Chapter II: Learning Wise Lessons

"WHAT a dear old woman that is," exclaimed Mrs. Powell's younger servant, Sarah, when Ann Crompton had left the house. "It is nice to hear her talk. She makes one want to be good. If my mother had been more of her sort I should have been a better girl to-day."

"I thought you had a good mother," said Elizabeth.

"Well, she was good, in a way. She taught us to clean and scrub, she made us keep ourselves neat and mend our clothes, and such-like, and she scolded and slapped us into the bargain, with no light hand, if we wanted twice telling. We had to mind what she said, I can tell you. But she was very sharp in her words and ways. We got plenty of threats and not many promises, plenty of vinegar and little sugar. She took care we went to Sunday-school too, and, if we were a bit late, she sent us to bed again and kept us there all day. It was being driven to school and punished over it that made me determine I would never go another day after I got away from home. I should have been fond of it but for mother, and I liked my teacher, only I gave up because I liked having my own way better than anything else. It seemed nice to show mother that I was too old to be driven here and there, whether I wanted to go or not. I wish old Ann Crompton was coming to stop here. I believe she would make a better girl of me. She's so kind."

Truly kindness is a wonderful power. This wilful girl, whom her mistress could not trust, though she was cleanly, clever, and keen-witted, well able to do her work, and yet ready to evade orders just because, after a long course of driving, she found it pleasant to rebel—this girl felt that she could place herself like wax in the hands of the old, loving-hearted Christian, to be moulded into something better. She had not been used to think that she needed changing, but it was the seeing Ann Crompton as she was that first put into her mind the notion that her own ways might be improved.

And Mrs. Powell had not heard Ann's story in vain. The first to feel the effects of it on her mistress's mind was Elizabeth.

The girl had been a faithful servant. She was most unwilling to cause her mistress any trouble, but what could she do when the father wrote and begged that she would come to the suffering mother and neglected home?

Elizabeth half hoped that by telling Mrs. Powell why she felt bound to leave her service, the lady would be moved to dispense with the usual notice, and bid her go at once to those who had the first claim upon her. But no; instead of this, Mrs. Powell was annoyed at her wanting to go at all, and spoke little to Elizabeth, who now found it hard to please her.

The mistress was cold and curt; the maid sorrowful at heart, and full of anxious thoughts about her parents. Her looks showed that, for the first time, she found her work a burden, because of the heavy heart she carried as she went about it.

Whilst Ann Crompton was in the kitchen, she managed to speak some encouraging words to poor Elizabeth, and even to turn Sarah's saucy ways and ready jokes to some account.

"Bless you, child," she said, with a benevolent look at the girl's laughing face; "it's a good thing to enjoy a laugh now and then. I'm glad I haven't forgotten how to laugh yet, though I'm an old woman. Still 'Merry and wise' is a good motto. Folks sometimes laugh at wrong things. Mind, my dear, never you laugh if anybody tries to turn God's Word into a joke: put that sort of thing down, and have no friendship with those that do it. And don't you laugh at any joke that makes you feel 'shamed of having listened to it, and sends the hot colour into your cheeks, and forces you to turn away your head. We have to mind what sort of jokes we enjoy."

The warning words were said so pleasantly that they went home to Sarah's heart. Instead of "flying up," as she was wont to do at a sharp word from her mother, or the milder fault-finding of Mrs. Powell, the girl nodded her head assentingly, thanked Ann for her advice, and said, "I'll try to remember your rule. I have often felt vexed at myself for laughing at speeches that were not so very nice, when one came to look into them. I'm only a giddy thing, not like Elizabeth here, but I can bear to be spoken to when folks speak in the right way as you do."

The effect of Ann's story on Mrs. Powell was this: whilst the old woman was letting her humble light shine in the kitchen, the mistress of the house was on her knees seeking light and guidance from God.

She was feeling very much ashamed of herself. She had been calling her faithful servant "selfish," when the girl was giving up her own worldly interests at the call of filial duty. She had been fancying herself a very ill-used person, with more than her share of worries, just because there was a chance that her trip to the seaside might be deferred. She had made the morning meal uncomfortable to her good husband by her frowning face, her fretful words, her magnifying of a little molehill of trouble into a mountain. She had sent him away to meet his business cares, and the work belonging thereto, with the added weight of all her household difficulties as an extra burden.

