All this is very natural, but what is very natural is often very wrong, and Edith did not fuel that calm happiness which she had done the night before. When she received Emilie's morning kiss, she said, "Well, Miss Schomberg, I thought last night I had made up my mind to part with Muff, but I really cannot! I do love her so!"

"It would be a great trial to you, I should think," said Emilie, "and one that no one could ask of you, but if she had a good master, do you think you should mind it so very much? You would only have your own sorrow to think of, and really it would be a kindness if those poor birds are to be kept. The cat terrifies them by springing at the wires, and if they were sitting they would certainly be frightened off their nests."

Edith looked perplexed; "What shall I do Emilie? I do wish to please Fred, I do wish to do as I would be done by; I really want to get rid of my selfish nature, and yet it will keep coming back."

"Watch as well as pray, dear," said Emilie affectionately, "and you will conquer at last." They went down to breakfast together. "Watch and pray." That word "watch," was R word in season to Edith, she had prayed but had well nigh forgotten to watch.

She could not eat her meal, however, her heart was full with the greatness of the sacrifice before her. Do not laugh at the word great sacrifice. It was very great to Edith; she loved with all her heart; and to part with what we love, be it a dog, a cat, a bird, or any inanimate possession, is a great pang. After breakfast she went into the little room where Muff usually eat, and taking hold of the favourite, hugged and kissed her lovingly, then carrying her down stairs to the kitchen, asked cook for a large basket, and with a little help from Margaret, tied her down and safely confined her; then giving the precious load to her father's errand boy, trotted into the town, and stopped not till she reached Miss Webster's door. Her early visit rather astonished aunt Agnes, who was at that moment busily engaged in dressing Miss Webster's foot, and at the announcement of Betsey—"Please Ma'am little Miss Parker is called and has brought you a cat," she jumped so that she spilled Miss Webster's lotion.

"A cat! a cat!" echoed the ladies. "I will have no cats here Miss Schomberg, if you please," said the irritable Mistress. "I always did hate cats, there is no end to the mischief they do. I never did keep one, and never mean to do."

Miss Schomberg went down stairs into Miss Webster's little parlour, and there saw Edith untying her beloved Muff. "Well aday! my child, what brings you here? all alone too. Surely Emilie isn't ill, oh dear me something must be amiss."

"Oh no, Miss Schomberg, no, only I heard you say you would like a cat, and Fred has got some new birds and I mayn't keep Muff, and so will you take her and be kind to her?"

"My dear child," said aunt Agnes in a bewilderment, "I would take her gladly but Miss Webster has a bird you know, and is so awfully neat and particular, oh, it won't do; you must not bring her here, and I must go back and finish Miss Webster's foot. She is very poorly to-day. Oh how glad I shall be when my Emilie comes back! Good bye, take the cat, dear, away, pray do;" and, so saying, aunt Agnes bustled off, leaving poor Edith more troubled and perplexed with Muff than ever.



CHAPTER EIGHTH.

GOOD FOR EVIL.

Old Joe Murray was seated on the beach, nearer the town than his house stood, watching the groups of busy children, digging and playing in the sand, now helping them in their play, and now giving his hint to the nurses around him, when Edith tapped him on the shoulder. There was something so unusually serious, not cross, in Edith's countenance, that Joe looked at her inquiringly. "There, set down the basket, Nockells, and run back quick, tell papa I kept you; I am afraid you will get into disgrace."

"Mayn't I drown Puss?" said Nockells.

"No! you cruel boy, no!" said Edith, vehemently. "You shall not have the pleasure, no one shall do it who would take a pleasure in it."

"What is the matter Miss?" asked Joe, as soon as Nockells turned away.

"The matter, oh Joe! I want Muff drowned; my cat I mean, my dear cat;" and then she told her tale up to the point of Miss Webster's refusing to admit Muff as a lodger, and cried most bitterly as she said, "and I won't have her ill-treated, so I will drown her, will you do it for me Joe, please do now, or my courage will be gone? but I won't stay to look at it, so good-bye," said she, and slipping a shilling into Joe's hand, ran home with the news to Fred, that the cat was by this time at the bottom of the tea, and his canaries were safe for ever from her claws.

Fred was not a hard-hearted boy, and his sister's tale really grieved him. He kissed her several times over, as he said he now wished he had never bought the birds, that they had caused Edith nothing but trouble and that he was very sorry.

"I am not sorry, Fred dear, at least I am only sorry for being forced to drown Muff. I like to give you my room, and I like to give up my cat to you, and I shall not cry any more about it, so don't be unhappy."

"And all this for me," said Fred; "I who teased you so yesterday afternoon, and always am teasing you, I think!" How pleased Emilie looked! She did not praise Edith, but she gave her such a look of genuine approval as was a rich reward to her little pupil. "This is the way. Edith dear, to overcome evil with good; go on, watch and pray, and you will subdue Fred in time as well as your own evil tempers."

