"But could you not have put forth some leaves, at least, and made a more pleasing appearance?" inquired her sister.

"No: it took all my strength to strike into the earth. I hope to see the time when no one will be ashamed of my appearance."

The vain vine grew quite thoughtful. Was she, after all, ahead of her sister? Was a good external appearance the sure sign of merit?

These questions kept her busy for many days. She reasoned them in her mind, but did not act on the lesson they taught. She, too, would like to have made preparation for seasons of drought, but her pride stood in the way. She feared to lose her lovely foliage; and the month sped on.

Another year came. The earth was parched: no rain fell on the dry plants and leaves. The once lovely vine lost all her foliage, while her sister was full of leaves and promise of fruit.

"I declare," said the gardener, "it does seem strange. I expected this vine had lost all its life; yet it is now bright and vigorous, while the one I looked to for much fruit is fast fading. What can be the reason?"

Later in the season, the vine which had worked so long out of sight had the pleasure of seeing not only the table of its owner supplied with delicious fruits from its branches, but also of hearing the gardener remark to visitors that the sick and feeble of the neighborhood were strengthened and refreshed by the cooling grapes which she had, through so much exertion brought forth.

The other vine bore no fruit, and had to be pruned severely; but pride stood no longer in the way of her progress. She began to send forth her fibres into the earth, as her sister had done. It was hard at first for her to be obliged to listen to the praises of one whom she considered her inferior; but she at length attained that glorious height which enables us to rejoice when the earth has been made richer, no matter by whom or by what means.



XV.

IN THE WORLD.

A parent who loved his son more wisely than most earthly parents, and who longed to see him crowned with the light of wisdom, felt that he must send him afar from himself to gather immortal truth: and his heart was moved with a deeper grief at the thought that he must send him forth alone, and unprovided with means to procure his daily sustenance; for only thus could he learn the lessons which were necessary for his soul's development.

The boy lay sleeping upon a soft white bed: his hands were folded peacefully upon his breast. Hard was the task the father knew was his,—to break that sleep, that slumber so profound, and send his boy out into a cold and selfish world. But, shaking off the tremor and the weakness of his soul, he said, "Arise, my son: I must send you forth upon a long and dangerous journey to gather truths to light your soul; and you must go without the means to procure your bread and shelter. It grieves my heart, my son, that all this must be so; but yet I know the journey must be taken, and all its dangers and privations met. My prayers and blessings will go with you, child, through all your scenes."

The astonished son gazed on his father's face. The parent turned and wept; then, wiping away the fast-falling tears, he said, "I do not wonder at your earnest, curious gaze, you who have so long lived in the bosom of my love; but there are lessons that must be learned by every human soul. I cannot tell you what these lessons are: they must be experienced, else gladly would I spare you the toil, and myself the pain of parting."

The boy looked sad as he thought of the perils and exposures to which he should be subjected, without means to procure the least comfort.

The night shades fell on the earth. Only a glimmer of daylight tinged the sky when father and son parted, the one for action, the other to endure and wait his return.

The journey for many days lay over cheerless hills and barren plains; and many a tear was brushed from that young cheek by the hand which his father had so warmly pressed at parting.

At the close of a dark, stormy day, weary and faint for food, he was about to lie down on the damp grass, overcome with weariness, when he espied an elegant edifice a little way beyond.

"I will travel on," he said hopefully; "for surely, in such a mansion, I shall find protection and food for my famished body."

It took much longer to reach it than he expected; but at last, with torn and bleeding feet, he came to the broad avenue which led to the dwelling.

"What magnificence!" he exclaimed. "How glad I am that my father sent me hither to see such wondrous things!" With hope beaming in every feature, he approached the door and knocked.

It was opened by one whose voice and face exhibited no sign of welcome. He cast an impatient glance upon the traveler, who shrank abashed and trembling from so rude a gaze.

"Can I find food and shelter here?" he asked, his voice tremulous with emotion.

The door was shut upon him.

It was not the cold of the piercing storm which he felt then, but the chill of an inhospitable soul. It froze the warm current of hope that, a few moments before, had leaped so wildly in his veins; and he went forth from the elegant mansion, and sat upon the ground and wept.

"O father! why did you send your child so far away to meet the harsh and cruel treatment of the world when your home abounds with plenty?" said the weary child.

The shades of night were gathering fast. The cold, damp ground, which had been his only bed so many nights, offered a poor protection now for his weary form.

"I was contented there. Why did he send me hither?" was the questioning of his mind as he sat alone and sad.

As he was about to lay himself upon the ground, he saw light glimmering through the trees, just as the light of hope breaks on us at the moment of despair.

"I would journey thither," he said, despondingly; "but rest and shelter were denied me here. How can I hope to find it elsewhere?"

But hope whispered to his weary heart; and he arose, and passed on.

It was a small, humble dwelling, but one in which dwelt loving hearts.

He turned involuntarily into the little path that wound by fragrant shrubs and flowers to its door, and then checked himself, as though he could not bear again a cold denial. It were far easier to feel the blast and storm than again to hear unwelcome tones fall on his ears. Despite his feeble faith, he walked to the door and gave a timid rap.

The door flew open wide, as though the hinges were oiled with love; and there stood before him a form all radiant with smiles of welcome. She bade him enter; and the traveler, already warm with her bright smiles and words of welcome, felt a glow pervade his whole being,—a feeling new and unfelt before; for he had never, before this absence from his father's house, known a want or woe.