Until she heard Ann's story she never thought of taking her domestic worries amongst the "all things" to the Throne of Grace. Never thought of asking that one of God's servants might be sent to fill the place that Elizabeth was about to leave.

Now, Mrs. Powell felt a longing to tell out her requests unto God, and the first prayer she offered was that her murmurings, fretful tempers, hasty judgments, and needless fault-finding might be forgiven. Next she prayed for grace to put away the spirit of selfishness that had made her consider only her own convenience, and that she might have a tender heart and the desire to bear the burdens of those around her, and so fulfil the law of Christ.

A little later Elizabeth was summoned by her mistress. She entered the room in some fear, for of late, no matter how much she tried, she had often failed to give satisfaction. But the kind look on Mrs. Powell's face encouraged her, and she could hardly believe her ears when her mistress said, "Elizabeth, I have been thinking about your wish to go home. I can understand how anxious you must be about your mother. Tell me plainly. Do you want to go to her at once?"

The girl burst into tears.

"O ma'am," she said, "you cannot think how grateful I should be if you could set me at liberty. I have been so miserable about poor mother, thinking that she is not getting the care and attention she needs. If she were to die I should never—"

The girl's voice was choked by sobs, and she was unable to finish the sentence, but Mrs. Powell guessed her meaning.

"Dry your tears, Elizabeth," she said, kindly. "You have been a faithful servant, and I do not wish to prove a hard mistress. You shall go home to-morrow."

"I shall be so glad!" cried the girl, her face brightening at the prospect. "Thank you so much, ma'am, for putting yourself to inconvenience for me. I do wish I could see some way whereby I could go without you having any trouble or being obliged to put off your journey; nothing but illness at home would make me think of leaving at such a time. And if I should be free to take a place again, and you could take me back without hurting any one else, I should be thankful to come."

"And I should be glad to have you, Elizabeth. Now I feel it would be wrong for me to stand in your way. Besides, I shall not be left without any one, and I can easily obtain daily assistance. We may have to put off our visit to the seaside, but never mind this. Go and pack your boxes. I hope you may find your mother better than you expect to do."

Elizabeth went quietly out of the room, but she hurried to the kitchen in order to tell her good news.

"I shall be sorry to lose you," said Sarah. "I'm not sure whether I shall—"

"Don't say you mean to give notice," interrupted Elizabeth. "Now don't. This is just the time when you might show what you can do, and be a comfort in the house. You are strong and able, and you know how work should be done, and I have heard the mistress say that if only—"

"If only you could have had patience to hear me out, you would have found that giving notice was one of the things farthest from my thoughts," said Sarah, in her independent way. "I know well enough what mistress has said. I've heard it often, and I don't want it over again. She has astonished me to-day. I had begun to think that she was one of those ladies who fancied servants ought to have no human feelings, no love nor longing after those they have left behind, and that love them, such as your poor mother. I had been saying to myself, 'If it had been the mistress's mother no train would have been quick enough to carry her to her old home. But as it is Elizabeth's, she must wait a month before she goes, get nothing but cross looks, and maybe find her mother dead or given up, when she gets there.'"

"Now don't you say another word," for Elizabeth seemed on the point of speaking. "You have interrupted me once, and I have done the same by you, so we are straight. But taking the words out of one another's mouths isn't good manners, for all that. Mark what I say now, and then go and pack up your things. The mistress has astonished me, and I'm going to astonish her. There! Mind if I don't find a way out of this seaside business that will make all straight." Sarah gave Elizabeth no chance of replying, but whisked out of the kitchen with a merry laugh.

"She might do so well, if only she would always keep right side out," thought Elizabeth, as she went upstairs to prepare for her journey on the morrow.

She understood Sarah better than most did, and felt hopeful about the girl, knowing that beneath her rough and ready manner and careless words, she hid deeper feelings, and might be influenced for good, by the kindness of which as a child she had experienced so small a share.

When Mr. Powell returned home he was agreeably surprised to notice the change that had taken place in his wife's looks during his absence.

No cloud upon the sweet bright face uplifted to his with a welcoming kiss. No trace of the fretful tone which had embittered her morning farewell.

She might know nothing of the little daily troubles which beset the paths both of young and old housekeepers, for she made no allusion to her own.

All through the dinner it was the same. As if to make up for the gloom which had hung over the breakfast-table, Mrs. Powell gave her husband a double portion of sunshine.

