Chapter II: Part 2

"You have much cause to thank Him who has covered your head in the day of battle," observed Strasse, who was one who, in a godless age, did not shrink from openly confessing his faith, and by so doing had drawn upon himself many a scoff, some even from his friend Von Orlich.

"It was hot work," said the officer, wiping his brow.

"When I saw you from a distance dash into the midst of what seemed a circle of smoke and fire, through which one could scarcely catch a glimpse of the flashing swords, I never expected, Von Orlich, to see you come forth alive."

"It was to rescue him—the gallant Helden," said Von Orlich. "I saw him sorely beset; and if I had had a thousand lives, I'd have ventured them all for his sake. I bore him safe out of it all," added the officer, with a proud smile of triumph on his lip.

"Helden is a man who deserves a friend," observed Strasse.

"He does—better than any other man in Prussia!" exclaimed Von Orlich. "Did you never hear what he did when he was a gay young page in the service of our last king, Frederick William?"

"Not I," replied Strasse, seating himself; for he was weary with the struggle of the day, and glad to warm himself for awhile beside the red glowing fagots. "Tell me the tale of his youth. It may serve to while away a few weary minutes; for as my turn for duty will soon come, it is not worth while to lie down and sleep."

"Helden, like most of our Prussian youth of gentle blood, was brought up at a military academy. There he formed a warm friendship with a lad of somewhat lower rank and much poorer family than his own. They were never separated, Carl and he—studies, sports, hopes, pleasures, everything they had in common. Never did brothers cling more closely together than they. When the youths left the academy, their paths divided. Helden, who had relatives of rank, became a page at the court of the king; Carl, who had neither money nor interest, entered the ranks of the army. But the tie was not broken between them, as with most men it would have been. The page, midst the splendours of a court, remained true to the friendship of his boyhood.

"Carl was of a somewhat wild and reckless nature. Perhaps it stung his pride to find himself in a position so much below that of his late companions. Be that as it may, he had not been a month in the army before he got into serious disgrace—overstayed leave, was out of barracks till midnight, and was sentenced to receive a public flogging. You know, Strasse, with what terrible severity that punishment is inflicted in the army. To many it is equal to a sentence of death—to Carl it was far worse than death! The agony might be great, but it was the shame that was intolerable! The very horror of the idea of a public flogging threw the young soldier into a fever, and threatened to turn his brain."

"I do not marvel at that," observed Strasse, as he stretched his hands to the warming blaze.

"Helden heard of the sentence passed upon his friend, and resolved to make every effort to save him. He drew out a simple but touching petition to the king, and ventured himself to present it—a task requiring some courage, for you know the character of Frederick William, and his excessive severity in whatever related to the discipline of his army."

"It was something like presenting a petition to a lion to spare the prey under his paw," observed Strasse, with a smile.

"And the king received it much as the lion might have done," rejoined Von Orlich. "He was roused to one of his storms of fury, tore the petition in pieces, and Helden was fortunate enough to escape with nothing worse than a torrent of abuse."

"So Carl underwent his sentence, of course?" asked Strasse.

"Hear to the end," replied his comrade. "Any one but Helden would have given up in despair all further attempt to rescue his friend, but, true as steel as he was, he resolved to make yet another. Helden drew out a second petition; and on the night before the morning on which the flogging was to take place, he went to the antechamber with it in his pocket, with the intention of presenting it to the monarch."

"He was a bold youth," remarked Strasse. "When we recall how nearly our late king put to death his own son and heir for a very trifling cause, one cannot but marvel at the perseverance of Helden."

"The king," continued Von Orlich, "was engaged, till far into the night, in secret conference with one of his ministers. Helden, full of deep anxiety, remained in the ante-room waiting. So long had he to wait, so weary he grew, less perhaps from the lateness of the hour than the wear upon his own spirits, that sleep overcame the poor youth. The king, happening to come out of his cabinet, found his page in deep slumber in an arm-chair, with what looked like a second petition sticking half out of his pocket.

"'If that audacious young scapegrace dare to pester me again with his petitions, he shall get something sharper than words.' Such, I suspect, was his majesty's thought when, without awakening the page, curiosity made him draw forth the scroll. Perhaps, however, his countenance changed when his eye glanced over the strange petition which it contained. It was very brief, but to the purpose; and was, as well as I can remember, in these words: 'Sire, if the sentence passed on Carl must be executed, I entreat your majesty's permission to suffer instead of my friend.'"

"A strange petition, indeed," exclaimed Strasse. "What said the king to the offer?"

"Stern and rigid as he was," replied Von Orlich, "such generous friendship, such brave self-devotion, could not but touch his heart. I know not how long Helden slumbered. He was startled from his sleep by the sound of the bell rung by the king in his cabinet.

