both the ships full, so that they began to sink.

Then Simon Peter fell down at the feet of Jesus and told Him that he was too sinful to be near Him.

But Jesus comforted him with the loving words which are so often repeated in the Bible for all who are afraid—"Fear not."

Then Jesus told Peter that he should be a fisher of men, that he should be used by God to draw people into the kingdom of heaven.

And when Peter and his partners, James and John, heard that, and saw the wonderful miracle that Jesus had performed, they left everything and followed Him, and became very soon His three chief disciples who were chosen above all the rest to be close to Him.

Making the Best of a Bad Job.

"I SAY, girls, I have got a holiday on Friday. Couldn't we make up a skating party, start early for the lake, take lunch and eat it at the cottage, and come home here for high tea? What do you all say? Shall we, father?"

"Splendid!" cried Rose and Flora and Liz.

"I am quite pleased if the girls can manage it," said their father.

"Well, ask a nice set," said Gerald. "It's time I was off to the station." He disappeared from the breakfast table, but after two or three minutes, he reappeared and tossed a note across to Lizzie.

"Take that to Jess Bristowe," he said; "I want her to come."

"You'll lose that train," grumbled Lizzie. "Why don't you deliver your own notes? I don't want to."

But Gerald hardly heard her; he had risked the train to write the note, and he had to run for it.

"I do hate being asked to do his errands," went on Lizzie, giving the obnoxious note a toss. "Whom shall we ask, Rose? It's rather a jolly plan!"

So the talk drifted into other things, the girls wrote notes, made a list of needed provisions, and hunted up their skates. Lizzie told herself she supposed she must go with the tiresome note sometime, but she shouldn't trouble when, and consequently she forgot all about it.

Friday morning broke clear and bright, and promised an ideal day.

Breakfast was over, and Rose and Flora were trying to persuade their father to accompany them, when Gerald suddenly asked Lizzie what answer Jess had sent.

Lizzie gasped. "I never went," she said slowly.

"Then I shan't go," cried Gerald, his face flushing. "I never thought you would fail me."

"Can't we ask her now?" asked Lizzie lamely.

"At the last minute!" cried Gerald. "I told her I meant to have a party, and she must come, and a poor compliment she would think it! Well, you'll have to go alone." He went off into the study and stood moodily looking into the fire. The day would be spoilt without Jess.

A soft hand rested on his shoulder and Rose's voice said, "Gerald!"

"It's no good your coming persuading," he said roughly; but Rose knew it was disappointment made him rough.

"I think," she said gently, "that if I went down to Jess at once and explained how it was, she would quite understand, and she is not one to take offence, and she would so enjoy the day. I should have plenty of time. May I, Gerald?"

"It will tire you so," objected Gerald. "You'll be wet and cold before we start."

"Oh, no!" said Rose hopefully. "I'll bring Jess back with me, and if you have a cup of chocolate ready for us, we shall start warm."

"All right!" said Gerald briskly, for to make chocolate for Jess was an alluring prospect. "You are a good girl, Rose!"

It "was" a rather cold, long walk, but Rose went cheerily. And by-and-by, two laughing girls sat down to a cup of chocolate presided over by a smiling young man. And after that, the skating party went as merrily as marriage bells.

HIRA'S QUEST.