Instead of airing household matters, she asked questions about her husband's doings, and listened to all he had to tell with affectionate interest.

It was only when the meal was over, and the two were seated side by side, that Mr. Powell said:

"By the way, did old Ann come to see you? I did not forget your commission."

"Yes, dear, she came, and, without knowing it, taught me a lesson which I trust I shall never forget."

Mrs. Powell then repeated the old woman's story to her husband, and when she came to the end of it added, "I think I never saw myself in the same light before, as I did whilst Ann was speaking. The dear old woman's cheerful submission to what must have been a great disappointment; her patient waiting for the help which she felt sure God would send in answer to her prayer; her simple, childlike faith in His promises, as day by day she looked with confidence for daily bread; her contentment with the little portion of this world's goods which He had been pleased to allot to her; the finding good in whatever He chose to ordain for her, and her gratitude to the earthly friends who had ministered to her wants out of their little means;—all these things showed me how selfish, hard, and unkind I was towards my neighbours, as well as unthankful for the abounding blessings I enjoy. I had been cross and fretful because Elizabeth wanted to go to her sick mother, and had accused her of being selfish, when all the while I deserved the blame and she the praise. She preferred duty to ease and comfort without anxiety. Instead of cheering and encouraging her, I made the poor girl's task harder by my cold looks and fault-finding. Yet Elizabeth really cares for me, and is now grieving at the thought of causing me inconvenience.

"I grumbled because our seaside trip might be put off, and settled in my own mind that if it were we should have no fine weather later on. Thus I met sorrow half way.

"Ann Crompton bore the loss of her one day's trip—think, Edward, the only day's outing in all the year—without a murmur. Yet the morning which should have seen her on her way to the seaside, found her lying alone, helpless and in great pain, with an almost empty purse and cupboard, and with no claim of relationship on any human being near her. Yet in that little bare room she sunned herself in the light of God's presence and faithfulness, and waited for what He should send.

"I, who have so much, murmured and fretted and sent my dear kind husband away with the memory of my complaining words and clouded brow. She lay repeating to herself words of hope and encouragement, and willing to welcome with a smile the first friend who should enter for her relief.

"What do you think of these two pictures, Edward? Do you wonder that I feel ashamed of myself when I contrast my conduct with poor Ann Crompton's?"

"My darling," replied Mr. Powell, "I think I am a very happy husband, for I have a dear wife, who, though she does make mistakes, is not ashamed to learn wise lessons from a very humble teacher. Not ashamed either to own where she has done wrong, but thankful she may carry all her cares to One who careth for her, and will give her pardon, peace, strength, and guidance according to her need. And I think, too, that though I gave the message from you which brought old Ann to talk with you, surely God's Holy Spirit enabled her to speak and you to receive a message which has been as good seed, and has already brought forth good fruit."

Mr. Powell's loving arm had drawn his wife's head to his breast, and he bent and kissed her tenderly. After a little pause he asked what she had done about Elizabeth, and heard, with true pleasure, that the girl was to leave on the following morning.

"Then have you heard of some one to take her place?" asked Mr. Powell.

"Not yet, Edward. If I do not, or whether or no, I must follow Ann's example—pray for the right person and trust. Sarah is capable enough to fill a temporary gap, and I can get help in the daytime. Perhaps I may manage Sarah better if I try."

Mrs. Powell did not know what effect her kindness to Elizabeth had already produced on the more headstrong younger girl, and was a little surprised to notice with what energy she worked on the following morning.

She gave her an encouraging smile, and said, "I think you are trying to do double work, Sarah. I like to see this, because Elizabeth has many little matters to do before she goes, and I should not like her to be harassed and hurried."

"She has been very pleasant to live with, ma'am," replied Sarah, "and I can do anything for those that are kind to me."

Mrs. Powell smiled at the girl's earnestness, and did not forget her words. They were brought home to her mind still more by what Elizabeth said when she came to bid her mistress good-bye.

"If you will excuse me, ma'am, I should like to speak a word for Sarah. I do believe she wants to do right, and has made up her mind to keep her best side out, and deserve to be trusted. But she is a girl that has been too much driven and too seldom led, and she cannot do with driving. I think if you would encourage her and seem as if you trusted her, it would go a great way towards making her deserve your confidence."

