Now she understood why the little bank account which she had accidentally found was being so carefully saved. She had not known that she was to go to college.

Now she remembered that it had been years since mother had had a new dress, but she had thought it was because she was queer. There had been many days when mother had seemed cross—was it because she was suffering? Oh, how sorry she was! What could she do to make her happy now that she knew?

Slowly she undressed for bed. She must be in the dark to think. When she knelt in prayer, she asked God to forgive her—but she remembered that she could not ask mother to do so. She remembered the words of her mother to Mr. Morse,

"It would kill me to have her sorry for me. She must love me for myself and not for what I did."

So she tossed and tumbled as the time slipped by. Suddenly she heard a foot dragging across the hall, and a big lump came into her throat. How often she had rebelled at that foot! Then her mother came quietly into the room.

"Mother," said Mary, "why are you here? Aren't you asleep yet?"

"No, dear," said the mother, and the girl thought she had never heard a more beautiful voice. "I heard you tossing in the bed and I thought perhaps you were ill. So I came to see. What is the trouble, dear?"

"Oh, to-morrow is my graduation day and I think I am sorry to leave school," said the girl. "I love these dear little beads which I have under the pillow, mother. Have you had them long? I never saw them before."

"Many, many years, girlie. Your father gave them to me and how hard he worked to earn them! I love every little bead on the string. But I shall love to see you wear them for his sake. I saved them for you once in the long ago because I wanted you to have something that he had earned for us. And now you must go to sleep, for you must look bright and pretty to-morrow. Oh! I shall be so proud of you when you start for the school."

Then a white arm drew the mother down close to the bed and a sweet girlish voice said,

"Be all ready when the carriage comes for me to-morrow, mother dear, for you are going with me, even though it is early. No other girl has a mother who has worked so hard as you have to keep her in school. You are the best mother in the whole world and I am so proud of you."

"Well, if you are as proud of me as I am of you, we are the happiest little family in the whole world," said the mother, kissing her on both cheeks. And two people were happy because real love was there.



THE FIR TREE AND THE WILLOW WAND[B]

All this happened years ago when the red men lived along the lake shores and hunted in the woods. The Indians still tell the tale and shake their heads sadly, whether because of the sadness of the story or because they sigh for the old days, I do not know.

Willow Wand was the daughter of old Chief Seafog. She was not like the other girls of the tribe. She was straight and lithe like a willow, and she looked more like a beautiful boy than she did like an Indian maiden. This is not strange when you think that she wore the leather leggins and the short jacket of the Indian boy and carried a bow and quiver of arrows thrown over her shoulder. And in spite of the fact that she shot a straighter arrow than most of the lads about her, they all loved her, for she would run with them and hunt with them, and at night, by the fire, she would tell them strange and beautiful stories. In her face they saw a light that they did not see in the faces of the other girls and squaws of the village, for Willow Wand had a secret which made her full of mysteries.

As Willow Wand grew taller, the time came when she thought of wedding. Young Fir Tree, the most daring of the young braves, loved her, and Willow Wand knew that she loved him. And when Fir Tree went to old Chief Seafog, Willow Wand went with him, which made it not difficult for them to receive the old man's blessing.

So on one brilliant day in Indian summer, Fir Tree and Willow Wand were married. The fallen leaves danced at their wedding feast and the blue mists of autumn were the bridal veil. Every one was as happy as an Indian could be. And in the starlight, Fir Tree took Willow Wand to his tepee. He brought a great buffalo robe from the tent and spread it on the hillside, and they sat down close together and looked up at the stars.

"I love you, my brave Fir Tree," said Willow Wand.

Fir Tree put his arm about her. "And I love you, my little Willow Wand," he said. "You are the most beautiful woman in the world. I would not have you like the rest. They are good; they grind the corn; they do the work, but their faces are like stones. Yours is full of secrets and lovely memories. What makes you so different, my love?"

"My secret, Fir Tree. My father says that a woman's secret is her beauty."

"But a woman must tell her secret to her love," and Fir Tree looked off into the distance.

"Willow Wand must not tell her secret even to her love," she said very, very softly.

"You cannot trust me nor love me then, Willow Wand," said Fir Tree, growing stiff and cold.

"I love you, Fir Tree. I will tell you my secret."

Fir Tree continued to look off in the darkness, but he bent his head a little so that he might not miss anything she said.