Both food and shelter did the woman give unto him; and, when the morning sun came over the eastern hills, another sun of joy and gratitude was shining over his hills of doubt. And when the woman turned from his warm, full thanks, and went about her daily tasks, these words came with a new life and meaning to her mind: "As ye have done it to the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

Years rolled away. The murmur of their deeds was like the distant rumbling of retreating clouds after a great storm.

The youth visited strange cities, saw nations at war with each other, and learned the conflict of the human soul, and how it battles in the great life which threatens to bear it down each hour. Amid all this strife and selfishness of heart, he found many that were loyal to God and Truth. He daily learned rich lessons which he would not have effaced for all the gold and pomp of earth.

The light of wisdom began to dawn. "This is the experience which my father saw I needed. Had he provided me with means with which to journey through the world, how different would have been my life! I then should have known no value of human love and kindness. O my father! I long to return to thee, and love thee as I never could have loved thee before!"

He sat weary, but not sad, by the roadside one day, thinking of his father's love, when the sound of a traveler's approach was heard on the road. He turned his eyes in its direction, and saw one of his father's servants on a beautiful white horse.

"Your father bids you come," were the welcome words that fell upon his ears.

"Take thy steed," he said, "and journey quickly home: he waits impatiently for your return."

Fast over hill and dale he rode; and when day passed from sight, leaving a jeweled sky to mark its absence, the long-absent son rode to his father's door, and wept tears of joy upon his breast.

Together they stood, father and son, upon the Mount of Experience, overlooking all the scenes of life.

Our heavenly Father wakes us all from the slumber of infancy and helplessness, and sends us forth alone into the world to learn life's great lessons. When we have learned them well, he sends the pale messenger, Death, to take us home. How blessed will be that reunion! With the crown of wisdom on our heads, how sweet it will be to go no more out, but dwell with him forever!



XVI.

FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY.

In one of the dark periods, when shadows lay upon the earth, a beautiful angel was sent to abide there and teach the doubting and weary of a Father's love and care.

She found it a tedious task, and, after many years of toil, felt that she needed a helper.

"If my sister were here," she often said to the people, "she could aid you to greater efforts; for, while I seem to supply a needed element to your souls, I only half succeed in meeting your wants."

"If she is but half as good as yourself we will welcome her," answered those to whom she spoke.

"I will go for her," said Faith, one dark night, after she had been trying to rouse the people to higher states, with what seemed to her but little success. Faith was weary, and wept; and, when her tears flowed, her sister, yet in the realms of peace, by a strange law of sympathy, knew it, and ran to her father, saying, "I, too, must go to the earth; for Faith needs me."

Her parent sat awhile in deep thought, and Hope waited impatiently for his answer, which came spoken in a firm, clear voice: "We have done Faith a great wrong, I fear, in sending her alone where so much light and comfort is needed. It was too much for her. Go, Hope, and my blessing attend you."

She was overjoyed at receiving her father's permission to join her sister; for, since Faith had gone, her beautiful home had seemed lonely.

Faith sat all night with her eyes uplifted to heaven, and, when the morning sun lit the hill-tops, behold! on its beams Hope was descending to earth.

Faith was not long in ascending the hill to meet her sister. Their meeting was full of joy.

"If my eyes had not been lifted heavenward, I should have missed you, Hope: and you must have searched a long time for me; for my journeys are far each day," said Faith to her sister.

"Keep your eyes ever uplifted," answered Hope, "and you will see not only the brightness of the heavens, but also the father's angels whom he chooses to send to your aid."

"I will," answered Faith; and ever after her eyes were raised heavenward.

They descended to the valley, hand in hand, and reached it as the people were passing to their daily toils.

How light now seemed the labors of Faith! What a comfort it was to have Hope by her when she walked along the dreary wayside; and Hope's bright words, how they cheered the downhearted!

"I wonder your parents ever permitted you to come to the earth alone," remarked an old and venerable woman to Faith, as the latter was imparting to her some truths which lay almost beyond the grasp of mortals.

"My father, as well as myself, had to learn that I needed Hope with me to make my work more perfect. We must first feel our own inadequacy before our helpers can be fully appreciated. I think she came in the right time," said Faith reverently.

"No doubt," replied the woman; "I have often heard you say that all our blessings come at the needful moment; but surely Hope looks as though she could endure the rough clime, and still rougher ways of our people, better than yourself, although I do not know what my life would have been without you."

"That was why I was sent here. I came to prepare the way for Hope. I was needed first; and now, with my sister's brighter element, I expect to do a good work on the earth."

"A blessed pair!" exclaimed the woman, as they left her home to go to others more dark and drear.

Faith was summoned that night to the home of a widow whose only child was passing away; for the clear, far-seeing eyes of Faith could see the soul depart and take on its heavenly form. It was a great comfort to the bereaved in hours like those to have her near.

"I wonder how we lived without her," were household words, and words which she could hear without any semblance of vainglory; for her soul was too deeply impressed with the magnitude of her mission to allow her to be elated or depressed by any remark that might be made.

Faith's eyes followed the dying boy far into the realms of light. She wiped the mother's tears away, and disclosed to her sight the way the soul had fled, while Hope stood by to assure her that the parting was not forever. The two tarried through the night with the mother, and when friends came to bury the dead form she had learned that "the grave is not the goal."

The sisters toiled together many years. They wove beautiful truths into the minds of the people, till the once dark condition of earth seemed passing rapidly away. People grew trustful, and less gloomy: yet, with all the teachings of Faith, and the cheering words of Hope, they failed to exercise the right feelings at all times towards each other.

The sisters sat by the wayside one evening, after a hard day's toil, their eyes lifted to the stars, which seemed to look lovingly on them. They sat without words, while each possessed the same unspoken wish. They both longed for their sister, who at that moment was thinking earnestly of them.