"'Now for the effort!' thought Helden, as he sprang forward with a beating heart to obey the desired and yet dreaded summons.

"He found the king sitting alone, looking more than usually stern. Helden received some trifling order from the monarch, who then motioned to him to retire.

"'Now, or never!' said Helden to himself. 'The day will soon dawn, and at sunrise poor Carl is to suffer.'

"'Why do you delay?' asked the king very harshly, fixing his freezing gaze on the page.

"'Sire, pardon!' exclaimed Helden, and bending his knee, he drew forth a scroll, and presented it to his sovereign.

"'Will you stand by the consequences?' demanded the king, without touching the paper.

"'I will, sire,' replied the generous friend.

"'Read the contents, then, young man!' said the king.

"Helden opened the scroll, and started to his feet with an exclamation of joyful surprise. The paper contained, not his own generous offer, but a full free pardon for his friend, drawn out and signed by the monarch himself!"

"God had touched the king's heart," observed Strasse.

"Be that as it may," said Von Orlich, "Carl was saved from a punishment which would have driven him mad. And he lived to pay back this day part of the debt of gratitude which he owed to the best of friends!"

"What!" exclaimed Strasse in surprise. "You yourself are the Carl of whom you speak?"

"Ay; I have struggled upwards in life, won honours—" a star was glittering on his breast—"I have gained the wealth and position which are the prizes held out by war. But were the king to make me a duke," continued Von Orlich with emotion, "the pleasure and the honour would be small compared to what I felt to-day in proving my gratitude to the man who once offered to suffer in my stead!"

"It is strange," observed Strasse with a thoughtful sigh, as he looked into the flickering fire, "how apt we are to reserve all our gratitude for our fellow-man, forgetful of the Friend who not only offered to suffer, but actually did suffer in our stead! You braved fire and sword for one who had loved and saved you; shall our love be cold, and our courage faint, only when our debt is infinite, and our benefactor divine?"

Von Orlich made no reply; but as he silently gazed up into the blue starry heavens, almost for the first time in his life, the heart of the war-worn veteran rose in thanksgiving to God!

XI.

THE THICKET OF FURZE.

"WHAT a plague lessons are?" exclaimed Rosey, with a long weary yawn, as she bent over her French exercises, wishing from her heart that grammar had never been invented.

"Work on, little one!" said her brother George, who had overheard the exclamation. "Remember that it is doubly your duty to be steady and industrious while mamma is away."

"It is so difficult!" sighed the child.

"Many a duty is difficult," answered the elder brother, "but that is no reason for shirking it. Attending to little duties while we are young helps us to perform great ones when we are old. Do your lessons bravely, dear Rosey, and if they be finished by twelve, you shall have a little story to reward your diligence."

The word "story" called up a dimple upon Rosey's round cheek. She turned with more resolution to her tiresome lesson, and the task was ended by twelve.

"Now for my story," cried the child, bringing her little chair close to her brother, and resting her arm on his knee, as—looking up gaily into his face—she claimed the fulfilment of his promise.

George looked into the fire for a few moments, as if to draw some ideas from the cheerful blaze, stirred it, and then leaning back on his chair, began the following little tale:—

"Methought I lay down and slept, and dreamed; and in my dream I beheld a path through a verdant meadow, along which many a child gaily tripped, gathering the lovely wild flowers that grew on either side. But at one end of the meadow the path was crossed by a thicket of sharp prickly furze, and the name of the thicket was Difficulty. The bushes grew so thick and close, that I wondered whether any child would be able to pass them; and I sat me down to watch how the little travellers would get through the Difficulty in their way."

"I suppose that I was one of the little travellers," laughed Rosey, "and the furze-bushes were my horrid French verbs!"

"There are a great many 'Difficulties' in a child's life," replied George with a smile: "some find it difficult to rise early, some to be punctual or neat, some to control their tempers, others to be generous and kind. There are plenty of furze-bushes in our path, but we must not, like lazy cowards, suffer them to stop us in our onward course."

"Please tell me about the children in your dream," said Rosey.

"The first who reached the thicket was a little girl, with ruddy cheek and curly hair, who had been one of the gayest of the gay, as she went dancing through the flowery mead. But as soon as she came to Difficulty, all the cheerfulness fled from her face, she shrank from the first touch of the prickles as if she had expected that life was to be all sunshine and flowers, and sitting down on the grass by the side of the path, she burst into a flood of tears."

"Oh, the cowardly little creature!" cried Rosey.