How easy all this looks to read about! How swift the transition from bad to good! Who has not felt, in reading Rosamond and Frank, a kind of envy that they so soon overcame their errors, so soon conquered their bad habits and evil dispositions? Dear young reader, it is not easy to subdue self; it is not easy to practise this law of kindness, love, and forbearance; it is not easy to live peaceably with all men, but believe me, it is not impossible. He who giveth liberally and upbraideth not, will give you grace, and wisdom, and help to do this if you ask it. The promise is, "Ask and ye shall receive." Edith In her helplessness naked strength of God and it was given. That which was given to her He will not withhold from you. Only try Him.

For the comfort of those who may not have such a friend as Emilie, we would remind our readers that the actual work of Edith's change, for such it was, was that which no friend however wise and however good could effect. There is no doubt but that to her example Edith owed much. It led her to think and to compare, and was part of the means used by the all-wise God, to instruct this little girl; but if you have not Emilie for a friend, you may all have the God, whom Emilie served, for a friend. You may all read in the Bible which she studied, and in which she learned, from God's love to man, how we should love each other. She read there, "If God so loved us, we ought also to love one another."

The holidays drew to a close. The return of the mother and sisters was at hand. Emilie was not without her fears for Edith at this time, but she trusted in the help which she knew Edith would have if she sought it, and was thus encouraged. The right understanding between her brothers and herself she was rejoiced to see daily increasing. It was not that there was nothing to ruffle the two most easily ruffled spirits. Fred was not considerate, and would constantly recur to his old habit of tensing Edith. Edith was easily teased, and would rather order and advise Fred, which was sure to bring on a breeze; but they were far less vindictive, less aggravating than formerly. They were learning to bear and forbear. Edith had the most to bear, for although Fred was impressed by her kind and altered conduct, and could never forget the generous act of sacrifice when she parted with Muff to gratify him, he was as yet more actuated by impulse than principle, and nothing but principle, Christian principle I mean, will enable us to be kind and gentle, and unselfish habitually, not by fits and starts, but every day.

Joe Murray was sitting at his door smoking his pipe, and watching his little grandchildren as they played together (this time harmoniously) in the garden. They were not building a grotto, they were dancing, and jumping, and laughing, in the full merriment of good healthy happy children. Emilie and Edith greeted Joe as an old friend, and Joe seemed delighted to see them. The two children, who had been commissioned to search for corallines, rushed up to Edith with a basket full of a heterogeneous collection, and amongst a great deal of little value there were some beautiful specimens of the very things Edith wanted. She thanked the little Murrays sincerely, and then looked at Emilie. Should she pay them? the look asked. It was evident the children had no idea of such a thing, and felt fully repaid by Edith's pleasure. Edith only wanted to know if it would take from that pleasure to receive money. She had been learning of late to study what people liked, and wished to do so now.

Emilie did not understand her look, and so Edith followed her own course. "Thank you, oh, thank you," she said. "It was very kind of you to collect me so many, they please me very much. I wish I knew of something that you would like as well as I like these, and if I can, I will give it to you, or ask mamma to help me." The boy not being troubled with bashfulness, immediately said, that of all things he should like a regular rigged boat, a ship, "a little-un" that would swim. The girl put her finger in her mouth and said "she didn't know." "Are you going to have a boat?" said every little voice, "oh, what fun we shall have." "Yes," said our peace-making friend, Sarah. "You know that if Dick gets any thing it is the same as if you all did. He is such a kind boy, Miss, he plays with the little ones, and gives up to them so nicely, you'd be surprised."

"I am glad of that," said Emilie, "it will be such a pleasure to Miss Edith to give pleasure to them all—but come, Jenny, you have not fixed yet what you will have." Jenny said she did not want to be paid, but she had thought, perhaps Miss Parker might give them something, and if Miss Parker did not think it too much, she should like a shilling better than any thing.

Every one looked inquiringly, except Sarah. Sarah was but the uneducated daughter of a poor fisherman, but she studied human nature as it lay before her in the different characters of her brothers and sisters, and she guessed the workings of Jenny's mind.

"What do you want a shilling for?" said the mother sharply, who had joined the group. "You ought not to have asked for anything, what bad manners you have! The weeds cost you nothing, and you ought to be much obliged to Miss Parker for accepting them."

"I wanted the shilling very much," persisted Jenny, as Edith pressed it into her hand, and off she ran, as though to hide her treasure.

But Edith had caught sight of something, and forgot shilling and every thing else in that glimpse. Her own dear old Muff sleeping on the hearth of the kitchen which she had not yet entered. I shall not tell you all the endearments she used to puss, they would look ridiculous on paper; they made even those who heard them smile, but she was so overjoyed that there was some excuse for her. Mrs. Murray rather damped her joy at once by saying, "Oh, she's a sad thief, Miss. She steals the fish terribly. I suppose you can't take her back, Miss?"

"Ah, Joe," said Edith sorrowfully, "you see, you had better have drowned her."

"So I think," said Mrs. Murray.

"No, no, no," cried Jane, coming forwards. "I have a shilling now, and Barker the carrier will take her for that all the way to Southampton, where aunt Martha lives, and aunt Martha loves cats, and will take care of Muff; she shan't be drowned, Miss," said Jenny, kindly.