Faith glanced from the stars to the scarcely less brilliant eyes of Hope, and a few tears fell over her face. Even Hope sighed, and almost wished herself back to her starry home with her father.

"Are you sorry, Hope, that you came to earth?" asked Faith, tenderly.

"No: but I was thinking—"

"I know your thought: it must be the same as my own," said Faith.

"Yes, our sister—" Hope ventured thus far.

"Charity come too." Faith finished the sentence.

"Just my wish," said Hope, rejoiced to find they had the same desire.

"I see," said Faith, "that we are all needed here to make our work complete," while the brilliant eyes of Hope spoke more than words.

"I have felt for a long time," answered Hope, "that another element, softer, sweeter, and finer than ours, was needful for the people."

"Do you suppose that father would spare Charity, too?" asked Hope of her sister.

"I know he would, if convinced that earth's people would receive her."

"Why, Faith, you speak with such confidence!"

"Because I know how good our father is, as you do yourself, Hope. If needed, she will come," said Faith, trustingly, thinking of her own experience that lonely night.

"Charity is so delicate," said Hope, a little doubtfully, "I do not quite see how she could endure this cold clime."

"She could not without our presence to sustain her," answered Faith.

"But, with us to help her, she could; for we can all live wherever we are called to do the work of our father."

"Let us lift the voices of our souls," said Hope; and they offered a silent prayer for their sister.

* * * * *

That night, in his abode of peace and comfort, the father walked to and fro; for the voices of his children on the earth, pleading for their sister, had reached him.

It was not without a struggle that he called the only remaining child to his side to look upon her for the last time for many years.

"It must be," he said, "and then will my sacrifice be perfect; and from perfect sacrifice must fullness of good come forth. Faith alone could not perfect the work; Hope's added brightness was not all that was needed. Charity must be added." And he drew the fair, frail form to his side, and told her to go for her mantle.

He enveloped her slight figure in the spotless garment, and, placing her in the care of Zephyr, the gentle west wind, who was always faithful to her charges, bade her depart, with his prayers and blessings.

Zephyr was very tender of her charge, and, after what seemed a long journey to Charity, she laid her on a soft bed of moss in a pleasant woodland, where her sisters were gathering flowers.

She might have lain there some time had not Faith's eyes discovered her coming through the clouds.

Full and joyous was the meeting of the three; and when the sun went to rest they sought shelter among the people.

With the uplifted eyes of Faith, the clear, soul-speaking face of Hope, and the tender, forgiving words of Charity, their united force was great.

Some of the people at first refused to admit the last comer into their dwellings.

"Faith, with her lovely eyes, and Hope, with her bright ways, are good enough," they said; "and why need they bring this pale, fragile one to earth?"

But when once she had spoken, either in council or rebuke, to her listeners, there was melody and richness in her tones: such an awakening of their souls' finer powers that they ever after bade her welcome.

Her strength lay in her gentleness. She always went when called for, but never obtruded herself on others. Very often her sisters were invited to the feast of the people without her. It took time for her quality to be known: she was so still and silent. Her step, too, was noiseless, and her delicate feet left no prints where she trod.

Before she grew into favor with the people they used to watch for her footprints to see whose guest she had been; but they found no traces, and learned to entertain her after a long time for the lovely qualities which she possessed.

They walk the earth now, each loved and entertained by many, while some sit in the shadows, and know not that earth has the angels of Faith, Hope, and Charity to bless them.



XVII.

GOING FORTH.

A wise parent sent his children to a distant country to learn the lessons of life which experience alone can teach. Before their departure he called them to him, and, after providing them liberally with means, told them that at their return he would listen to their several experiences; at the same time telling them to use the means which he had given them well—neither to hoard, nor spend them unwisely; above all, not to bring them back in their original form, but a full equivalent therefore, either in spiritual or material things.

A year had scarcely passed, when, as the father sat looking at the western sky, the youngest son came running breathlessly up the path.

"So soon returned?" asked his father—which caused a look of disappointment to pass over the face of the youth; and his words were shaded with regret as he replied, "I thought you would be glad to see me, and would rejoice that I got through so quickly."

"Not so, my son," replied the father. "You cannot, in the brief time you have been absent, have performed many, if any, deeds of goodness compared with what you might have done by tarrying longer; and your gold—you surely cannot have used it all in so brief a period."

"Why, I've brought all the money back you gave me, father. You see, I got through without its costing me a penny."

"It grieves me more than all, my son, that you should go through any country and return no equivalent for deeds and kindness given. Rest awhile, and in a few days return to the land and the people I sent you among, and come not back again to me till every farthing is wisely spent."

The youth murmured within himself, but dared not reply. A few days later he departed, to go over the same ground and do the work he had neglected for the sake of a speedy return.

At the end of the second year another returned, looking sad and dispirited.

"Thou hast soon returned, my son," said the father. "Is thy work done in so brief a period?"

The youth hung his head, and answered slowly, "I was so weary, father. I saw so much sorrow among those people, I longed to come home where all is rest and peace. Surely, I was right in that, was I not?"

"Far from it, my child. If there was much sorrow there, that was the very reason why you should have remained. Dost thou not remember those lines I have so often quoted,—

"'Rest is not quitting the busy career: Rest is the fitting of self to one's sphere'?"

"I remember them well, father," the youth replied; "but I never felt their meaning until now."

"And if you sense it now, my son, what is your duty?"

"To return, I suppose."

"But how—cheerfully or otherwise?"