"Thank you for the hint. I will not forget it. Now, good-bye, and I do hope you will be able to send me better news of your mother. I shall look for a line to tell me of your safe arrival."

Elizabeth's eyes were full of tears, but they were not all sorrowful ones. She was sorry to leave, but truly glad of the manner of parting with her mistress, for she said to herself, "It would have grieved me to see her look anything but kind and friendly." So cheered by encouraging words and pleasant looks, Sarah did wonders, and deserved the praise which Mrs. Powell was not slow to give.

Elizabeth's place was not filled, as it was most important that a reliable person should be left as joint-housekeeper with Sarah, and the right one had not been found. In three days the Powells ought to go to the seaside, or all their plans would need to be changed.

"You have been such a good trustworthy girl since Elizabeth left that I have no fear of leaving you, but you must have some person in the house with you," said Mrs. Powell to Sarah.

"I could do the work well enough," replied the girl; "and if there was just somebody in the house for company, perhaps we might have Elizabeth back by the time you and master want to come home."

"It is the 'somebody' I wish to find, Sarah," said Mrs. Powell.

"Do you think Ann Crompton would come herself, ma'am?" asked the girl.

There was a wistful look in Sarah's face which surprised her mistress. "Should you like to have Ann? I never thought of asking her, though I should be glad for her to come, because I scarcely thought you and she would get on together."

"I would rather have her than anybody else," said Sarah; and moved by something in Mrs. Powell's manner, the girl told her how she had been impressed by the words and ways of the cheerful old Christian, during the short time she spent in the kitchen.

"I have always thought since that day I should be better for hearing and seeing her, so if it will suit you, ma'am, please let her come."

Sarah little knew that the influence which had been felt by her in the kitchen had produced still greater effect upon her mistress in the parlour.

Ann, however, did come to be Sarah's companion for a month, and with the best results to all concerned. The change did her good, for Mrs. Powell's house being outside the town, the air in its neighbourhood was very different from that which Ann breathed in the little court where she usually passed her days. A month spent within hearing of the song of birds and the sight of fields, trees and flowers! Why, it seemed like heaven to old Ann Crompton.

"I lost a day's outing, and God has given me a whole month instead," she said, as, hour by hour, she thanked Him for His goodness to her.

She and the girl, so unlike her to begin with, became fast friends. Sarah learned her need of a Saviour by God's blessing on this old disciple's teaching, and having found Him in Jesus Christ, she is striving to follow the example of His most holy life. She has to fight many a battle with her headstrong temper and wilful habits, but she is cheered and encouraged by the friend who, though weak in body, is "strong in the Lord and in the power of His might."

And Sarah's hopes about Elizabeth have been fulfilled. The mother has been raised from her sick bed, and is once more able to attend to her family, and Mrs. Powell receives more devoted service than ever from the girl whom she joyfully welcomed back again, when, filial duty done, she could return to her place with a quiet conscience.

IT IS MOTHER'S WAY.

"IF you please, ma'am, you did not tell me how I was to set the table, so I did it mother's way."

The speaker was Mrs. Glover's new servant, a tidy-looking little maid, whose youth would have led any mistress to suppose that she had nearly everything to learn. But as Mrs. Glover glanced at the neatly-arranged breakfast-table she had a pleasant surprise. The most experienced waiting damsel could not have laid it more to her satisfaction.

She was going to praise the new servant in warm terms, but she paused before uttering the words which first came to mind, and only said, "It will do very nicely, Mary. Now bring in the kettle. Your master will be down directly."

Mrs. Glover, though a wife of not quite a year's standing, had already changed her one servant three times. She was beginning to talk as older mistresses do, about their domestics being the "plague of one's life," "necessary evils," and so on, and wishing she could do without altogether.

Ellen Dixon, the new girl, had entered on her duties the night before, and Mrs. Glover's was her first place. The lady had told her that she should be down early enough to show her how to lay the table for the eight o'clock breakfast. But she was not, and so the little maid had done her best, and her mistress was fain to own that the best was very neat indeed. She glanced round the room and thought how orderly it looked, and was going to say so. She paused, and instead of uttering further encouraging words, she bethought herself of past experiences, and of "new brooms," and only wished the present state of things might last.

Much to her surprise, things went on better as the little maid became more used to her place, and instead of having to teach, Mrs. Glover found herself a learner.