"One night, long ago, I sat out in the evening like this with my father. 'Father, I want to shoot your bow, your smallest bow,' I said. 'You haven't the strength to draw it, even my smallest bow, little Willow Wand,' he said. 'Oh, but I have. I have tried it,' and I ran into the tent and brought the little bow with the red bear painted on it. 'See, I shall shoot that star, the red one there.' I pulled the string and the arrow was off. We waited to hear it fall. 'It takes a long time to reach the stars,' I said. Just then there was a splash in the jar by the tepee door. 'There it is,' said my father, 'your star has fallen into the rain jar.'

"I looked, and, sure enough, there was the little red star, lying on the bottom of the crock, and shining so brightly that we could see it through the water. 'My star!' I said. 'We shall always keep it here, my father. I brought it down with my arrow.'

"The next day my father took me hunting, and he gave orders that that jar was never to be moved from beside his door until I should leave him, and then it was to go with me. And always he has kept fresh water from the spring in the jar. See, he has brought it up here beside your tepee that it would be waiting for me. Yes, my Fir Tree, see, here is my own star still shining brightly—more brightly to-night because of my great happiness with you."

"Dear little Willow Wand, what a beautiful child you are," said Fir Tree, and he brushed back her black hair and looked into her eyes. "Don't you know that the star in the crock is only a reflection of a real star above your dear head in the sky? No one can really shoot a star, Willow Wand."

"But of course it is a real star, Fir Tree; we heard it splash as it fell into the jar, my father and I. And I see it now; it has always been here since that night. You are mistaken, Fir Tree."

Fir Tree rose and lifted up the jar, and, tipping the water out, said, "See, I shall show you that Fir Tree is never mistaken. I shall empty the crock. See, there is no star left in the jar, nor has any red star tumbled out with the water onto the grass. Ah, your secret was very beautiful, little Willow Wand, but now you know the truth. The truth, too, is beautiful."

There was a little moan of anguish, and Willow Wand disappeared into the darkness.

The next morning a tall squaw came out of Fir Tree's tepee. She picked up the empty rain jar and with tired footsteps walked down to the spring for water. She was dressed in the conventional clothing of her tribe, and her face was dull and expressionless like the stones on the path over which she walked. Down the long trail to the spring she walked. It was very, very early, so the moon still shone and the little stars twinkled in the sky. Often she looked at them, longing for her little red star.

Slowly she stooped, filled the jar, and lifted it to place it on her head when suddenly she stopped, looked—then gave a cry of surprise and delight, for there, shining clear as crystal in the water of the pail, was the little red star.

Willow Wand set the jar carefully on the ground and then knelt long beside it. How she loved the little red star! How happy she was to have it once more beside her! And as she looked, the tired look left her face and a smile of joy and peace took its place.

Picking up the jar, she looked once more into the clear cold water. Then she said,

"Come, little star. Come with me to the wigwam of brave, strong Fir Tree. Together we will make it the happiest wigwam in the encampment. You shall still help me to be my best, for I shall still have a star."

——-

[B] Reprinted from the Camp Fire Girls' Magazine by permission. Revised by permission of the author.



THE TWO SEARCHERS

Peter was tired of doing the same thing over and over and he wanted a change. Ever since he could remember he had fished and sold the fish he had caught. He had made nets and mended them. First he had done it for his father, and now he owned the boats and nets and fishing implements. But he stood on that bright summer day close by the beautiful Lake of Gennesaret in Galilee, wishing over and over that he could do something that was more worth while.

There was a reason why Peter was more discouraged than ever on this morning. He had fished all through the night before in the hope of getting a good catch so that he might skip a day's work and go to hear the great teacher about whom men were talking and whom Andrew, his brother, had seen. But though he had worked hard, not a fish had he caught. So now he was mending the holes in the net with a very discontented look on his face. What was the use of it all, anyway? He twisted the rope this way and that, showing by the pulls that he made that his mind was full of trouble.

Suddenly he heard Andrew talking to him. "Peter," he said. "Peter, see the crowd coming over the hilltop. Perhaps the teacher is coming. I do hope so, for I would hear more of the words he was telling us yesterday. Come, let's go and meet him."

"No," said Peter, "I must finish this net. What will he care for us? We are only poor fishermen."

But Andrew had not waited to hear his answer—he had already begun to ascend the hill. How eager he was to hear another story from the great story-teller!

Peter mended one hole after another, keeping his eye on the crowd that was coming closer and closer to the lakeside. Then he heard a kindly voice say, "Would you mind letting me take your boat, for the multitude press upon me and I have many things to say to them. If I can get away from the shore, they can all hear and understand."