"Gladly and willingly," said the son, born from the old to the higher self.

"I will provide you with more means," remarked his father, while a feeling of joy thrilled his being at the thought that his son was going to give his life to human needs.

They parted on the morrow, though that separation was the nearest approach of their lives; for they were united by a truth which is ever the essence of a divine union. Many years passed by. The hair of the father grew whiter, and his ears longed to hear the voices of his sons, yet he would not call, in word or feeling, so long as the busy throng was receiving or giving them life.

One evening, when his thoughts were taking a somewhat pensive turn, a messenger came to his door with a letter from the long-absent and eldest, who had not returned to his home since the day of his departure. Its words were these:—

"Dear Father,—I cannot come to the home I love so well, nor to your side, while this land is so full of need of human words and deeds. With your blessing I shall remain here my lifetime; and when age comes on, and I can no longer serve the people, may I return?"

The tears fell over the good man's face. God had blessed him greatly in bestowing on him so worthy a son; and he penned warm and glowing words of encouragement to his child, and sent by the messenger, with gold to alleviate the wants of the needy.

"Tell him a thousand blessings await him when his work is done," said he to the messenger as the latter mounted his horse to ride away.

Long after, when the father grew old and helpless, the sons returned laden with rich experiences and abundantly able to care for him.

They had learned the great and valuable lesson that all must learn ere they truly live,—that we must give to receive, sow if we would reap, and lose our life to find it.



XVIII.

THE FEAST.

There was once a husbandman who had laborers in a valley, clearing it of stones and brush, that it might become fit for culture. He resided near, on a fine hill, where he raised rare fruits and flowers of every variety. The view from the hill-top was extensive and grand beyond description, and it was the kind owner's desire that each day the laborers should ascend and be refreshed by whatever he had to offer them, beside catching the inspiration of the lovely and extensive landscape. Some days he had not much to offer them; at other times, the repast would be sumptuous and most tempting: so those who went each day were sure of receiving in their season the delicious fruits which ripened at different periods.

There had been a succession of days in which there was nothing but dry food on the hill, with none of the luscious fruits which invigorate and refresh; for they had been slow in ripening, and the kind husbandman would not gather them before they were mellow and fit to spread before his laborers.

"I am not going to climb the hill to-day for a few crumbs," said one dissatisfied toiler, as he sat by the roadside at noon-day, looking very unhappy.

"Nor I!" "Nor I!" added a second and a third, until there was quite a chorus of the dissatisfied.

The remainder went up as usual. A most tempting repast was before them, of fruits and cake and refreshing wines, while the table was decked with rare and fragrant flowers.

How glad was the good man to spread the bounties before them! for well he knew of the murmurs which had gone out of their hearts for a few days past. "Are they not all here?" he asked of those who had ascended the hill, while a look of disappointment came over his face.

"Oh! let us go down and tell them what a nice feast is waiting," said one of the group, as he gazed on the well-filled table.

"Nay, not so," answered the husbandman, in a gentle but commanding tone. "My people should have faith in me, and know that I spread for them all I can each day. My power, even like that of the Infinite, is limited by conditions. It is not my pleasure ever to have them go unrefreshed; but how much better for them, could they be content with whatever comes each day, though sometimes meager. How it cheers me to see those who have come in good courage and faith, not knowing that the feast was here. Eat and give thanks," he said; while a band played some lively airs.

* * * * *

Shall we refuse to ascend each day the mount whereon dwells our Father? Shall we, because some days no feast awaits us, linger in the valley of doubt, and lose the bounties which his hand at other times has ready for us? No: the faithful and believing will go up to the mount each day, and take without murmur the morsel, or the fruits with thanksgiving.



XIX.

THE LESSON OF THE STONE.

It was with feelings of satisfaction and pride that a builder looked upon a large and costly edifice which, after much exertion, was just completed. Long had the workmen toiled to place one stone upon another. Many hours of thought had the designer spent in perfecting its proportions, and a deep sense of relief came over him as he saw the last stone deposited on the summit of the structure. Yet it was only to be followed by one of pain; for, as he walked one evening to enjoy the beautiful symmetry of his building, he heard words of contention and strife among the various stones of which it was composed.

"Just look at my superior finish," said one of the top pieces to those beneath it. "You are only plain pieces of granite, while I am polished, elegantly carved, and the admiration of all eyes. Do I not see all the people, as they pass by, look up at me?"

"Not so fast," replied one of the foundation stones. "A little less pride would become you; for do you not see that, but for us below, you could not be so high? And it matters very little, it strikes me, what part of the building we are placed in, if we but remain firm and peaceful."

The words of the wise stone pleased the owner so much that he resolved to remove a little of the vanity of the top one, and lay awake a long time that night, thinking of some plan by which to effect his purpose. The elements, however, spared him any effort on his part, for the next day a terrible hail-storm swept over the land, and its hard stones defaced all the ornaments which had led the lofty one to boast so loudly of its superiority.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" moaned the vain piece of granite. "How I wish I had been taken for a foundation stone, instead of being here to have all my beauty destroyed by this awful storm! I'd much rather have been in the middle of the building than up here, where all the force of the storm is spent on my head."

The stone at the foundation could not help smiling, though he really pitied the vain thing above him. "It will teach her wisdom," he said to himself; "and she may learn that none in life are lowly if they bear their part, and that a lofty position is far more dangerous than a humble one."

There was a fearful crash in the air at that instant. The foundation stone thought the building was coming down. Something struck him, which he recognized as a part of the top stone; for he had seen the workmen cutting and smoothing it day after day for many weeks prior to its elevation. Now she could boast no more of superior finish or position.