The mother looked surprised, and they all admired Jenny's kind intentions. Emilie slipped another shilling into her hand as they went away, and said "You will find a use for it." "Good night Jenny, and thank you," said poor Edith, with a sigh, for she had already looked forward to many joyful meetings with Muff—her newly-found treasure. But as old Joe, who followed them down the cliff said, there was no end to the trouble Muff caused, what with stealing fish, and upsettings and breakings; and she would be happier at aunt Martha's, where there was neither fish nor child, and more room to walk about in than Muff enjoyed here.

"But how kind of Jenny," said Edith, "how thoughtful for Muff!"

"No, Miss, 't aint for Muff exactly," said Joe, "though she pitied you, as they all did, in thinking of drowning the cat; but bless the dear children, they are all trying in their way, I do believe; to please their mother, and to win her to be more happy and gentle like. You see she has had a hard struggle with them, so many as there are, and so little to do with; and that and bad health have soured her temper like; but she'll come to. Oh Miss Edith, take my word for it, if ever you have to live where folks are cross and snappish, be you good-humoured. A little of the leaven of sweetness and good temper lightens a whole lump of crossness and bad humour. One bright Spirit in a family will keep the sun shining in one spot; it can't then be all dark, you see, and if there's ever such a little spot of sunshine, there must be some light in the house, which may spread before long, Miss."

"Goodnight, Joe," and "Good night, ladies," passed, and the friends were left alone—alone upon the quiet beach. The sun had set, for it was late; the tide was ebbing, and now left the girls a beautiful smooth path of sand for some little distance, on which the sound of their light steps was scarcely heard, as they rapidly walked towards home.

"Who would think, Edith, that our six weeks' holiday would be at an end to-morrow?" said Emilie.

"I don't know, Emilie, I feel it much longer."

"Do you? then you have not been so happy as I hoped to have made you, dear; I have been a great deal occupied with other things, but it could scarcely be helped."

"No, Emilie, I have not been happy a great part of the holidays, but I am happy now; happier at least, and it was no fault of yours at any time. I know now why I was so discontented with my condition, and why I thought I had more to try me than anybody else. I feel that I was in fault; that I am in fault, I should say; but, oh Emilie, I am trying, trying hard, to—" and here, Edith, softened by the remembrance that soon she and her friend must part, burst into tears.

"And you have succeeded, succeeded nobly, Edith, my darling. I have watched you, and but that I feared to interfere, I would have noticed your victories to you. I may do so now."

"My victories, Emilie! Are you making fun of me? I feel to have been so very irritable of late.—My victories!"

"Just because, dear, you take notice of your irritability as you did not use to do, and because you have constantly before your eyes that great pattern in whom was no sin."

"Emilie, I will tell you something—your patience, your example, has done me a great deal of good, I hope; but there is one thing in your kind of advice, which does me more good than all. You have talked more of the love of God than of any other part of his character, and the words which first struck me very much, when I first began to wish that I were different, were those you told me one Sunday evening, some time ago. 'Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and gave his Son a ransom for sinners.' There seemed such a contrast between my conduct to God, and His to me; and then it has made me, I hope, a little more, (a very little, you know,) I am not boasting, Emilie, am I? it has made me a little more willing to look over things which used to vex me so. What are Fred's worst doings to me, compared with my best to God?"

Thus they talked, and now, indeed, did the friends love one another; and heartily did each, by her bedside that night, thank God for his gospel, which tells of his love to man, the greatest illustration truly of the law of kindness.



CHAPTER NINTH.

FRED A PEACEMAKER.

"Talk not of wasted affection, affection never is wasted.... its waters returning back to their spring, like the rain shall fill them full of refreshment"—H. W. Longfellow.

"Well Fred," said Emilie at the supper table, from which Mr. Parker was absent, "I go away to-morrow and we part better friends than we met, I think, don't we?"

"Oh yes, Miss Schomberg, we are all better friends, and it is all your doing."

"My doing, oh no! Fred, that is flattery. I have not made Edith so gentle and so good as she has of late been to you. I never advised her to give up that little room to you nor to send poor Muff away."

"Didn't you? well, now I always thought you did; I always kid that to you, and so I don't believe I have half thanked Edith as I ought."

"Indeed you might have done."

"Well, I hope I shall not get quarrelsome at school again, but I wish I was in a large school. I fancy I should be much happier. Only being us five at Mr. Barton's, we are so thrown together, somehow we can't help falling out and interfering with each other sometimes. Now there is young White, I never can agree with him, it is impossible."

"Dear me!" said Emilie, without contradicting him, "why?"

"He treats me so very ill; not openly and above-board, as we say, but in such a nasty sneaking way, he is always trying to injure me. He knows sometimes I fall asleep after I am called. Well, he dresses so quietly, (I sleep in his room, I wish I didn't,) he steals down stairs and then laughs with such triumph when I come down late and get a lecture or a fine for it. If I am very busy over an exercise out of school hours, he comes and talks to me, or reads some entertaining book close to my ears, aloud to one of the boys, to hinder my doing it properly, but that is not half his nasty ways. Could you love such a boy Miss Schomberg?"

"Well, I would try to make him more loveable, Fred, and then I might perhaps love him," said Emilie.