Silently Peter brought the fishing boat to shore. The Master wanted to use something that he had. After all, a fishing boat was useful sometimes, even if he were tired of it. Of course he would be glad to help him. So Jesus, the teacher, sat in the end of the boat and Peter rowed him out in front of the crowd. Then Peter sat and listened and looked.

What a wonderful face the teacher had! Peter had never seen the like. It was browned by the sun but in the eyes there was a kindly light that made Peter love to look at him. When he smiled, somehow Peter felt the smile go all through him. How gentle his voice was! What made it so? How eagerly the people were listening, yet he was only telling them a little story about the love of his father, God.

"I wish I had a face like that and a voice like that and could teach like that," thought Peter. "But I am only a poor fisherman. Oh dear, I wish I could be worth something."

But Jesus had finished teaching and had bidden the people go to their homes. Peter turned to row to the shore, but Jesus was not ready for that. He had been teaching the multitude and now he wanted a chance to talk with Peter and Andrew. So he said to Peter,

"Launch out into the deep and let us fish for a while."

Peter thought of the long night of useless toil, but Jesus had asked him to go. This was a chance to stay longer with the teacher, so he said to him frankly,

"Master, we have toiled all night and caught nothing. Nevertheless, at your word, I will let down the net."

So together the brothers let down the net and Peter began to row.

This was a good chance for Jesus to study Peter. How strong and weatherbeaten he looked! His was a good honest face, and Jesus saw there determination and courage and trustworthiness. Jesus was searching for men who could be trusted to carry in their minds and lives the most precious thing he had—his message to the world—so as he rowed out into the fishing grounds of Lake Gennesaret that day, he was searching Peter's face. It would take courage, for some of his followers would even have to die for him. It would take determination, for there would be many things against them. Yes, Jesus liked Peter as he watched him and talked to him. Peter was one of the men for whom he was searching.

Suddenly the net was full of fishes—so full that Peter and Andrew could not manage it. Quickly they called to their partners, James and John, to come and help them. And when Peter saw the multitude of fishes that were in the net, he was overpowered with the greatness of the man who had helped them. Quickly he fell on his knees before the Christ and said, "Depart from me, O Lord, for I am a sinful man."

Then Jesus turned to Peter and with a whole world of meaning said,

"Peter, it is a great multitude of fishes that you have caught, but you can do greater things than that. You can do far greater things than catch fish from the water. If you will come with me, I will teach you how to catch men and you shall be my worker. I need you, Peter. Will you come?"

Would he come? Peter, who had been longing to make his life worth while; Peter, who had been longing to know what it was that made Jesus so wonderful as he went among men. Would he go and let Jesus teach him? Would he be a follower of the Master and go out in the big world to help win men?

A great happiness filled the mind of Peter and when he lifted his face to the Christ, the answer to the question of the Teacher was written on it.

So Jesus found a helper and Peter found a task that was worth while.

"And when he had brought his boat to land, he gladly forsook all and followed Christ." So well did he follow that we read in the Book of Acts that after Peter had talked to the multitude on the day of Pentecost, there were added to the church, at one time, three thousand persons who believed the word that he had spoken to them.



WHY ELIZABETH WAS CHOSEN

The Triangle Club of Center High School were all busily engaged in choosing the girls whom they should invite to go to the house party which Mrs. Warren was giving them. Mrs. Warren had a cottage on a lake, fifteen miles from the city, and she had written to the club saying that she wanted them all to spend a week with George, her son, there in the camp. And better still, she was ready to invite any ten girls whom they might choose. Mrs. Warren was the wife of the minister, so all the boys knew that the mothers of the girls would be glad to have them spend a week with her at the dear little camp in the pines, about which they had heard so much.

One by one they had chosen the girls, each boy having a choice, and now all that was left to be done was for Carl Green, their president, to choose. But Carl was in an examination, so they must wait for him.

"I think he will choose Charlotte Morey," said one. "She is so pretty and Carl has taken her to several dances this winter."

"Not a bit of it," said another. "He will ask Helen Keats, for she makes such good marks in school that he is glad to be seen out with her. She is fine company and I hope he asks her."

"I think he will ask his sister, Jane. Carl is always thinking of her and if she is at home, he will ask her first, I am sure," said a third.

While they were talking, they saw the boy coming across the lawn in front of the school. Every boy smiled and eagerly leaned forward to greet him, for Carl Green was easily their hero. He could lead in sports of all kinds, he was cheery and patient, he was a good student in school—he was an all-round boy and what he did was right in the eyes of the boys.