The following day, the remaining shattered portion was removed and left by the roadside, where it could see another prepared to take its place.

"I thought that stone was a little weak when we raised it," said one of the workmen as it was placed aside.

It lay by the roadside until it grew to be humble and glad to be of any use,—even delighted when one day the owner of the building took it to finish a wall which was being built around some pasture land.

"Here I can be of use," she said, as the workmen deposited it on a sunny corner as the place it was to occupy. It was glad to be there and find itself useful and at rest; for it had been obliged to listen to the remarks of the passers-by each day, and to endure their comments on its misfortune.

"I suppose I shall never know any other life but this; so now, being firmly set, I can sleep a little:" for the stone was sadly in need of rest.

After what seemed to be a long period of repose, the stone awoke, with new pulsations and finer emotions thrilling within it. The sound of children's voices were heard in the air. How sweet and life-giving they were! far more pleasant than the words of admiration which men uttered when she was on the building's top. A new joy was hers also, for soft hands were caressing her. Beautiful mosses had grown on her surface, and delighted children were gathering them.

Useful and beautiful too! and the stone was silent with happiness. She hoped the children would come again; and they did, bringing others with them.

"I wonder how this beautiful moss grew on me," she said one day to herself—at least she thought no one heard her. But an older stone beside her replied, "By being perfectly quiet we become covered with this lovely moss, firmer than grasses of any lawn."

The once vain stone grew to be perfectly contented, and never longed for her former position. When the storms came, it knew it was close to the earth. It had no fearful height to be pulled from, and the beautiful lichens which grew upon its surface were far more ornamental than its former carved and elegant adornings.



XX.

THE SEEDS.

They lay side by side one morning, while the gardener was preparing the ground in which to plant them and many other varieties.

"Just think," said the more talkative one of the two, "how sad it is that we are going to be put in that dismal ground! I shall not allow myself to be buried out of sight this lovely morning."

"But," answered the more quiet seed by her side, "it is only for a brief period that we shall lie there, and then we shall be far more beautiful."

"What care I for beauty for others to look at? I want my freedom, and intend to have it, too. The wind is my friend, and I shall ask her to waft me over to those lovely hills, where I can see something of the world."

"I think it would be wiser to remain where we are, and let the gardener care for us: he must know what is for our good," remarked the gentle seed.

"You are too prosy by far. I think our own feelings tell us what we need. So good-by," exclaimed the self-reliant seed, as she motioned to the wind to bear her away.

She thought her breath was leaving her, as she was borne through the air, and wished she were back in the garden. But when she found herself on the warm hill-side she felt reassured, and nestled herself amid the soft grass, whose waving motion soon lulled her to sleep.

Now the two seeds which the gardener had laid on the ground were of a very choice and rare kind; and he felt very sad that the wind should have blown one away. He took the remaining one and laid it carefully in the ground, with many hopes that it would spring up and bear rich blossoms, which would yield more seed. That night a cold wind came on; but the little seed in the warm bed did not feel it at all, while her absent sister shook all night with the cold.

After what seemed a long time to the seed in the ground, something like a new life came over her. There was a deeper pulsation through her being, and a strong desire to shoot upward to the light and air. This feeling deepened every hour.

"At this rate I shall soon be in the air, where I can see all that is going on about me," she said joyfully. Then she felt very quiet, and fell asleep. When she awoke she saw the gardener bending over her with a joyful face. "When did this happen? How came I up here in the warm sunlight?" the seed exclaimed to him.

"Because the wind did not bear you away, and I could put you in the ground, is the reason why you are here. First out of sight, then to the light, my little seed! But," he said sorrowfully, "I wish we had the other one, for your kind is rare."

The plant then told the gardener that her sister purposely went away, at which he wondered that she had power of motion until she became a plant.

"Oh, she asked the wind to carry her," answered the fresh-growing plant.

"If I knew where she had gone I'd search for her, and bring her back."

"She asked the wind to take her to yonder hill-side," said the plant, hoping, oh, so much! that he would go and find the seed, and plant it beside her, that she, too, might have the pleasure of becoming a plant as beautiful as herself.

The gardener went towards the hills; but the seed saw him, and begged the south wind to bear her away. And she took her on her wing and wafted her many miles from home.

The gardener searched a long time, and was obliged to return without her. So he took extra care of the plant, and it grew to be the pride of the garden; while the seed that had her own way was roaming over the world. The truant one soon lost all her influence over the winds, who finally refused to carry about a good-for-nothing seed while they had so much needful work to perform. A cold northern blast was the last one she could persuade to bear her, and he dropped her on a rock, where she at last perished from exposure to the rain and cold.

The day before her death, a company of people passed by her, bearing in their hands some rare and fragrant blossoms, to which she felt a strange attraction. This gave place to a deep thrill of sorrow as she heard them describe the lovely plant which grew in a beautiful garden, and which by their description she knew was her own home, which she in her folly had left.

"Had I but accepted the conditions of growth, I too might have been a lovely plant, giving and receiving pleasure," she said, after the people had passed on. "But now, alas!" and her breath grew quick and short, "if I had only some one to profit by my last words, telling of my life of folly, I might not have lived wholly in vain." But there was nothing about her which she could discern save a tuft of moss upon the cold, hard rock which must now be her death-bed.

But behind the rock, on the south side, there was growing a family of wild daisies, who were going to migrate to a warmer part of the country to plant their seeds before the winter came on. This was one of the conditions which Providence ever has around the most seemingly deserted and desolate, that her words might not only profit them, but that they could convey the benefit of them to all wayward seeds who were unwilling to accept the natural conditions of growth. And thus the seed, though dying with its mission unfulfilled, did not live wholly in vain; for its wasted life saved others from a similar fate.