"Please, ma'am, where shall I find the dust-covers?" was Ellen's question when she was going to clean the grate in the best sitting-room.

"What do you mean, Ellen?"

Ellen blushed as if she had done wrong. "We had some old sheets like at home to put over our parlour things when the floor was swept and the grate raked. Mother said the things got more spoiled with brushing dust off than with using; so she patched some pieces of old stuff together to throw over them. They kept the dust off nicely. But we are forced to take care of our things. It was just mother's way."

"And a very good way, Ellen. We will have dust-sheets too," said Mrs. Glover, and the covers were soon ready.

Again the mistress noticed the care with which the fire was laid so as to last, and Ellen's economy in the matter of cinders. The girl looked pleased when her mistress said, "Ellen, you are the first servant I have had who took any trouble about making a fire to suit the weather. Often I have come down when it was bitterly cold, and there was scarcely a spark to be seen. Then, when the morning was warm, I have found a fire large enough to cook a family's dinner; and I always before found cinders thrown on the dust-heap; I am glad you have learned to take care of them."

"We had to be careful at home," said Ellen. "Mother used to make the coals last as long as she could, and she taught us to see if it was warm or cold before we made fire up. We learned to do it her way."

"That girl never has to go hunting about the house for things," said Mr. Glover, as he noticed the new girl's movements with much satisfaction. "Ask for what you may, if Ellen has had the handling of it, she never needs to seek it or keep any one waiting."

Mrs. Glover thought she might now safely say words of encouragement to Ellen, so she repeated her husband's commendation.

The girl's face brightened as she answered, "I am so glad master is pleased, and so will mother be when I tell her. She always told me if I put a thing in its place when I had done with it, I should find it there when it was wanted; that nothing wasted so much time as seeking for what ought not to have been lost."

"I am sure you must have a good mother, Ellen."

"Oh, dear yes, ma'am! But she was never good to us by letting us have all our own way, but by learning us her way. She said she could not give us any money, but she must try and make us servants that would be worth keeping. We didn't always like mother's way best," added Ellen, frankly, "because if we did not do our work according to her showing, we had to do it over again. But we learned in time, and it seems as if I couldn't get out of mother's way now."

"I would not try if I were you, Ellen," said. Mrs. Glover, with a kindly smile. "You are a fortunate girl in having had such a teacher in your mother."

Quarter-day came, and the little maid received her first wages. She looked at the two golden sovereigns with all the delight natural to one who has honestly earned what has been cheerfully paid.

"Let me see," she said, thinking aloud in her mistress's hearing. "One must go to mother. She did not want me to send her any of my wages, but I know she ought to have this and more, because it cost her a good bit to fit me out when I was coming."

"Can you spare so much, Ellen?" asked Mrs. Glover.

"Oh yes, ma'am. My things are not a bit worse; mother taught me to mend a hole when it is little. She says nothing grows faster than holes. Then there will be ten shillings to go in the savings bank," she continued, as if her calculations had not been interrupted.

"Why, Ellen, have you begun to save already?"

"Mother begun for us when we were very little," replied Ellen. "Not with much, but then it was a start. She could not lay by more than a copper or two at a time, but it got us in the way of taking care of pence. I always promised her that I would save something whenever I got my wages, and I would never buy a penn'orth unless I had a penny to pay for it with. 'Do that and you'll be rich,' mother said. 'Spend less than you earn, and pay for what you get, and you'll keep out of money troubles.'"

"Anything else in the business way?" asked Mrs. Glover, who was equally amused and interested in Ellen's doings, and who, to say the truth, was learning some important lessons from what the girl told about "mother's way."

Ellen blushed and hesitated, then said slowly, "Mother told me never to forget what I owed to God, and I promised that, besides saving a bit, I would always give a bit out of my wages, whether they were little or much."

Mrs. Glover did not ask what part was to be thus devoted, but she was well assured that it would be in fair proportion to the girl's means. She said a few encouraging words to her, promised to write and let Ellen's mother know how well her daughter practised the lessons she had taught her, and then she asked, "Is there anything you have to say to me? Are you quite satisfied in your place?"

There was plainly something that Ellen wished to say, for her cheeks turned first red, then white, and her eyes filled with tears. At last it came out—

"Oh, please, ma'am, at home father used to read a chapter and pray before we went to bed at nights. Mother did in the morning, because he had to go to work so soon. And we learned verses and hymns, and mother heard us say them; but now no one hears me, or talks about these things as mother did."