"Come on, Carl," they called. "Here is a letter from Mrs. Warren telling us we can invite the girls up for the house party. Isn't she a dear to think of it? We have chosen part of the girls and here is our list, but you still have a choice. Of course we know whom you will choose, but we thought we had better let you write the name. Come on! Hurry up."

Carl took the list and looked carefully through it. Then he said,

"That will be a fine party, fellows. I like that list. Let me see. That is the last week in June, so Jane will be away. I'm sorry, for I should have liked to have given her the fun. Well, as long as she can't go, I should like to ask Elizabeth Wyman to go with us."

A chorus of boys' voices sounded as soon as the name was spoken.

"Elizabeth Wyman! Why do you want her? She doesn't go with our set. She refused to go to the dance at the beach with us, though the whole club was going. Said she didn't like the movie we were going to see. She wouldn't vote for the Sunday picnic that we wanted. Oh, Carl, you don't want her. She would spoil our fun. Choose another."

Carl let the boys talk all they chose and then he said,

"Fellows, if you insist, I will choose another, but I should prefer to take Elizabeth. I'll be frank with you, I'm going to go with her if she will let me and this would be a fine opportunity to get to know her."

"If she will let you—that is a joke. As if any girl would not let you," said John.

"No," said Carl, "I mean what I say. I am going to be her friend if she will let me. And I'll tell you why—though I am not sure that she would want me to do it. Still she told me the story in a very frank way, so I don't think she would mind. At least I hope not. But I want you to know her in the way I do, for if she is my friend you will be often with her. After I tell you, you will understand why I say, 'If she will let me.'"

"It was the night of the snowstorm and I was coming up the street when I caught up with her. It was very cold and she was snuggling into a beautiful little neckpiece of ermine. I am fond of furs and so I said to her,

"'I like the little ermine that you have about your neck. It is so simple, yet so beautiful. It is very different from the large ones that most people wear these days.'

"'Oh,' she said, 'I like it too. Uncle sent it to me this winter and I love it because of the story he told me about the little animal whose fur it is.'

"'Tell me the story,' I said.

"But she smiled and patted the fur as she said, 'I don't think I could, for it is very personal. It was a message from Uncle to me, so it means much to me. To you, it might not mean anything.'

"'But I should like to hear it,' I said. 'Please tell it to me.'

"'Well,' said Elizabeth, 'Uncle seems very queer to mother because he wants a message to go with every gift, but I like it. When this came, his letter said:

"'"Girlie: I wonder if you wouldn't like to wear this bit of ermine. When the ermine is pursued by a larger animal and it comes to a puddle of mud, it will die before it will soil its coat. Wouldn't it be wonderful if you and all the girls who are your friends would be as careful of your characters and never, no never, do that which would soil them?"'

"We walked part of a block before we spoke after she had told me of the gift, and then she said, 'I am sure that the girls at school sometimes think me very particular because I will not do some of the things that they do. Perhaps they are all right for them but I feel that they would soil my coat, so I do not do them. I am trying to keep it white and this little bit of ermine helps a lot. Of course, I like to wear it, but it would be very uncomfortable if I did not try. I hope you don't think me foolish, now that you know the story of the fur.'"

There was silence as Carl finished speaking. Then Carl Green threw back the long locks from his forehead as he said,

"I know a good thing when I see it, fellows, and the girl who would die rather than soil her character is a mighty good friend for a boy to have. She is worth asking to our house party. I'm thinking she is worth winning for a friend. Good-by, I am going to ask her before any of you change the name on your list."

So Elizabeth Wyman went to the house party at Mrs. Warren's, and to this day she wonders why the boys seemed so different from what they had seemed before. But because she knew no difference, she was sure that it must have been because she was invited by Carl Green, the leader of the Triangle Club of Center High School. But you and I know better.



JANIE'S SCHOOL DAYS

Janie was sixteen years old, but she looked as though she might be only thirteen as she sat on the front seat of the little schoolhouse far up on the mountainside of Kentucky. Her black hair was plastered tightly to her head. Her calico dress was much too long and the sleeves were much too short. Mother had made it long so that she might wear it for several years, while the sleeves were short so that she might have no excuse for not getting her hands in the dish water. Her bare feet were very dirty but her face shone from its recent scrubbing.