XXI.

ONLY GOLD.

A parent sent his children forth one day into a fertile land to gather fruits, flowers, and whatever was beautiful to adorn their homes. They wandered till nightfall, gathering their treasures, while their joyous laughter filled the air, and made music to the listening laborers in the fields.

Just as the shadows of evening came on they approached an open field: it was barren of verdure, but the ground was covered with golden stones, which glittered strangely in the setting sun. They gathered as many as they could with their other treasures, and then all but one of the group began to prepare for home, while he lingered, eager to gather the shining pebbles.

"We must return," they all said in chorus to him. They disliked to leave without him; but darkness was fast coming on, and they must obey their parents' command and return before the shades of evening had covered the earth. One voice after another died away on the air as they pleaded vainly for him to go with them, but he heeded them not: the golden stones were far more precious in his eyes than kindred, home, or friends; and they departed sorrowfully without him, while he remained and added stone to stone, till he was obliged at last, from exhaustion, to lie down on the damp ground.

It was not like his warm bed in his pleasant home; and he missed the cheerful voices of his brothers, and more than all his parents' fond goodnight, after the evening prayer. He slept; but his dreams were wild and feverish, and there was no atmosphere of love about him to soothe the weary brain.

The next day at noon his parents sent a messenger to him, bidding him return. But the love of his golden stones was paramount to the wishes of kindred, and the unnumbered comforts of a happy home; and his reply to the messenger was, "I will return, when I have enough of these," pointing to a large collection which was already higher than his head. At nightfall hunger seized him. He felt too weary to go in search of food, but the demand of nature asserted its claim, and he dragged himself to a field near by, where grew berries and fruits in abundance. His spirits rose after the cravings of hunger were satisfied, and he lay down again by his precious pile of stones.

The days glided into weeks, and still he fed upon the berries and gathered the golden pebbles. His father had ceased to send messengers to him, knowing that nothing but a long experience would teach his child the value of life's many blessings, and that gold alone has no power to bless us. The father suffered much in knowing and realizing that his son must learn the truths of life through such severe lessons; but wisdom told him it could not be otherwise.

The chill air of autumn came, and no longer could the fruits and berries ripen for him. He saw some laborers one day in a field near by, eating their meal which they had brought from their homes. Oh; what would he not now give for some of their meat and bread! "I will go to them," he said, "and offer some of my golden stores in exchange for just a few morsels."

He did so; and they only smiled at his offer, saying, "What would then refresh and fit us for the rest of our day's labor? Surely your gold would not."

"But it would help you to buy more," he replied.

"Yes, to-morrow: but we cannot spare a morsel to-day, for we need all our supply to strengthen us for our work."

He turned away in deep thought. Was he not losing all of life's joys and comforts in living thus alone only to amass such quantities of gold? But as he looked again on the shining treasures his ambition arose with increased power; and he forgot, for a time, his hunger in his toil. Then a new thought came to him. "Now that the fruits are gone I can go to the forest and gather nuts. They will be better food, too, for these chilly autumn days. Surely I am provided for, at least till winter," and he left his labor and repaired to the woods, where he feasted and gathered enough for many days.

The household mourned much for their absent brother. They missed him in their daily joys, and every hour they watched, waited, and hoped to see him return. They almost rejoiced when the bleak winds of autumn swept the foliage from the trees, because they could look farther down the road for their brother.

"I shall soon be able to travel and see the world," said the youth to himself every day as the pile of gold grew higher; but, alas for human calculation! he awoke one morning to find his huge mountain of gold one solid mass. The action of the light, heat, and atmosphere had fused them together, and no exertion of his could break off even the smallest atom.

Must he return with not even one golden pebble? for he had gathered them all—not one was in sight, no more were to be found.

His golden dream of travel was over, and, worse, the freshness and buoyancy of youth had departed. His limbs, alas! were stiff and sore. He had a mountain of gold, not one atom of which he could use for himself or others. And now he must return to his father's house empty-handed, and void of truths or incidents to relate to his brothers.

But some kind angel led him home, where his blessings were yet in store, awaiting his return. One evening when the shadows crept over the earth, he walked up the well-known path. The brothers had long before ceased to watch for his coming; and great was their surprise to see him again among them, although not the brother of that happy, sunny day of long ago. He told them sadly of the result of his long toil, while they related to him the good results of their few golden pebbles, which they brought home, and with which their father had purchased land, which was now yielding them rich returns, aside from the health and pleasure which they derived from its culture, the labor of which they performed with their own hands. "Health, wealth, and happiness combined," he murmured sadly, as he felt keenly that his youth and opportunities had departed.

Are there not too many who seek for gold alone, forgetting the joys which it purchases, and forgetting that its possession alone has no value? Rightly acquired and used it alleviates and mediates, but gathered and amassed for itself only it is but a mountain of shining ore, valueless and unsatisfying to its possessor.

"Fool that I have been thus to waste my time and strength!" said the long-absent son that night as his father bade him welcome.

"If wisdom is purchased by the experience, it matters not how great the price," answered his parent.

"But I have lost my youth and my strength," responded the son.

"Which loss will be compensated by more thought and greater ability to labor mentally," said his parent consolingly.

In after years the youth who had wasted his bodily strength became a worker in words of cheer and hope to others, and hence he had not wholly lived in vain. He learned to love the angel Truth so well that she came to his side each day, and gave him sweet counsel and many lessons for mankind.