"Then there came up to the spot a young boy, whose appearance to me was not pleasing. He never looked straight before him, but had a kind of cunning side glance, which made me fancy him less open and frank than a Christian boy ought to be. He made no attempt to push through the thicket, but went creeping along the edge of it, hoping to 'creep round' Difficulty instead of passing straight onwards. I watched him to see if he would succeed in his aim, but he had not gone many steps before his feet stuck fast in a bog, and it was only by violent and painful efforts that he could struggle out again, to return to the point whence he had started, with his shoes all clogged with clay, his time lost, and his object not gained."

"I suppose that he was a lazy boy," remarked Rosey; "putting off does not help us over our difficulties. I have sometimes tried that plan of creeping round, and I always stuck in the bog!"

"Then," pursued George, "a boy with firm step and resolute air came up to the thicket. I saw something like a smile on his face as he looked at the Difficulty before him. He set his teeth hard together, clenched his hands, and then with bold determination made a dash at the thicket. On he went, that stout-hearted lad, dashing aside the prickles, pushing forward as if he scarcely felt the scratches upon his bleeding hands. Trampling down, struggling through Difficulty, he was soon safe and triumphant on the opposite side!"

Little Rosey clapped her hands. "He was a fine fellow!" cried she. "I think that Nelson and Wellington went dashing through difficulties like that. But I can't do so," added the child more gravely; "I have not that bold, strong spirit. I am afraid that I am most like the little cowardly girl who cried when she saw the thicket."

"Is not that because you do not look upon your childish troubles as a means of testing your patience and obedience; is it not because you do not seek for help from above, even in the little trials of your life?"

"They seem such trifles to look at in that way," said Rosey, gazing thoughtfully into the fire.

"A writer has said that 'trifles form the sum of human things;' and the life of a child, more especially, is made up of what we call trifles. Yet children, as well as those who are old, are required to glorify God; and as they can do no 'great' thing for him, it is by their cheerful obedience, diligence, and sweet temper, that they must show their gratitude and love. And does not this thought, dear Rosey, make the performance of simple daily duties a bright and a holy thing? If what we do, we do as 'unto the Lord,' feeling that His eye is upon us, and seeking in all things to please Him, we find pleasure even in irksome tasks, sweetness in what otherwise would be bitter."

Rosey looked as if she scarcely understood the words of her brother, so, to make their meaning clearer, George went on with his tale:—

"There was one other child whom I saw in my dream advancing towards the thicket Difficulty. I felt sorry for the little girl, for she was feeble and pale, and as she moved over the grass, I saw that she was both lame and barefoot!

"'Alas!' thought I. 'If she can scarcely make her way along the smooth and pleasant path, how will she ever struggle through the prickly furze before her!'"

"Perhaps the same thought was in the mind of the little traveller, for she paused before the thicket, and looked forwards with a scared and troubled air. Then she clasped her hands, and raised her eyes towards the soft blue sky above her, and all trace of fear or care left her smiling face. What was my surprise to see two beautiful little wings, glittering like gold in the sunlight, and bright with the rainbow's tints, gradually unfold from her shoulders! The child shook them for a few moments, as if to try their powers, and then rising above earth, and all its thorns, she gently flew over the painful place, and alighting safely on the ground beyond, looked back with a bright and thankful smile on the Difficulty which she had passed."

"Oh!" exclaimed Rosey. "What would I not give to have such beautiful wings!"

"Those wings, dear Rosey, are 'faith' and 'love,' which lift us above the world, which bear us onward in a heavenly course, which make us find our chief delight in doing the will of our heavenly Father."

"I have not these wings!"

George drew his little sister closer to him, and bending down his head towards her, whispered, "'Ask and ye shall receive.' God only can cause those wings to grow, by the power of his Holy Spirit; He can give them strength to bear us unharmed over all the rough places of life; and the waters of the river of death shall not wet even the soles of the feet of those who pass their depths, buoyed up on the glorious pinions of 'faith' and 'love!'"

XII.

THE BOY AND THE BIRD'S NEST.

"MARY, my love, all is ready; we must not be late for the train," said Mr. Miles, as, in his travelling dress, he entered the room where sat his pale, weeping wife, ready to start on the long, long journey, which would only end in India.

The gentleman looked flushed and excited; it was a painful moment for him, for he had to part from his sister, and the one little boy whom he was leaving under her care. But Mr. Miles's chief anxiety was for his wife; for the trial, which was bitter to him, was almost heart-breaking to her.

The carriage was at the door, all packed, the last band-box and shawl had been put in.

Eddy could hear the sound of the horses pawing the ground in their impatience to start. But the clinging arms of his mother were round him—she held him close to her embrace, as if she would press him into her heart, and the ruddy cheeks of the boy were wet with her falling tears.

"O Eddy!—my child—God bless you!" she could hardly speak through her sobs.