This was a great day for Janie, for the missionary had once again come to the schoolhouse. It had been three years since she was there before, and all that time Janie had waited for her. So she had hurried with her work in order that she might sit on the very front seat and hear every word. Last time she had told much about the school many miles away and Janie had said over and over to herself, "I shall go there; I shall go there." But of course it was foolish to say so, for there wasn't any chance that she ever could go. Why, there were seven brothers and sisters younger than she, and she had to work all day long to help to get them enough to eat. She could never go.

But she listened eagerly as the missionary told of all that was being done in the little schoolhouses all about the mountains and of the need of teachers to do the work.

"We like best to take a boy or girl from some hamlet and let them work with us for several years and then send them back to their own homes to serve there. I am wondering if there isn't a girl here who would like to be the teacher here and help to make Round Creek what it ought to be. If there is such a one, send them to us and we will do our best. If you will pay $10 a term, we will do the rest."

Janie's little body was leaning far forward and her eyes were big with excitement. She knew a girl that would like to go. But $10 a term! Why, one dollar seemed big in their home. So she crept out into the darkness of the night without saying a word to any one about her great, big longing. But up in the loft of the log house she lay long after the rest went to sleep trying to think of a way. Auntie was coming to stay with them in the fall. If she could just get the ten dollars by that time, maybe she could be spared for a term. That would help a little, anyway.

In the morning she loosened one of the boards of the woodshed. Beneath it she placed a little tin can, and in the can she put the five pennies that she owned. It was berry time and she thought she knew of a way to earn some money that should be all her own. Near the mill, there were beautiful pieces of bark. In the woods there were many rare ferns. She would make some little baskets like she had made many times for the home, fill them with ferns and try to sell them when she went into the town with the berries. It meant getting up at four instead of five, but she could do that. It meant getting the ferns when the rest of the children were playing at lunch time—but that wasn't hard. And after her first day in town she had fifty cents to put into the cup. Oh, how rich she felt!

An extra quart of berries here and there, some flowers sold from her little garden patch on the hill, two little kittens sold instead of being drowned—and so the money in the cup grew very, very slowly and no one dreamed it was there. But her dream grew with the contents of the cup. She could see herself all dressed in a neat dress going up the hill to the school and the little children following her and calling her teacher.

But in August, George fell from the hay-mow and for days he lay there white and still. Mother had done all she could and there was no money to send for the doctor. Then it was that a little black-haired girl went out in the shed and for the first time counted the money in the cup—one, two, three, four, five, six, almost seven dollars. Long she looked at it. Then she went into town to do the errand for her mother and five of the precious dollars were counted into the hands of the doctor with the repeated statement,

"Tell mother that you happened to be going by and just stopped, so all she needs to pay you is a dollar, for she has that."

So mother never knew, nor did the sick boy know, of the sacrifice the girl had made. Auntie came and went, and because it was winter the money in the cup hardly increased one bit. Sometimes she was almost discouraged, but then she would say to herself,

"Why, it took years and years for Abraham Lincoln to get to the White House. It doesn't matter if it takes twenty years. I am going to get to that schoolhouse. I will be a teacher."

She could crochet and she could embroider, so these helped a bit. She planted more things in her own garden and the money from these was her own. So again as the summer drew to a close, she knew there must be several dollars in the cup—but she daren't count it, for if it should be ten and still she couldn't go—oh, that would be worse than all!

It was five days before school was to open that there came a letter from grandmother saying that she was coming to stay for the winter, and while mother was happy over this, Janie asked if she might not be spared to go to school. At first there was a firm "No" for an answer. But she begged so hard to be allowed to go for only one term that she saw signs of relenting in her mother's face. Then she ran to get the cup—and in it was nearly nine dollars.

Where should she get the rest? Mother had none—yet she must have it. There was only one way. She could sell Biddy, her pet hen whom she loved so much. She would ask her brother to take her in the morning, for she could never do it herself. So with tears in her eyes, she patted her pet and put it into a box ready for the morning. Oh! ten dollars was such a lot of money for a little girl to get!

It was thirty miles to the school, so she had only one day to get ready. But she had few clothes and so it was an easy matter. She put them neatly in a bundle and with a queer feeling underneath the little red dress, now too short instead of too long, she started bright and early to walk the thirty miles to school. Many times she turned to look back at the little log cabin till it was hidden from her sight by a turn in the road. Then somehow she felt very much alone in the world.