The girl stopped, afraid to say more. There was no need, for the lesson went home, and it was not the first on that particular quarter-day.

Mrs. Glover had not been very particular about paying for things as she got them. Love of pretty bonnets and dresses had induced her to spend just a trifle more than her income, and she found herself a little in debt. She had never considered that a portion of her means should be devoted to God's service; and as to family prayer, with just three or sometimes only two in the house, she had never dreamed of such a thing.

She began to ponder the words of her little maid. Then she went to her room, and though no human eye followed her, there was One who both saw and heard her tearful face and the prayer for pardon and guidance.

When her husband came home Mrs. Glover told him all that was in her heart, and how the new desires and resolutions had come there. He clasped her lovingly to his own, kissed away her tears, forgave the little extravagances into which she had been tempted, and said, "We will turn over a new leaf, darling, and we will do it at once."

So Ellen was called in to listen whilst the master read from God's Word and then prayed, pleading that they might have the blessing promised to the two or three gathered in His name. From that night master, mistress, and servant knelt together. Years passed on. Children were born in the house. Mr. Glover's means increased, and more servants were needed; but the one most trusted of all was Ellen Dixon.

"We should like you to have charge of the children next to ourselves," said Mr. and Mrs. Glover. "We know you will not teach them anything but what is right."

"They are our most precious treasures," said the mother, as she looked on her sleeping baby, and smiled as Ellen used the old familiar words.

"I have not had much to do with children lately, but I will do my best for the dear little things. I shall try and remember mother's way of managing them—" with which Mrs. Glover was quite content.

Mothers! you cannot tell how much good you may do by teaching your children wise lessons and leading them in the right way whilst they are young and willing to be guided by you.

Take care that in after-life, when they go out into the world, or are at the head of home of their own, they may never be able to say of any wrong habits, "I learned it of mother, it was mother's way;" but may your names be ever joined to happy memories of wise words, pious training, and a good example.

NOTHING BEATS TRYING BUT DOING.

"SHE'S as good as she is pretty, and as pretty as she is good." This was the opinion of Oakvale people respecting the minister's youngest daughter, Amy Fleming. Very bright and lovable she must have been, or the cottage children would not have thrown down toys, abandoned games, and rushed in her direction as soon as the flutter of Miss Amy's garment could be discerned in the distance.

When on a visiting expedition she was sure to be surrounded by a motley bodyguard, each member of which was desirous that the dwelling of his or her parents should have the honour of a first call from their favourite.

It was sometimes rather inconvenient to be so much liked, for the owners of dirty little faces insisted on being kissed, and small hands, equally removed from cleanliness, stroked down Miss Amy's dresses without the previous ceremony of washing the sticky fingers.

Amongst all her acquaintance, however, Bob Marsh was perhaps the most devoted, and in many ways the most unfortunate. His doings and misdoings were the cause of more talk, censure, and head-shakings than those of all the other Oakvale boys put together.

Bob was the only son of a widowed mother, and the only brother of four small girls, all much younger than himself. A fine, well-grown, handsome lad, who ought to have been the comfort of his parent, but unfortunately he was always in some scrape or other. If he took up a stone and threw it, he was sure to break a window. If he climbed a tree he came down at one step and hurt himself, or else tore his garments to ribbons, and had to retire into private life—namely, to bed—until they were mended.

But who can go through the list? Other lads seemed to do the same thing, play the same pranks, and come off scot-free, while Bob was always in trouble. Mother watered Bob's rags with nightly tears, as she sat up to mend them for the morrow. Granny said lads were never like that in her young days, and was sure he would come to a bad end. The village gossips talked at him as he slunk home wet, out of the ditch he had jumped into instead of over, and pitied his poor mother for having such a son.

To tell a person, young or old, that he is on the high road to ruin, hopelessly bad, a plague to everybody, and of no use or comfort to anybody, is not the way to mend him. On the contrary, it is pretty sure to give him a push in the wrong direction.

Bob had heard such remarks dinned into his ears at every turn for a good while, but one evening an event happened which made matters worse than ever. He was not given to crying, but his cheeks were wet with tears, and as he entered the cottage he looked the picture of misery. He had been turned away from his situation as pig-tender by Farmer Oliver.