"My love, we must not prolong this," said the husband, gently trying to draw her away. "Good-bye, Lucy—good-bye, my boy—you shall hear from us both from Southampton."

The father embraced his sister and his son, and then hurried his wife to the door.

Eddy rushed after them through the hall, on to the steps, and Mrs. Miles, before entering the carriage, turned again to take her only son into her fond arms once more.

Never could Eddy forget that embrace—the fervent pressure of the lips, the heaving of his mother's bosom, the sound of his mother's sobs. Light-hearted boy as he was, Eddy never had realized what parting was till that time, though he had watched the preparations made for the voyage for weeks—the packing of those big black boxes that had almost blocked up the hall. Now he felt in a dream as he stood on the steps, and through tear-dimmed eyes saw the carriage driven off which held those who loved him so dearly. He caught a glimpse of his mother bending forward to have a last look of her boy before a turn in the road hid the carriage from view; and Eddy knew that long, long years must pass before he should see that sweet face again.

"Don't grieve so, dear Eddy," said Aunt Lucy, kindly laying her hand on his shoulder; "you and I must comfort each other."

But at that bitter moment Eddy was little disposed either to comfort any one or to receive comfort himself. His heart seemed rising into his throat; he could not utter a word. He rushed away into the woods behind the house, with a longing to be quite alone. He could scarcely think of anything but his mother; and the poor boy spent nearly an hour under a tree, recalling her looks, her parting words, and grieving over the recollection of how often his temper and his pride had given her sorrow. He felt, in the words of the touching lament,—

"And now I recollect with pain
How many times I grieved her sore;
Oh, if she would but come again,
I think I would do so no more!

"How I would watch her gentle eye
'Twould be my joy to do her will;
And she should never have to sigh
Again for my behaving ill!"

But boys of eight years of age are seldom long unhappy. Before an hour had passed, Eddy's thoughts were turned from the parting by his chancing to glance upwards into the tree whose long green branches waved above him. Eddy espied there a pretty little nest, almost hidden by the foliage. Up jumped Eddy, eager for the prize; and in another minute he was climbing the tree like a squirrel. Soon he grasped and safely brought down the nest, in which he found, to his joy, three beautiful eggs!

"Ah! I'll take them home to—" Eddy stopped short; the word "mother" had been on his lips; it gave a pang to the boy to remember that the presence of his gentle mother no longer brightened that home—that she already was far, far away. Eddy seated himself on a rough bench, and put down the nest by his side; he had less pleasure in his prize since he could not show it to her whom he loved.

While Eddy sat thinking of his parent, as he had last seen her, with her eyes red and swollen with weeping, his attention was attracted by a loud pitiful chirping, which sounded quite near. Though the voice was only the voice of a bird, it expressed such anxious distress, that Eddy instantly guessed that it came from the poor little mother whose nest he had carried away. Ah! What pains she had taken to form that delicate nest!—How often must her wing have been wearied as she flew to and fro on her labour of love! All her little home and all her fond hopes had been torn from her at once to give a little amusement to a careless but not heartless boy.

No; Eddy was not heartless. He was too full of his own mother's sorrow when parting from her loved child to have no pity for the poor little bird, chirping and fluttering over the treasure which she had lost.

"How selfish I have been!—How cruel!" cried Eddy, jumping up from his seat. "Never fear, little bird! I will not break up your home; I will not rob you of your young. I never will give any mother the sorrow felt by my darling mamma."

Gently he took up the nest. It was no easy matter to climb the tree again with it in his hand, but Eddy never stopped until he had replaced the nest in its own snug place, wedged in the fork of a branch. Eddy's heart felt lighter when he clambered down again to his seat, and heard the joyful twitter of the little mother, perched on a branch of a tree.

And from that day it was Edith's delight to take a daily ramble to that quiet part of the wood, and have a peep at the nest, half hidden in its bower of leaves. He knew when the small birds were hatched; he watched the happy mother when she fed her little brood; he looked on when she taught her nestlings to take their first airy flight. This gave him more enjoyment than the possession of fifty eggs could have done. Never did Eddy regret that he had showed mercy and kindness, and denied himself a pleasure to save another a pang.

XIII.

SENDING HORSES TO TRAVELLERS.

"POOR old Matthew!" said Lucy. "I hear that he is almost dying with cold!"

Ben was amusing himself with spinning on the table four bright half-crowns, with which his grandfather had presented him that morning, but he stopped for a moment to listen to his sister's account of the sufferings of his aged neighbour, and in a tone of pity said, "I'm sure that I wish that he were better off, he is such a good old man!"