"Ah, Emilie, your 'overcome evil with good' rule would fail there I can tell you; you may laugh."

"No, I won't laugh, I am going to be serious. You will allow me to preach a short sermon to-night, the last for some time, you know, and mine shall be but a text, or a very little more, and then 'good night.' Will you try to love that boy for a few weeks? really try, and see if he does not turn out better than you expect. If he do not, I will promise you that you will be the better for it. Love is never wasted, but remember, Fred, it is wicked and sad to hate one another, and it comes to be a serious matter, for 'If any man love not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen.' Good night."

"Good night, Miss Schomberg, you have taught me to like you," and oh, how I did dislike you once! thought Fred, but he did not say so.

Miss Webster's foot got well at last, but it was a long time about it. The lodgers went away at the end of the six weeks, and aunt Agnes and Emilie were quietly settled in their little apartments again. The piano was a little out of tune, but Emilie expected as much, and now after her six weeks' holiday, so called, she prepared to begin her life of daily teaching. Her kindness to Miss Webster was for some time to all appearance thrown away, but no, that cannot be—kindness and love can never be wasted. They bless him that gives, if not him that takes the offering. By and bye, however, a few indications of the working of the good system appeared. Miss Webster would offer to come and sit and chat with aunt Agnes when Emilie was teaching or walking; and aunt Agnes in return taught Miss Webster knitting stitches and crochet work. Miss Webster would clean Emilie's straw bonnet, and when asked for the bill, she would say that it came to nothing; and would now and then send up a little offering of fruit or fish, when she thought her lodgers' table was not well supplied. Little acts in themselves, but great when we consider that they were those of an habitually cold and selfish person. She did not express love; but she showed the softening influence of affection, and Emilie at least understood and appreciated it.

Fred had perhaps the hardest work of all the actors on this little stage; he thought so at least. Joe White was an unamiable and, as Fred expressed it, a sneaking boy. He had never been accustomed to have his social affections cultivated in childhood, and consequently, he grew up into boyhood without any heart as it is called. Good Mr. Barton was quite puzzled with him. He said there was no making any impression on him, and that Mr. Barton could make none was very evident. Who shall make it? Even Fred; for he is going to try Emilie's receipt for the cure of the complaint under which Master White laboured, a kind of moral ossification of the heart. Will he succeed? We shall see.

Perhaps, had Joe White at this time fallen down and broken his leg, or demanded in any way a great sacrifice of personal comfort from his school-fellow, he would have found it easier to return good for his evil, than in the daily, hourly, calls for the exercise of forgiveness and forbearance which occurred at school. Oh, how many will do great things in the way of gifts or service, who will not do the little acts of kindness and self denial which common life demands. Many a person has built hospitals or alms houses, and has been ready to give great gifts to the poor and hungry, who has been found at home miserably deficient in domestic virtues. Dear children, cultivate these. You have, very few of you, opportunities for great sacrifices. They occur rarely in real life, and it would be well if the relations of fictitious life abounded less in them; but you may, all of you, find occasions to speak a gentle word, to give a kind smile, to resign a pursuit which annoys or vexes another, to cure a bad habit, to give up a desired pleasure. You may, all of you, practice the injunction, to live not unto yourselves. Fred, I say, found it a hard matter to carry out Emilie's plan towards Joe White, who came back from home more evilly disposed than ever, and all the boys agreed he was a perfect nuisance.

"I would try and make him loveable." Those words of Emilie's often recurred to Fred as he heard the boys say how they disliked Joe White worse and worse. So Fred tried first by going up to him very gravely one day, and saying how they all disliked him, and how he hoped he would mend; but that did not do at all. Fred found the twine of his kite all entangled next day, and John said he saw White playing with it soon after Fred had spoken to him.

"I'd go and serve him out; just you go and tangle his twine, and see how he likes it," said John.

"I will—but no! I won't," Bald Fred, "that's evil for evil, and that is what I am not going to do. I mean to leave that plan off."

An opportunity soon occurred for returning good for evil Miss Barton had a donkey, and this donkey, whose proper abode was the paddock, sometimes broke bounds, and regaled itself on the plants in the young gentlemen's gardens, in a manner highly provoking to those who had any taste for flowers. If Joe White had any love for anything, it was for flowers. Now, there is something so pure and beautiful in flowers; called by that good philanthropist Wilberforce, the "smiles of God," that I think there must be a little tender spot in that heart which truly loves flowers. Joe tended his as a parent would a child. His garden was his child, and certainly it did his culture credit. Fred liked a garden too, and these boys' gardens were side by side. They were the admiration of the whole family, so neatly raked, so free from stones or weeds, so gay with flowers of the best kind. They were rival gardens, but undoubtedly White's was in the best order. John and Fred always went home on a Saturday, as Mr. Barton's house was not far from L——. Joe was a boarder entirely, his home was at a distance, and to this Fred Parker ascribed the superiority of his garden. He was able to devote the whole of Saturday, which was a holiday, to its culture. Well, the donkey of which I spoke, one day took a special fancy to the boys' gardens; and it so happened, that he was beginning to apply himself to nibble the tops of Joe's dahlias, which were just budding. Joe was that day confined to the house with a severe cold, and little did he think as he lay in bed, sipping Mrs. Barton's gruel and tea, of the scenes that were being enacted in his own dear garden. Fred fortunately spied the donkey, and though there had been lately a little emulation between them, who should grow the finest dahlias, he at once carried out the principle of returning good for evil, drove the donkey off, even though his course lay over his own flower beds, and then set to work to repair the damage done. A few minutes more, and all Joe's dahlias would have been sacrificed. Fred saved them, raked the border neatly, tied up the plants, and restored all to order again; and who can tell but those who thus act, the pleasure, the comfort of Fred's heart? Why, not the first prize at the horticultural show for the first dahlia in the country, would have given him half the joy; and a still nobler sacrifice he made—he did not tell of his good deeds. Now, Fred began to realise the pleasures of forbearance and kindness indeed.