On and on she walked till at last, twenty miles from home, she came to the home of an old neighbor and rested for the night. It was two in the afternoon of the next day when she saw in the distance the large brick building which she knew must be the school. She longed to run to it but her feet were very sore and her body was very tired. So she trudged on till she came to the office.

"Please, Miss, I have come to school. I can only stay one term but I came anyway and here is the money. The missionary lady said you would do the rest," and she handed her the precious money.

"And to whom did you write about entering?" said the lady kindly.

"To nobody. You see I didn't know I could come till Tuesday," said Janie.

"Well, I am so sorry," said the lady, "but you see we have all the girls we can possibly take. So we can't have you this term. Perhaps you could come next term if you leave your name now."

The whole world seemed to fall from under Janie's feet. She was here, thirty miles from home. She had all the money—she had sold dear old Biddy—yet she could not stay. Not a word did she answer. She just stood and stared into space.

"I am very tired for I have walked thirty miles to get here. May I stay just for to-night?" she asked, rolling the ten dollars carefully in her big handkerchief.

"School doesn't open till to-morrow but we will tuck you in somewhere for to-night. I am so sorry for you, but we just haven't a bit of room after to-morrow. Sit down on the porch and rest yourself," said the lady.

She brought her a glass of milk and then left her alone with her thoughts. How could she go home? Perhaps there would never come a time when she could be spared again. Was there no way in which she could stay?

Ten minutes later, a little girl in a short red calico dress went down the steps and along the street, looking for a doctor's sign. When she found it, she rang the bell and asked for the doctor.

"Please, sir," she said, "I thought you might know some one who wanted a girl to work for them. I want to go to school this term and I have earned the money to come. And now that I am here, there is no place for me and I must walk the thirty miles back. But I am willing to work. I will work for nothing if only I can go to the school in the afternoon. Sir, I just must be a teacher and I just must stay now and get started."

The doctor whistled a little tune before he answered. "And tell me how you earned the money to come." Then he whistled another tune as she talked. "Stay here to-night," he said. "I will find out at the school just how much they will let you come in the afternoons. I am sure you can find work enough, so don't worry."

And sure enough, he found a place for her and so she started with the rest on the very first morning. She was radiantly happy till she heard a boy say,

"Look at the red dress that is coming in! Better loan her a red handkerchief to piece it down with."

Then she knew that she was different from the rest. Her shoes were coarse and rough. Her hair looked, oh, so different. Her hands were red and big. She was here where she had longed to come but oh, how unhappy she was! She was almost ready to cry. Instead she shook her head proudly and said to herself, "I will be a teacher. What do I care if they laugh?"

The lessons were very hard, for her preparation was not good; every minute that she could spare she must spend on getting ready for the next day, so she had little time to be lonely. But she still minded the fact that her clothes were so very different. Many a good cry she had in the quiet of her little room as she looked at the red dress laid out for the coming day.

The term sped by and she was making good. Oh, if she could only stay! But she had no money except the little that the good doctor had given her now and then for doing errands for him. She could take her books home and perhaps she could do it all by herself.

So she waited till almost the last day before she told the woman for whom she worked that she was leaving.

"Why, girlie," she answered, "you have much more than ten dollars coming from me. I have never paid you because the doctor told me you would ask for it if you needed it. I will give it to you and then you can go and pay your ten dollars. I wouldn't have you go home for anything."

Clasping her precious money in her hand, she flew up the stairs. Here was a letter from her brother also. What a happy day! Eagerly she opened it and read,

"Mother is counting on your coming home for we need your help badly. The cow has died and we are without milk till we can get another. Mother thinks she must spare you at home and let you work out to earn money."

Oh! Oh! She was needed! She must take the money she had earned to help to buy a cow and again she must forget school. So she went again to her mistress, told her story and began to prepare for the long walk. She went to the school, borrowed the books, and promised them she would surely come again. Then she went again to the old doctor who had been so kind to her.

He listened thoughtfully as she told him of her new plans which still had not changed her vision of being a teacher.

"I will come back, even though it be after four or five years. I will come," she said, and she rose to go.

Then the doctor turned to his desk and took from it the picture of a girl.

"That was my little girl," he said. "She, too, wanted to be a teacher and she was in this very school when sickness and death came. When you came to me that first morning and said, 'I just must be a teacher,' I could hear her say to me, 'Help her.' So I did what you asked me to do—got you a place to work for nothing though I knew you were to be paid. I have watched you work, I have watched you suffer because of the red dress; I have watched you try to do your duty at the sacrifice of yourself. And now that you have done all that you can, I am ready to do the rest. Send the money that you have earned to your mother to help to buy the cow. Come to live here and be my office girl. The money that you earn can go to your mother for I will do for you what I would have done for her and I will do it for her sake and because you have shown me that you are worth while. You shall be a teacher."