"He had nothing but a crust all yesterday," said Lucy.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Ben, balancing his coin between his finger and thumb. "I wish that he had had as good a dinner as I!" Twirl, twirl, went the half-crown, looking like a half transparent ball, as it spun rapidly round; then gradually its shape altered, it sank lower and lower, then rattled down to its old position on the table.

"I wish that some one would help him!" said Lucy, glancing at the money.

"So do I, with all my heart!" replied Ben, in a manner that told pretty clearly that his charity would not go beyond his good wishes.

There was a pause, which was first broken by Lucy. "I read such a funny account, in a book about Thibet," said she, "of a curious piece of superstition, that I put mark in the place, just that I might read it to you; I thought that it would make you laugh."

"Let's have it!" cried Ben, pocketing his half-crowns, for he dearly loved anything funny.

So Lucy opened a volume of Huc's "Travels," and read the following account of the strange ideas of a young student of medicine at Kounboum:—

"One day," writes the missionary Huc, "he proposed to us a service of devotion in favour of all the travellers throughout the whole world. 'We are not acquainted with this devotion,' said we; 'will you explain it to us?' 'This is it: You know that a good many travellers find themselves from time to time on rugged toilsome roads, and it often happens that they cannot proceed by reason of their being altogether exhausted. In this case we aid them by sending horses to them.' 'That,' said we, 'is a most admirable custom; but you must consider that poor travellers such as we are not in a condition to share in the good work. You know that we possess only a horse and a little mule, which require rest in order that they may carry us to Thibet.' He clapped his hands together, and burst into a loud laugh. 'What are you laughing at? What we have said is the simple truth; we have only a horse and a little mule.' When his laughter at last subsided, 'It was not that which I was laughing at,' said he; 'I laughed at your mistaking the sort of devotion I mean. What we send to the travellers are paper horses.' And therewith he ran off to his cell, and presently returned, his hands filled with bits of paper, on each of which was printed the figure of a horse, saddled and bridled, and going at full gallop. 'Here, these are the horses we send to the travellers! To-morrow we shall ascend a high mountain, and there we shall pass the day, saying prayers and sending off horses.' 'How do you send them to the travellers?' 'Oh, the means are very easy. After a certain form of prayer, we take a packet of horses, which we throw up into the air; the wind carries them away, and by the power of Buddha they are then changed to real horses, which offer themselves to travellers.'"

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed Ben, when she had finished. "I never heard anything so odd in my life. We have nothing in England like these paper horses."

"Well, I could not quite say that," observed Lucy; "there was something that reminded me of them just now."

"What was that?" said Ben, glancing up at his sister.

"Sending only 'good wishes' to those to whom we are able to send real help," Lucy replied with a smile. "They go just as far, and are exactly as useful to the poor, as the paper horses to the travellers in the deserts of Thibet."

XIV.

THORNS AND FLOWERS.

"WHAT can be the difference between Martha and Susan Williamson?" said old Dame Phillips. "They are as like as two cherries—the same rosy cheeks, the same height, the same hair, you could hardly know one from the other."

"No wonder, for they are twins," replied Widow Green.

"And yet, how is it that when one of them comes in, it seems as if a sunbeam were shining into the room; yet, when the other is near, you would think that she brought the cold east wind with her?"

"One lives for others, and one for herself; that's the difference between Martha and Susan," said Mrs. Green, as she poured out her cup of tea.

"Ah! I often think that they are like two travellers, walking through the world with baskets on their arms. Susan has filled her basket with roses, and wherever she goes there's the sweet smell and the pretty flowers to make every one round her glad. Martha has filled her basket with thorns; you fear to come near her for the prickles; she is scattering thorns wherever she passes, and leaves pain behind her wherever she has been!"

"I pity the children when they are left to her care," said the widow.

"Poor little lambs, they have their full share of the thorns. It is a word and a blow with her; and as for poor Albert, with his weak ankles, he may walk on till he drops afore she will take the trouble of carrying him one step.—Why, here she is!" added the old woman, as Martha entered the house with a bold, careless air.

"Good-day, Mrs. Phillips: I've come to borrow your warm new shawl. You see," added she, seeing a look of reluctance on the face of the rheumatic invalid, "I'm going to-morrow in the steamer to Greenwich, and it will be so cold on the water."

"Come to-morrow, then," said the good-natured dame; "why should I be all this cold evening without it?"

"Oh, it is not convenient to come to-morrow!" cried Martha. "I'm off early, so please for it now." And as she stepped carelessly forward to take the shawl from the shoulders of her shivering friend, she knocked down the cup which Mrs. Phillips had just filled. But Martha never said that she was sorry for the mischief done; she never even stopped to pick up the broken pieces; her only thought was ever "self!"