There could not have been a better way of reaching young White's heart than through his garden. Fred's was a fortunate commencement. He never boasted of the act, but one of the boys told Mr. Barton, who did not fail to remind Joe of it at a suitable time, and that time was when White presented his master with a splendid bouquet of dahlias for his supper table, when he was going to have a party of friends. The boys, who were treated like members of the family, were invited to join that party, and then did Mr. Barton narrate the scene of the donkey's invasion, of which, however, the guests did not perceive the point; but those for whom it was intended understood it all. At bed time that night, Joe White begged his school-fellow's pardon for entangling his kite twine, and went to bed very humble and grateful, and with a little love and kindness dawning, which made his rest sweeter and his dreams happier. Thus Fred began his lessons of love; it was thus he endeavoured to make Joe lovable, and congratulated himself on his first successful attempt. He did not speak in the very words of the Poet, but his sentiments were the same, as he talked to John of his victory.

"There is a golden chord of sympathy, Fix'd in the harp of every human soul, Which by the breath of kindness when 'tis swept, Wakes angel-melodies in savage hearts; Inflicts sore chastisements for treasured wrongs, And melts away the ice of hate to streams of love; Nor aught but kindness can that fine chord touch."

Joe Murray was quite right in telling Edith that a little of the leaven of kindness and love went a great way in a family. No man can live to himself, that is to say, no man's acts can affect himself only. Had Fred set an example of revenge and retaliation, other boys would have no doubt acted in like manner on the first occasion of irritation. Now they all helped to reform Joe White, and did not return evil for evil, as had been their custom. Fred was the oldest but one of the little community, and had always been looked up to as a clever boy, up to all kinds of spore and diversion. He was the leader of their plays and amusements, and but for the occasional outbreaks of his violent temper would have been a great favourite. As it was, the boys liked him, and his master was undoubtedly very fond of Fred Parker. He was an honest truthful boy though impetuous and headstrong.

Permission was given the lads, who as we have said were six in number, to walk out one fine September afternoon without the guardianship of their master. They were to gather blackberries, highly esteemed by Mrs. Barton for preserves, and it was the great delight of the boys to supply her every year with this fruit. Blackberrying is a very amusing thing to country children. It is less so perhaps in its consequences to the nurse, or sempstress, who has to repair the terrible rents which merciless brambles make, but of that children, boys especially, think little or nothing. On they went, each provided with a basket and a long crome stick, for the purpose of drawing distant clusters over ditches or from some height within the reach of the gatherer. At first they jumped and ran and sang in all the merriment of independence. The very consciousness of life, health, and freedom was sufficient enjoyment, and there was no end to their fun and their frolics until they came to the spot where the blackberries grew in the greatest abundance. Then they began to gather and eat and fill their baskets in good earnest. The most energetic amongst them was Fred, and he had opportunities enough this afternoon for practising kindness and self-denial, for White was in one of his bad moods, and pushed before Fred whenever he saw a fine and easily to be obtained cluster of fruit; and once, (Fred thought purposely,) upset his basket, which stood upon the pathway, all in the dust. Still Fred bore all this very well, and set about the gathering with renewed ardour, though one or two of the party called out, "Give it him, Parker; toss his out and see how he likes it." No, Fred had begun to taste the sweet fruits of kindness, he would not turn aside to pluck the bitter fruits of revenge and passion. So he gave no heed to the matter, only leaving the coast clear for White whenever he could, and helping a little boy whom White had pushed aside to fill his basket.

Without any particular adventures, and with only the usual number of scratches and falls, and only the common depth of dye in lips and fingers, the boys sat down to rest beneath the shade of some fine trees, which skirted a beautiful wood.

"I say," said John Parker, "let us turn in here, we shall find shade enough, and I had rather sit on the grass and moss than on this bank. Come along, we have only to climb the hedge."

"But that would be trespassing," said one conscientious boy, who went by the name of Simon Pure, because he never would join in any sport he thought wrong, and used to recall the master's prohibitions rather oftener to his forgetful companions than they liked.

"Trespassing! a fig for trespassing," said John Parker, clearing away all impediments, and bestriding the narrow ditch, planted a foot firmly on the opposite bank.

"You may get something not so sweet as a fig for trespassing, John, though," said his brother Fred, who came up at this moment.