But he had purchased the light at a cost which few can afford to give.



XXII.

THE SACRIFICE.

A large party of travelers on their way to a distant country were obliged to pass through a dense forest to reach it. Their leader went forward, and, seeing the darkness of the dense woods, was convinced of the impossibility of his people going through it, without the aid of a light to guide them. He sat beside the mossy stones at the entrance, trying to devise some means by which to light up the darkness. There seemed but one way, and that almost hopeless, as it involved a sacrifice of life, and he knew too well the nature of the trees to expect any of them to give themselves up for his travelers. How could he ask it, as he stepped into the deep wood, and looked on their grand proportions and rich foliage? His was no enviable position to entreat them to give up the existence which must be dear to themselves,—to pass from the known to the unknown life.

Vainly he tried to think of another way to accomplish his purpose. None presented itself; so with glowing words he appealed to their nobler selves, telling them all the great need of the travelers who were obliged to pass that way. First he appealed to a fine birch which bordered the forest.

"Not I, indeed!" answered the tree. "Do you think I would give my life to light a few people through this woodland? I prefer to live a few years longer."

He next addressed a walnut. She shook a few leaves from her branches, and made a similar reply, preferring to live in her own form, and amid her sister trees, to going she knew not whither.

"Are there none here," he continued, "who are willing to sacrifice their lives for the needs of others?"

He looked around the forest in vain: all were silent, and he was about to return to the people, when a large and stately oak spoke in clear and ringing tones, saying, "I will give my body that the travelers may have light."

"What! that grand old body of yours, that has been so many years growing and maturing to its present stately and fair proportions!" exclaimed several of the trees.

"You are not only rash, but foolish," remarked a small fir growing by its side.

"Beside taking away the pride of our grand old forest," said a delicate birch, that had always admired the oak.

"Just throwing your life away," broke in a tall and rather sickly pine.

"When will you be ready for me?" asked the oak of the leader, who had stood admiring its beautiful proportions, and sorrowing within himself that it must be so.

At the close of the next day the travelers came to the edge of the forest, and tarried while their leader lit the fire at the roots of the oak. Now the flames went upward and flashed in the darkness; for it was evening, and not a star was visible. The flames rose upward and touched not even the bark of another tree, but wound closely around the oak, as though it knew its work and that the light of that tree only was needed to pass the travelers through in safety. It touched their hearts to thus witness that the life of the noble oak must be sacrificed, and they offered, with one accord, a silent prayer that its life might be extended in a higher form. Having passed through, they tarried at the end of the forest until the flames died away, and then pursued their journey.

* * * * *

Years passed away. From the pile of ashes left by the departed oak sprang lovely flowers, which charmed the eyes of all the trees in the forest, and atoned, in a great measure, for the loss of their noble companion.

After a brief period workmen were seen in the forest felling the trees.

"Ah!" exclaimed the old pine who had refused to give its life for the travelers, "I don't see as we have gained anything. If our life is to go, it might as well have gone by the fire as by the axe."

"Just so," answered the beach, "only if we had perished by the fire we might now be coming again into another form of life, as our oak seems to be, from that pile of dust and ashes; for see what lovely blossoms are coming forth from that unsightly heap of dust."

"I heard the workmen say that all these trees were to be cleared away, and houses erected on the land," remarked a trembling ash, and her leaves quivered beyond their wont with the terror of this new thought.

"And that will surely be the end of us," moaned the pine.

"Our happy life is all over now," said a small fir, who would have continued bemoaning their destiny had not her attention at that instant been arrested by two forms entering the forest. They went to the spot where once stood the brave oak, and gazed admiringly on the lovely tinted blossoms. They had heard of the sacrifice of the tree, and had come to gaze upon its resurrection.

"We will gather some for our festival to-night," they said, and stooped to pluck the fragrant blossoms.

The fire had not destroyed the consciousness of the oak: its soul was still alive, enjoying its new form of existence, and it sent forth thrills of gratitude, which took the form of sweetest odor, filling the air around with fragrance. "Instead of losing my life it is being extended, even as the good leader of the people said," were its words as the two departed, bearing the flowers, instinct with its oak life, away.

Many went to the forest while the workmen were there, to gather the seeds of the rare blossoms to plant in their gardens.

How much of human life did the soul of the oak learn as it went forth thus amid the throngs of people; and how it rejoiced that it had given its life for the good of others, knowing not that greater bliss was in store for it! It was held in the hands of the aged; it crowned fair brows; it was carried to the bedside of the suffering; it was laid upon the caskets of the dead; it was planted by the door of the cottage and reared in the conservatories of the rich,—everywhere admired and welcomed. Was not this life indeed worth all the pain and heat of the flames, and the loss of its once statelier and loftier form?

It never sighed for its forest home, but often longed to know of the fate of its brother trees. One day a child, bearing in her hand one of its blossoms, wandered to the ground where once arose the tall trees. The eyes of the oak, through the flower, looked in vain for its kindred. None were standing. They had all been felled and their wood converted into dwellings,—a useful but less beautiful form of existence than that which the oak possessed,—and they learned, after a time, that it is only by apparent destruction that life can be reconstructed. But they could only have the experiences which came within the scope of their life; and the oak was more than ever satisfied with its own, and rejoiced that it had passed through the refining element, losing thereby only its grosser form. It filled the air with the fragrance of its gratitude. Whenever it wished to journey, the winds, who were its friends, conveyed its seeds to any portion of the earth it designated. Its blossoms were not only bright to the eye, and their odor sweet to the sense of smell, but the leaves of the plant were healing. Three forces connected it with human life: so that it was in constant action, and its highest joy lay in the consciousness of its increased usefulness.