Having got all she wanted, Martha turned to depart, but lingered for a few minutes to talk.

"Ah! Mrs. Green, so your son has gone to sea, I hear. How the wind is blowing, to be sure! I could hardly get up the street. They say there has been a dreadful shipwreck off the Irish coast—every one lost!"

Mrs. Green clasped her hands with a look of terror.

"I hope that the wind will have gone down before I start for Greenwich," said Martha, as she bounced out of the room, forgetting, of course, to close the door. She was gone, but she had left the thorns behind her.

In a few minutes a gentle tap was heard.

"Come in," said Mrs. Phillips; and the bright kind face of Susan appeared.

"Good evening, Mrs. Phillips; I hope that you are feeling better. I have brought you a pair of mittens, which I have knit for you, to keep your poor hands warm in this cold weather.—Mrs. Green, I'm so glad to see you; and will not you be glad to see 'this?'" she added, holding up a letter, and then placing it in the mother's trembling hand, with pleasure almost equal to her own.

"My son's handwriting!" exclaimed Mrs. Green. "How did you come by it, my dear?"

"I knew that you were anxious for letters, so I stepped round by the post-office to ask if there were any for you."

"Bless you!" cried Mrs. Green. "You are always thinking of others."

When Susan entered the house, she had found gloom and anxiety there. Before she left it, there were bright looks and smiles of hope and gratitude. She had left the roses behind her.

And can you guess the secret cause of her kindness, of the constant, cheerful benevolence which made her welcome to all? Why did she seem to live for others?—Because she "lived to God!" One sentence spoken by the blessed Saviour seemed ever present to her mind: "'Love one another as I have loved you.'" She knew that the Lord Jesus had "died for all, that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto Him which died for them" (2 Cor. v. 15).

Oh! dear reader, have "you" lived for yourself, or for your Lord; are you scattering roses or thorns?

On her way home Susan overtook an aged woman, bent down with years, and yet more with trouble, to judge from her sad, hopeless face. She carried a large bundle, which seemed too much for her strength. Cold as was the weather, she walked on but slowly, with a feeble, half-tottering step, often pausing, as though to take breath.

Susan paused; and her kind, pitying look seemed to encourage the poor old woman to address her.

"Could you, please, tell me the way to John Street, my dear? I am a stranger in London."

"With pleasure," replied Susan; "let me see—the third turn to the left, then walk on till you come to a baker's shop, then—"

"I shall never make it out," said the old woman, with a hopeless air.

"Well, then, I'll go with you, and show you the way. Don't hurry yourself, you look feeble, and your bundle is heavy; let me carry it for you, it would be a pleasure to me!" And she relieved the poor stranger of her burden, as they passed through the cold, silent streets.

"You are good, very good!" sighed the old woman. "Too good for this cold, heartless, miserable world!"

"I am sorry that you find it so miserable."

"Miserable enough! Here am I, a lone widow—I who have had a good husband, and three as fine boys as ever the sun shone upon. There is no comfort on earth for me!"

"But there is comfort in heaven! Do you not hope to see again those whom you have loved, never more to part? Do you not hope that they are happy now?"

"Ay, they are happy; for my husband feared God, and my boys were taken before they knew evil. But here am I, a feeble old woman, without a friend on earth."

"But you have a Friend in heaven; there is comfort again!"

"Ay, if I could take it, my dear; but my heart is low, and my spirit weary, and everything looks dark around and above!"

Susan rather whispered than spoke, "'Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.'" (Ps. xlii. 11).

A tear rolled down the pale cheek of the stranger, but her heart felt lighter: she had met with one who could feel for her.

"I wish," said she, after a pause, "that I had thought more of these things when I was young like you. It doesn't do to put off, one's heart grows cold and hard. And, oh! it's a weary, weary thing, old age like mine, no comforts around one, nothing but troubles to look back upon, nothing but death to look forward to!" and she sighed heavily.

"And heaven beyond!" said Susan.

"Ah! If I were sure of 'that,' but maybe heaven is not for a poor, ignorant, sinful creature like me!"

"I thought," said Susan timidly, "that heaven was for those who believe, who repent, who love the Lord Jesus and one another."

Not another word was spoken till they reached the house, when the aged stranger laid her trembling hand on the shoulder of her young guide.

"God Almighty bless you!" she murmured. "You've spoken the first word of comfort that I've heard for many a long day. God will bless you, and make you an angel above, as you love to do angels' work below!"

Reader! May you thus pass through life, blessing and blessed, the roses which you scatter on the paths of others throwing sweetness over your own, and making soft your death-bed at the last!

XV.

HEIR TO SOMETHING BETTER.