"Man-traps and spring-guns are fictions my lad," said Philip Harcourt, a boy of much the same turn as John, not easily persuaded any way; "Now for it, over Parker; be quick, man," and over he jumped.

Then followed Harcourt, White, and another little boy, whose name was Arthur, leaving Fred and Simon Pure in the middle of the road. The wood was, undoubtedly, a very delightful place, and more than one fine pheasant rustled amongst the underwood, and the squirrels leaped from bough to bough, whilst the music of the birds was charming. Fred, himself, was tempted as he peeped over the gap, and stood irresolute. The plantation was far enough from the residence of the owner, nor was it likely that they could do much mischief beyond frightening the game, and as it was not sitting time, Fred himself argued it could do no harm, but little Riches, the boy called Pure, who was a great admirer of Fred, especially since the affair of the Dahlias, begged him not to go; "Mr. Barton, you know, has such a great dislike to our trespassing," said Riches, "and if we stay here resolutely they will be sure to come back."

"Don't preach to me," was the rather unexpected reply, for Fred was not perfect yet, though he had gained a victory or two over his temper of late.

"I didn't mean to preach, but I do wish the boys would come home, it is growing late; and with our heavy baskets we shall only just get in in time."

"Halloo!" shouted Fred, getting on the bank. "Come back, won't you, or we shall be too late; come, John, you are the eldest, come along." But his call was drowned in the sound of their voices, which were echoing through the weeds, much to the annoyance, no doubt, of the stately pheasants who were not accustomed to human sounds like these. They were not at any great distance, and Fred could just distinguish parts of their conversation.

John and Harcourt were urging White, a delicate boy, and no climber, to mount a high tree in the wood, to enjoy they said the glorious sea-view; but in reality to make themselves merry at his expense, being certain that if he managed to scramble up he would have some difficulty in getting down, and would get a terrible fright at least. White stood at the bottom of the tree, looking at his companions as they rode on one of the higher branches of a fine spruce fir.

"Don't venture! White," shouted Fred as loudly as he could shout, "don't attempt it! They only want to make game of you, and you'll never get down if you manage to get up. Take my advice now, don't try."

"Mind your own business," and a large sod of earth was the reply. The sod struck the boy on the face, and his nose bled profusely.

"There," said young Riches, "what a cowardly trick! Oh! I think White the meanest spirited boy I ever saw. He wouldn't have flung that sod at you if you had been within arm's length of him; well, I do dislike that White."

"I'll give it to him," said Fred, as he vaulted over the fence, but immediately words, which Emilie had once repeated to him when they were talking about offensive and defensive warfare, came into his mind, and he stopped short. Those words were:—"If any man smite thee on thy right cheek turn to him the other also," and Fred was in the road again.

"Well," said Riches, "we have done and said all we can, let us be going home, their disobeying orders is no excuse for us, so come along Parker—won't you? They have a watch, and their blackberries won't run away, I suppose."

"Can't we manage between us, though, to carry some of them?" said Fred. "This large basket is not nearly full, let us empty one of them into it. There, now we have only left them two. I've got White's load. I've half a mind to set it down, but no I won't though. You will carry John's, Won't you, that's lighter, and between them they may carry the other."

They went on a few steps when they both turned to listen. "I thought," said Fred, "I heard my name called. It could only be fancy, though. Yet, hush! There it is! quite plain," and so it was.

John called to him loudly to stop, and at that moment such a scream was heard echoing through the woods, as sent the wood pigeons flying terrified about, and started the hares from their hiding places. "Stop, oh stop, Fred, White can't get down," said John, breathless, "and I believe he will fall, if he hasn't already, he says he is giddy. Pray come back and see if you can't help him, you are such a famous climber."

Fred could not refuse, and in less than five minutes he was on the spot, but it was too late. The branch had given way, and the boy lay at the foot of the tree senseless, to all appearance dead. There was no blood, no outward sign of injury, but—his face! Fred did not forget for many years afterwards, its dreadful, terrified, ghastly expression. What was to be done? They were so horror-struck that for a few minutes they stood in perfect silence, so powerfully were they convinced that the lad had ceased to breathe, that they remained solemn and still as in the presence of death.

To all minds death has great solemnities; to the young, when it strikes one of their own age and number, especially. "Come," said Fred, turning to Riches, "come, we must not leave him here to die, poor fellow. Take off his neck-handkerchief, Harcourt, and run you, Riches, to the stream close by, where we first sat down, and get some water. Get it in your cap, man, you have nothing else to put it in. Quick! quick!"

"Joe! Joe!" said John, "only speak, only look, Joe, if you can, we are so frightened."—No answer.

"Joe!" said Fred, and he tried to raise him. No assistance and no resistance; Joe fell back passive on the arm of his friend, yes, friend—they were no longer enemies you know. Had Fred returned evil for evil, had he rushed on him as he first intended when he received the sod from White, he would not have felt as he now did. The boys, who, out of mischief, to use the mildest word, tempted him to climb to a height, beyond that which even they themselves could have accomplished, were not to be envied in their feelings. Poor fellows, and yet they only did what many a reckless, mischievous school boy has done and is doing every day; they only meant to tease him a bit, to pay him off for being so spiteful all the way, and so cross to Fred when he spoke. But it was no use trying to still the voice which spoke loudly within them, which told them that they had acted with heartless cruelty, and that their conduct had, perhaps, cost a fellow-creature his life.