Neither mother nor granny waited to ask any questions, but took it for granted that Bob was to blame, and scolded accordingly. They only knew one fact: a little pig, one of his charges, had lost its life— a thing that happens to most pigs sooner or later, only this was sooner, and altogether at the wrong time, and in the wrong way; so Farmer Oliver, sharing the bad opinion of the villagers generally, had first cuffed Bob soundly, and then sent him off with a warning not to show his face on his premises again.

The poorest and most miserable of human beings is rarely quite friendless. Bob had one friend in Miss Amy, and, fortunately for him, she was on her way to his mother's cottage when he entered it in disgrace after his dismissal. If he had but known this! Had he not been in her class at the Sunday-school, and so loth to leave it for a higher, that he had purposely bungled over his lessons and played the dunce so as to stay amongst the little ones and with his beloved teacher?

Miss Amy had found him out, of course, and brought him then and there to tears and penitence. But though he had gone to another class and among the elder boys, he always felt that he belonged to Miss Amy, and she was the one being who ever encouraged and comforted poor Bob.

It was like sunshine to see her enter the cottage now. First she softened mother by telling her that Bob, though rash, thoughtless, and consequently always in hot water, was not such a bad fellow at the bottom. "He was in my class for four years, and no person ever knew Bob tell a lie, say a bad word, or ill-use or tease a child younger than himself," she said.

Then she made granny happy by presenting her with some flannel and a packet of tea, and insisted afterwards that some day she would be proud of her grandson Bob. "He has the making of a fine fellow in him," she continued, "only there's a great deal of smoothing and shaping to be done before the material can be seen to advantage."

However much mothers may scold their own lads, or grandmothers predict evil, the former do not like others to grumble at their offspring any more than do the latter wish their prophecies to come true. Mrs. Marsh's forehead lost its frown as she listened to Miss Amy; and granny for once gave the lad a more kindly look, and hoped the young lady would turn out right in the long run. "Now come with me," said Miss Amy to Bob; "I must try and get Farmer Oliver to take you on again."

"He won't, miss; it's no good," said Bob, hanging back. But he had to go, for there was no resisting Miss Amy. She could not, however, succeed in taking him into the farmer's presence, for Bob had such a lively recollection of the cuffing he had received, that he ran away and hid behind a hedge.

How Miss Amy managed to persuade the farmer—whom she met driving home his own pigs, and very angry at having to do it—to take back Bob and give him one more chance, would take too long to tell. But she did it, and more, for she proved to him that on this particular occasion Bob had really done his best for his unruly flock, only a ferocious dog had proved too much for the young drover, and the one little pig had been the sacrifice.

"I'm afraid, Miss Amy, I was too hasty," replied Farmer Oliver; "but everybody gives that Bob a bad name, and when I saw the pig worried I took it for granted it was his fault. Pigs are not the easiest things to manage, and you know that old saying, 'Give a dog a bad name.' I'm afraid I acted on it in turning off Bob. He may come in the morning, and we'll say no more about it."

Miss Amy thought the farmer ought to say something more, but she shook hands with him, thanked him heartily, and ran off to tell Bob the good news.

"I can't do any good. Everybody says so—mother, and granny, and the neighbours. They don't listen to me, and when I tell the truth they don't believe me. There's only you, Miss Amy, that does not think I am bad on purpose. They all say I am good for nothing. I can't do right," sobbed the lad.

"Not of yourself, Bob—I know that well enough. No more can I. But you can pray, Bob, and you can try. You surely have not forgotten all your old Sunday-school lessons. Don't you remember that the Saviour who says, 'ask,' promises that we shall have? The best people in the world will tell you that they get their strength and comfort through going to Jesus. They always say, 'I can't,' until He shows them how to do right, and then they are like St. Paul, full of joy, and cry, 'I can do all things through Christ.' So can you, Bob, and you must begin from this very minute."

And Bob did begin. His dear old yet young teacher, cheered him on, prayed with him, talked with him, and to other people about him, until at last the village folk began to discover that there was good in Bob Marsh after all.

He has lost his bad name now, but he always says that he turned the right corner, and started on the new and happier road, on the night that Miss Amy persuaded him to say, "I'll try," instead of "I can't."

WILLIAM RIDER AND SON, PRINTERS, LONDON.