"WELL, he's a beauty, he is!" cried Betsy Bonser. "But fine feathers make fine birds, and his mother dresses him up as if he were Prince of Wales at least."

"Who is it, neighbour?" asked the feeble voice of Mary Blane, a sick woman who was lying in bed in the little cottage out of the window of which Betsy Bonser was looking as she spoke.

"Why, it's Squire Knight's little boy, to be sure—hat, feather, and all—sitting in his little carriage, with his dog on his knee. How unequal things are in this world! There were you with your dozen children, scarce able to put shoes on their feet, or bread in their mouths, and a thirteenth baby must come—" she glanced at a little creature asleep in its cradle—"just to be a burden and a trouble!"

"He's welcome—bless him!" whispered the mother.

"Welcome! Well, mothers have an odd way of taking these things," said Betsy. "I know the squire's baby was welcome, for he was heir to ten thousand a year!"

"And I hope that my baby is heir to something better," said Mary with a gentle smile. "If he be God's child, he'll have an inheritance one day in heaven!"

"Well," began Betsy—but she started with surprise, for she saw that the squire's lady now stood in the cottage!

Mrs. Knight had knocked so gently, and Betsy had talked so loudly, that the knock had not been heard, nor the soft step of the lady as she entered the poor woman's cottage.

"Oh! Beg your pardon, ma'am, I didn't see you," cried Betsy, dropping half-a-dozen courtesies.

Mrs. Knight had brought many nice things for the sick mother, and some little pieces of dress for Mary's baby, which her own boy had long outgrown. The lady took, I say, many things to the cottage; she took one thing away with her—the remembrance of the poor woman's words, which she had chanced to overhear: "I hope that my baby is heir to something better."

When Mrs. Knight returned to her boy, whom she had left outside with his nurse, she thought again and again of what Mary Blane had said.

"Ah!" reflected the lady, "my boy will have everything that money can give him, but, after all, the 'best' things are as free to the poor as to the rich. My child would be poor indeed if he were not heir to something better."

When a few months had passed away, the squire's little son fell ill. The groom mounted a horse and rode off at full speed for a doctor; another was sent for from London; everything was procured that could possibly help to save the child from dying. But if God wills to take a little lamb to His fold above, doctors and medicine and mother's fond care cannot keep him on earth. The squire's little darling was taken early to heaven.

Then people said, "What a grievous thing it was that the heir of such an estate should die!"

If one of Mary Blane's thirteen children had been taken, the world would have thought less about it, though every one was as dear to her as Victor Knight had been to his mother. And friends wondered how poor Mrs. Knight could bear her grief so meekly, and never murmur when called to part with the child whom she loved so well. It was the thought of her little one's happiness that soothed her sorrowing heart; she looked round on the splendid dwelling that might one day have been her son's, and repeated the poor woman's words, "My baby is heir to something better."

After some time, God comforted the poor lady by giving her another child. There were great rejoicings in the squire's house when a second heir was born; bonfires were lighted, tenants were feasted, and an ox was roasted whole. Mrs. Knight was again a happy and thankful mother. But she never forgot her first little treasure, whose picture with his dog on his knee, hung just opposite to the seat in her own quiet room where the lady used often to read the Bible. And when in her reading she came to an account of "an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven," she would lift up her tearful eyes to the picture, and with a grateful heart would say, "Yes, earth's wealth and honours must pass away; thank God, through Christ, my baby was heir to something better!"

XVI.

THE TWO PETS.

A FABLE.

"AH, Poll! Poll!" cried the little spaniel Fidele to the new favourite of the family. "How every one likes you and pets you!"

"No wonder," replied the parrot, cocking her head on one side with a very conceited air. "Just see how pretty I am! With your rough hairy coat, and your turned-up nose, who would look at you beside me! Just observe my plumage of crimson and green, and the fine feather head-dress which I wear!"

"Yes, you are a beauty," said Fidele, "that I'm only an ugly little dog."

"Then how clever I am," continued Miss Parrot, after a nibble at her biscuit. "No human beings are likely to care for you, for you can't speak one word of their language."

"I wish that I could learn it," said Fidele.

"You've only to copy me." And then in her harsh grating voice the parrot cried, "What's o'clock?"

"Bow-wow!" barked Fidele.

"Do your duty!" screamed the bird.

"Bow-wow!" barked the dog.

"There's not a chance that any one will ever care for you, ugly stupid spaniel," cried Miss Poll. "You may just creep off to your kennel, you are not fit company for a learned beauty like me."

Poor Fidele made no complaint, but he felt sad as he trotted off to his corner. Before Poll's arrival at the Hall, the spaniel had been the favourite playmate of all Mrs. Donathorn's children. They had taught him to fetch and carry, to toss up a biscuit placed on his nose and catch it cleverly in his mouth, or to jump into the water and bring a stick that had been flung to ever so great a distance.