"Will you wait with him whilst I run to L—— for papa?" said Fred.

"What alone?" they cried.

"Alone! why there are four of you, will be at least when Riches comes back."

"Oh no! no! do you stay Fred, you are the only one that knows what you are after."

"Well, which of you will go then? It is near two miles, and you must run, for his life—mind that." No one stirred, and Riches at this moment coming up with the water, Fred told him in few words what he meant to do, and bade him go and stand by the poor lad. That was all that could be done, and "Riches don't be hard on them; their consciences are telling them all you could tell them. Don't lecture them, I mean; you would not like it yourself."

Off ran Fred, and to his great joy, spying a cart, with one of farmer Crosse's men in it, he hailed it, told his tale, and thus they were at L—— in a very short space of time. Terrified indeed was Mrs. Parker at the sight of her son driving furiously up in farmer Crosse's spring-cart, and his black eye and swelled face did not tend to pacify her on nearer inspection. The father, a little more used to be called out in a hurry, and to prepare for emergencies, was not so alarmed, but had self-possession enough to remember what would be needed, and to collect various articles for the patient's use.

The journey to the wood was speedily accomplished, but the poor lads who were keeping watch, often said afterwards that it seemed to them almost a lifetime, such was the crowd of fearful and wretched thoughts and forebodings, such the anxiety, and hopelessness of their situation. There in the silence of the wood lay their young companion, stretched lifeless, and they were the cause. The least rustle amongst the leaves they mistook for a movement of the sufferer; but he moved not. How did they watch Mr. Parker's face as he knelt down and applied his fingers to the boy's wrist first, and then to his heart! With what intense anxiety did they watch the preparations for applying remedies and restoratives! "Was he, was he dead, quite dead?" they asked. No, not dead, but the doctor shook his head seriously, and their exclamations of joy and relief were soon checked.

Not to follow them through the process of restoring animation, we will say that he was carefully removed to Mr. Barton's house, and tenderly watched by his kind wife. He had been stunned by the fall, but this was not the extent of the mischief. It was found upon examination that the spine had received irreparable injury, and that if poor White lived, which was doubtful, it would be as a helpless cripple. Who can tell the reflections of those boys? Who can estimate the misery of hearts which had thus returned evil for evil? It was a sore lesson, but one which of itself could yield no good fruit.

It was a great grief to Fred that his presence, in the excitable state of the sufferer, seemed to do him harm. He would have liked to sit by him, and share in the duties of his nursing, but whenever Fred approached, White became restless and uneasy, and continually alluded, even in his delirium, to the sod he had thrown, and to other points of his ungrateful malicious conduct to his school-fellow. This feeling, however, in time wore away, and many an hour did Fred take from play to go and sit by poor Joe's couch.

He had no mother to come and watch beside that couch, no kind gentle sister, no loving father. He was an orphan, taken care of by an uncle and aunt, who had no experience in training children, and were accustomed to view young persons in the light of evils, which it was unfortunately necessary to bear until the fault of youth should have passed away. Will you not then cease to wonder that Joe seemed to have so little heart? Affection needs to be cultivated; his uncle thought that in sending him to school and giving him a good education, he was doing his duty by the boy. His aunt considered that if in the holidays she let him rove about as he pleased, saw to the repairs of his clothes, sent him back fitted out comfortably, with a little pocket money and a little advice, she had done her duty by the child. But poor Joe! No kind mother ever stole to his bedside to whisper warnings and gentle reproof if the conduct of the day had been wrong; no knee ever bent to ask for grace and blessing on that orphan boy; no sympathy was ever expressed in one of his joys or griefs; no voice encouraged him in self-denial; no heart rejoiced in his little victories over temper and pride. Now, instead of blaming and disliking, will you not pity and love the unlovable and neglected lad?

He had not been long under Mr. Barton's care, and after all, what could a schoolmaster do in twelve months, to remedy the evils which had been growing up for twelve years? He did his best, but the result was very little, and perhaps the most useful lesson Joe ever had was that which Fred gave him about the Dahlias.



CHAPTER TENTH.

EDITH'S VISIT TO JOE.

Fred and Edith were sitting in the Canary room one Saturday afternoon, shortly after the event recorded in the last chapter; Edith listening with an earnest interest to the oft-repeated tale of the fall in the wood.

"How glad you must have felt, Fred, when you thought he was dead, that you had not returned his unkindness."

"Glad! Edith, I cannot tell you how glad; but glad is'nt the word, either. On my knees that night, and often since, I have thanked God who helped me to check the temper that arose. Those words out of the Bible did it: 'If any man smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.' Emilie told me that text one day, and I said I did'nt think I could ever do that, but I was helped somehow; but come, Edith, let us go and see Emilie Schomberg, I have'nt seen her since all this happened, though you have. How beautifully you keep my cages Edith! I think you are very clever; the birds get on better than they did with me. Is there any one you would like to give a bird to, dear? For I am sure you ought to share the pleasures, you have plenty of the trouble of my canaries."