So Janie lived in the home of her new friend. There was help on her lessons, the old red dress went back to the little home in the hills to be worn by some one whom it would fit and in her new, pretty things she could see more plainly—Janie, the teacher.



SELF-MADE MEN

The banqueting hall of Hotel Northland was crowded to its limit. There were noted men and women from all walks of life. There were many from humble homes. There were those whose beautiful dresses showed that money meant little to them; there were others to whom the price of the banquet ticket had meant sacrifice. It was a merry company that awaited the coming of the guests of the evening.

Cheer after cheer arose when the tall, fine-looking young man took his seat near the center of the guest's table. He was the newly elected mayor of the city—the youngest mayor they had ever had. He had risen from the ranks and many of the humbler folk knew him well as a boy. Oh, how proud they were of him!

Then again the cheers sounded as an old white-haired lady entered and was placed at the left of the mayor. She it was who had given them their college, their library, their playground. For years and years she had been living away from the town, but still she loved them all and gave of her wealth to make them happy. Her friends were many in the great banqueting hall.

The supper was served and the tables cleared and then the mayor rose to speak. He told of his boyhood, of his struggles at school and college, of his eagerness to enter the political field, of his happiness at his recent election.

"I believe that every man is master of his own fate. I believe in being a self-made man and I mean during these next years when I am to serve you to make it possible for every boy to push his way to a career. One can make himself what he will if only he has grit and courage. I am here to serve you all," he said.

Not once during the address had the eyes of the little, white-haired lady been taken from the speaker. She seemed studying him rather than his address. So intent was she that she hardly heard the toastmaster introducing her as the friend whom all delighted to honor. Dreamily she arose and said,

"Years and years ago, in this very town there lived a teacher who had ten bright, happy girls in a club. For four years they had played and worked together and they loved each other dearly. Then the husband of the teacher was taken ill and it became necessary for the teacher to go to another continent to live.

"How hard it was for the girls to have her go! But it was harder still for her, for she had wanted to help them through to womanhood. She had tried to help them to see the best but often she had felt that her efforts were all too small. The day came nearer for her to leave and she had asked the girls to spend the last evening with her in her home.

"And they came, each bringing in their hands a little letter, sealed tightly. They were steamer letters for their teacher and they had been written because they had heard her say that she wished she could take with her some idea as to what the girls wanted to be when they had grown, so that she might be thinking of their plans, even though she could not be there to help with them. One by one they laid them on the table till there were ten little letters—heart-to-heart letters to their dear friend.

"Five days later, away out in mid-ocean, the teacher opened the letters and read them over and over to herself. How much they told of the girls!

"Jennie wanted to be a great singer; she wanted to go to New York and study and then go into Grand Opera.

"Katherine wanted to be a Kindergarten teacher. Ah! she had found that because of helping in the church.

"Mary wanted to be a lawyer—a criminal lawyer. Perhaps that desire had grown in their debating club.

"Louise wanted to be a nurse. What a dear faithful girl she had been in helping with the bandages after the great fire in the city!

"So one by one she read their letters and her heart was filled with gratitude that to her it had been given to mold in a little way their lives."

Then turning to the mayor of the city, the little white-haired lady said,

"Sir, the contents of one of those letters will be of interest to you more than to the rest. I was the teacher of those girls, so I can give you the exact wording of the last letter that I read,

"'Dear friend: You have asked us to give you our dearest wish. I have many wishes for the future but the wish that I want most of all is to be a fine woman and some day to be a real mother, the kind you have so often told us about.'

"The girl who wrote that letter, sir, became your mother. Fourteen years before you were born, your character was being formed, your ideals were being molded, your future was being safeguarded. I congratulate you, sir, on being elected to the office of mayor; but I congratulate you more for being the child of my little girl of the long ago who at sixteen could write, 'I want most of all to be a fine, noble woman and some day to be a real mother.' To her you owe much. Inspire the girls of the town if you plan for great men. A self-made man needs a real mother to build the foundations of his character. There is no other way."

Then the speaker sat down and there was silence in the banqueting hall.



ON THE ROAD TO WOMANHOOD

In their hands the girls carried a scroll; on their backs they carried a bundle, and they were five in number—five girls with rosy cheeks and healthy bodies. But now their cheeks were browned by the sun and their shoulders drooped as they walked by the way.