But as soon as pretty Poll came, no one seemed to care for Fidele any more. To teach the parrot to speak was the great delight of the children. They shouted and clapped their hands when she screamed out "Pretty Poll," "What's o'clock?" or, "Do your duty." Stupid Fidele! He could not be taught to speak. Ugly Fidele! Who could for a moment compare him to a beautiful parrot? So all the kind words, and soft pats, and sweet biscuits, were given to Poll. It is true that she made little Tommy once cry out with pain from a bite from her sharp beak—and that the least thing that displeased her would make her ruffle up her feathers in a very ill-tempered way, but still she was petted and praised for her cleverness and her beauty; and she quite despised poor Fidele, who was nothing but an ugly hairy dog.

One fine summer's day, the children carried the stand of their favourite to the bank of the pretty little river which flowed through their mother's grounds. Bessy and Jemmy amused themselves by feeding and chatting with the parrot, while little Tommy gathered daisies and buttercups, or rolled about on the grass. No one cared for Fidele; no one noticed what he was doing.

Presently Bessy and Jemmy were startled by a scream, and then a sudden splashing noise in the water. Poor little Tommy, eager to pull some blue forget-me-nots which grew quite close to the brink, had overbalanced himself and tumbled right into the stream. Oh, what was the terror of the children when they heard the splash, and saw the wide circles on the water where their poor little brother was sinking.

"Do your duty!" screamed the parrot, merely talking by rote, and not caring a feather for the danger of the child, or the distress of his brother and sister.

At that moment, there was heard another splash in the water, and then the brown nose and hairy back of Fidele were seen in the stream, as the little dog swam with all his might to save the drowning child. He caught little Tommy by his clothes; he pulled—he tugged—he dragged him towards the shore, just within reach of the eagerly stretched-out hands of Jemmy.

"Oh, he is saved! He is saved!" cried Bessy, as Tommy was dragged out of the river, dripping, choking, spluttering, crying, but not seriously hurt.

He was instantly carried back to the house, undressed, and put into a warm bed; and the little one was soon none the worse for his terrible ducking and fright.

"Oh, you dear—you darling dog!" cried Bessy, as she caught up Fidele, all wet as he was, and hugged him with grateful affection. "I will always love you, and care for you, for you were a true friend in need."

"Pretty Poll!" screamed the parrot, who did not like any one to be noticed but herself.

"Fidele is better than pretty; he is brave, and useful, and good," cried Bessy.

"Do your duty!" screamed out Miss Poll.

"Ah, Poll, Poll, it is one thing to prate about duty, and another thing to 'do it,'" said Bessy. "Fine words are good, to be sure, but 'fine acts' are a great deal better."

MORAL.

Beauty and cleverness may win much notice for a time, but it is he who is faithful, good, and true, who is valued and loved at the end.

XVII.

THE TWO STANDARD MEASURES.

"MAMMA, how tall was that great giant of whom papa was telling us?" said Harry, who, after standing with his back to the door, a pencil in one hand, and a ruler in the other, was busily engaged in examining some marks which he had made on the panel.

"He was nearly seven feet high, I believe," replied Mrs. Prince, without raising her eyes from her work.

"And how tall do you think that I am?" said the little boy, with a look of conscious pride.

"You? I should say about four feet, my dear."

"I am 'eight' feet high!" cried Harry, with exultation.

"Impossible!"

"I have just measured myself, mamma."

"You must have measured wrong."

"Oh I have been very careful; see, here is the mark for each foot up the door—one, two, four, six, eight."

"But what is your standard measure, Harry?" said his mother with a smile.

"This pretty little ruler, 'that I made for myself,'" cried the child, exhibiting his pasteboard measure, neatly marked with divisions for the inches, "but only half the proper length!" "You see, dear mamma, that I am taller than the giant!"

"Foolish child!" you say, and I should say so too, did I not fear that half the world act exactly as he did. We are all too apt to make our standard measures for ourselves, laying aside "the only true one," which we find in the Bible; and thus we often deem ourselves sensible and good, when our wisdom is folly, our actions full of sin.

The Bible tells us that "holiness" is absolutely necessary. "There is no need to be so very particular," cries the world. The Bible declares that we shall be judged for "every idle word." "My words are my own!" says the trifler.

It is clear that there are "two standard measures" before us: one short and easy, the other long and trying; one that makes us seem like giants, the other like dwarfs. Thus we are too ready to choose the standard "of our own making," and wilfully to deceive our own hearts. But oh! Let us ask ourselves one solemn question—"By which standard shall we be measured at the last day?"