"Oh, I have pleasure enough, and their songs always seem like rejoicings over our reconciliation that day ever so long ago; you remember, don't you, Fred? but I should like a bird very much to give to Miss Schomberg; she seems low-spirited, and says she is often very lonely. A bird would be nice company for her, shall we take her one?"

"It would be rather a troublesome gift without a cage, Edith, but I have money enough, I think, and I will buy a cage, and then she shall have her bird."

"We will hang it up to greet her on Sunday morning, shall we?" Thus the brother and sister set out, and it was a beautiful sight to their mother, who dearly loved them, to see the two who once were so quarrelsome and disunited now walking together in love.

Emilie was not at home, and they stood uncertain which way to walk, when Fred said, "Edith, I want some one to teach poor Joe love; will you go with me and see him? You taught me to love you, and I think Joe would be happier if he could see some one he could take a fancy to. Papa said he might see one at a time now, and poor fellow, I do pity him so. Will you go? It is a fine fresh afternoon, let us go to Mr. Barton's."

The October sky was clear and the air bracing, and side by side walked Fred and Edith on their errand of mercy to poor neglected Joe, their young hearts a little saddened by the remembrance of his sufferings, "Is not his aunt coming?" asked Edith.

"No! actually she is not," replied Fred. "She says in her letter she could not stand the fatigue of the journey, and that her physicians order her to try the waters of Bath and Cheltenham. Unfeeling creature!"

Thus they chatted till they arrived at Mr. Barton's house. Mrs. Barton received them very kindly. "Oh, Miss Parker, she said, my heart aches for that poor lad upstairs, and yet with all this trial, and the wonderful providential escape he has had, would you believe it? his heart seems very little affected. He is not softened that I can see. I told him to day how thankful he ought to be that God did not cut him off in all his sins, and he answered that they who tempted him into danger would have the most to answer for."

Ah, Mrs. Barton, it is not the way to people's hearts usually to find fault and upbraid them. There was much truth in what you said to Joe, but truth sometimes irritates by the way and time in which it is spoken, and it seems in this case that the kind of truth you told did not exactly suit the state of the boy's mind. Edith did not say this of course to the good lady, whose intentions were excellent, but who was rather too much disposed to be severe on young persona, and certainly Joe had tried her in many ways.

"I will go and see whether Joe would like to see Edith may I, madam, asked Fred?" Permission was given.

"My sister is here, Joe, you have often heard me mention her, would you like to see her?"

"Oh, I don't know, my back is so bad. Oh dear me, and your father tells me I am to lie flat in this way, months. What am I to do all through the Christmas holidays too? Oh! dear, dear me. Well, yes, she may come up."

With this not very gracious invitation little Edith stepped upstairs, and being of a very tender nature, no sooner did she see poor Joe's suffering state than she began to cry. They were tears of such genuine sympathy, such exquisite tenderness, that they touched Joe. He did not withdraw the hand she held, and felt even sorry when she herself took hers away. "How sorry I am for you!" said Edith, when she could speak, "but may I come and read to you sometimes, and wait upon you when there is no one else? I think I could amuse you a little, and it might pass the time away. I only mean when you have no one better, you know."

Joe's permission was not very cordial, he was so afraid of girls' flummery, as he called it "She plays backgammon and chess, Joe, and I can promise you she reads beautifully."

"Well, I will come on Monday," said Edith, gaily, "and send me away if you don't want me; but dear me, do you like this light on your eyes? I'll ask mamma for a piece of green baize to pin up. Good bye."

As she was going out of the room Joe called her back. "I have such a favour to ask of you, Miss Parker. Don't bring that preaching German lady here of whom I have heard Fred speak; I don't mind you, but I cannot bear so much preaching. Mrs. Barton and her together would craze me." Edith promised, but she felt disappointed. She had hoped that Emilie might have gained an entrance, and she knew that Emilie would have found out the way to his heart, if she could once have got into his presence; but she concealed her disappointment having made the required promise, and ran after her brother.

"I don't like going where I am so plainly not wanted, Fred," said she on their way home, "Oh, what a sad thing poor White's temper is for himself and every one about him."

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

JOE'S CHRISTMAS.

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

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

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

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

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

"To sea!" the boy repeated in wonder.

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

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

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

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

"Is Sir J. C—— gone, Ma'am?"

"Yes, he has been gone some minutes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is true," said Joe, sadly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER TWELFTH.

THE CHRISTMAS TREE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was as follows:—

DEAR JOHN,

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

JOS. WHITE.

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

J.W.

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

THE NEW HOME.

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

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

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

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

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

L——, Dec, 18— DEAREST EMILIE,

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

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

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

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

Your affectionate

EDITH.

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

DEAR EDITH,

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

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

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

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

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

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

FRED PARKER.



CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

THE LAST.

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

"It is his garden, Emilie."

"Yes, I know"—and she sighed.—

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

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

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

"Yes, but be very still."

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

NORWICK: PRINTED BY JOSIAH FLETCHER

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Published by Arthur Hall, Virtue & Co.

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