XXIII.

STRANGERS.

In a large and elegant mansion dwelt a wealthy man who had three lovely daughters. The house was built on an eminence upon the banks of a river which wound like a thread of silver through the valleys for many miles. Afar from the mansion were a large number of cottages, in which dwelt carpenters, shipbuilders, gardeners, and some of every trade. Most of them were good and honest people, though tinged with the love of earthly gains, and many of them, too, often crushed many of the soul's finer and better emotions in the greedy love of material things. The owner of the mansion sorrowed over this failing of theirs, and, to rid them of it, devised a plan by which to give those who wished an opportunity to be led by their better nature, and forget, for the time, self and gain.

Accordingly, he told his daughters to deck themselves in their richest apparel and ornaments, which were rare and choice, and then to throw over the whole large and unsightly cloaks, so that the disguise might be perfect, and conceal all the splendor beneath. To each he gave a purse filled with gold to bestow upon the one who should welcome and give them shelter.

At evening he went forth with them to the narrow street, and bade them knock at the doors of the cottages, while he waited outside, and see who would admit and give food and shelter to travelers in need. They obeyed him, and first approached a dimly-lighted cottage. Making known their presence by a gentle rap, the door was opened by a woman of large and coarse features, whose eyes had no welcome in their rude stare. She scarcely waited for the words of the travelers to be spoken, ere she gruffly answered, "No: we have neither room nor food for beggars," and closed the door abruptly.

They applied next upon the opposite side, saying to the man who opened the door, "Can you feed and give shelter to three weary travelers?"

"We have no food to waste, and our home is scarcely large enough for ourselves," he replied, and quickly shut the door upon them.

The same answer came from all, and they turned to their parent, saying, "Shall we try any more?"

"There are but two more: try all; see if one at least can be found not wholly selfish; and, as you are not truly in need of their bounties, you can well afford to importune and be denied." He then guided his children to the end of the street.

"This one looks quite gay compared with the others," said the eldest of the daughters, as they all looked on the well-lit rooms, and beheld forms flitting to and fro within.

"We shall certainly be admitted here," said the others.

But the parent kept his council, and was invisible while they rapped at the door, which was opened by a bright and rather stylish-looking girl, who gazed wonderingly on the group.

"Can you give us shelter for a night, and a little food?" asked the eldest.

"Not we, indeed: we have just spent all our money for a merry-making for our brother Jack, who has just come home from sea. Not we: we have not one bit of room to spare; for all our friends are here."

"But we are weary, and ask rest and food," pleaded one of the three; and her eyes wandered to the well-filled tables.

"Yes: but what we have is for our company and ourselves—not for beggars," said the girl, and she closed the door upon them.

"Shall we try again, father?" they said to their parent.

"Just this one, which is the last," he answered, leading them to the door of a cot where dwelt a poor and lonely widow.

They paused at the threshold, for a voice was heard within, low and sweet; yet they heard the words of the kneeling form, in deep petition, saying, "Give me, O Father, my daily bread; forgive me my trespasses, and lead me not into temptation. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and forever. Amen."

She arose at that instant. A gentle knock was heard. Without delay she opened it, and smiled upon the strangers, who asked for more than she could give.

"I have shelter, but no food; yet enter and be welcome," she said, and opened wide the door.

They passed in, and left their parent, whom they knew would soon follow, outside.

"I grieve that I have no food to offer thee," said the woman, "but come to my fireside; for the evening air is chilly, and you must need rest."

She placed for them her only chairs beside the fire, saying, "I am glad you come to-night; for this is my last fuel, and to-morrow eve it will be all dark and chill within my dwelling."

The eldest bowed to the woman gracefully, and threw aside her cloak; and at once the others followed her example.

Great was the surprise of the widow. She thought her senses had departed, and, for an instant, had no voice, no words, naught but wonder beaming from her eyes, so sudden and great was the surprise. Another gentle rap at that instant seemed to help her to find herself, and she was hastening to open it, when the eldest one said, "It is our father, come to thank you for admitting angels in disguise; for, though not angels in form, we hope to prove such by our administration to your needs." And they laid upon her only table the purses of gold.

"He will ever give daily bread to those who forget not to entertain strangers," said their father to the widow, as they took their leave of one who had not refused to receive strangers.

The next morning there was great commotion in the neighborhood; for the widow had been seen to exchange gold for bread at one of the shops; but greater still was their surprise when she told them, as they flocked around her dwelling, that it was given by three strangers who had asked for bread and shelter the night before.

"Three strangers!" exclaimed they all. "They must be the same that called at our dwellings. What fools we were that we did not let them in!"

"Nay: it but shows how dead you were in sympathy for human need," spoke a voice among them, which, as they turned, they found to be that of the owner of the mansion.

Shame and confusion came over their faces; for he had long been their benefactor, both in words of counsel and deeds of kindness. Their eyes fell to the ground, as he in gentle tones chided them for their lack of kindness and want of faith in the Father's love. "He who giveth not in another's need shall receive none in his own," he continued; "and let the lesson taught you by the experience you have just had, and the example of the poor widow, last you through all the years of your life; for she refused not the strangers whom you turned from your doors the shelter which they apparently needed."

"But they were not cold and hungry," said one of the group.

"The demand upon your sympathies was just the same; for you knew not to the contrary," he answered, and they could not but feel the truth of his words.

The lesson was not lost; for in after years they grew less mercenary, more kindly of heart, and never again closed their doors to strangers asking aid.

THE END