For they had walked and walked and walked as the morning had turned into noon, and now the afternoon shadows were already falling on the way. Then as the search seemed almost useless, they saw her—the one for whom they had come; the one into whose hands they wished to place their scrolls. Eagerly they watched her as she came slowly toward them dressed in shining white—the Angel Who Rights Things.

When she smiled, they found courage to speak.

"We have come to search for you but we thought we should never find you," said the oldest of the girls. "We can never grow strong and beautiful if we carry these heavy burdens on our backs. They are much too large for us and we do not like them. We have come to ask you to take them away and make us free. Lo! we have written it all here in our scrolls."

But the Fairy Who Rights Things drew back as the five handed to her the scrolls which they carried.

"Take away the burdens!" said she. "Oh, no, I could never do that. He that carrieth no burden gaineth no strength. All must carry if they would grow."

"But we do not like them. If we must have a burden, might we not exchange them? Surely all our friends do not have burdens to carry. We have watched them and we know they have none," said another girl.

"You are quite mistaken," said the fairy. "All have burdens to carry. But I can let you choose if you will exchange your own. Let me see what you have brought."

"Well," said the first. "Here is mine. I have to go to school. Now father has plenty of money and I shall never have to work. Why should I study and do all the hard work of the school? I hate it all and I want to be free from it. I want to live at home and read, and play, and do as I like."

"And here is mine," said the second, lifting it from her back. "I have to go to church every Sunday when I want to sleep. There is nothing there for me and I am so tired of it. But father and mother insist that I go, at least in the morning. I want to be free from the church."

"Oh," said the third. "I don't mind school and I don't mind going to church but I do mind having to help at home. It is iron and sweep and wash dishes; then wash dishes and sweep and iron. Always something to do when I am in the house. I hate housework and I want to be free from doing it. Mother says all girls should help at home. But it is a big burden."

"My burden is quite different from the others," said the fourth. "I cannot dress as I choose. I must wear heavy clothes and low heels. I must dress my hair as if I were old and tidy. All the girls do differently and I want to be like them. Really my burden makes me very unhappy. Please let me change it."

Then the fairy turned to the last girl, who had been resting her burden against a stone wall.

"What have you here, dear?" she said kindly. "Your burden seems weighing you down. Let me help you open it."

"Oh dear," said the girl, and the big tears welled up in her eyes. "This is my home life. Nobody seems to understand me. They scold and fret and fuss all the time. Mother is cross and the children are always bothering me. I want to go away from home and work for my living and then board as the other girls do. I should love to have a little room in a boarding-house where the girls could come to see me. My burden grows heavier and heavier and I am also very unhappy."

"Well, well, well," said the Fairy Who Rights Things. "It looks as if I had a big task. All of you seem to be unhappy, but then we are usually unhappy because we look at ourselves instead of others. Let's try what these magic spectacles can do. They will show you the burdens some of your friends carry and also show you how they carry them."

Then she fitted a pair to the eyes of each girl and they looked at the passers-by.

There was Kate, who was always smiling and happy. Her burden was almost as large as she. There was a sick mother away back on the little farm in the country. Kate was trying to support her and still have enough to keep her own expenses paid. Her days were full of work. In her room, she was sewing to make extra money. She was very lonely, for she loved the little mother and longed to be with her, but she must earn money. Oh! what a pile of worries she had on every side! How could she ever carry them? But beneath the pile as it rested on her back they saw a little lever that was lifting all the time—and the lever was Love.

And here was May. They had money and automobiles and everything to make her happy. She had never seemed to have any burden but now she was carrying a very large one. She wanted to go to college, she wanted to make her life worth while, but her parents wanted her to stay at home and play the hours away. They would not let her go and as the months went by she longed more and more to study and serve. Did she have a lever to help carry hers? Indeed she did. It was right under the burden and it was called Vision.

Then there was Tom, the baseball star. He too carried a burden. They had never known that he had a father. But he carried the burden of a father who drank and drank. Oh, what a shame to take him through the streets in such a helpless condition! Did Tom have a lever? All looked eagerly to see and they saw Ideals—he would have a spotless character and retrieve the family name.

And there was Helen. Her people used profane language and she loved the pure. They loved the world and she loved the ideals of the church. They made fun of her faith and tried to change it. How heavily she was loaded, yet they had never dreamed of it when they had seen her teaching her little class in the Church School. But Belief in God was helping her to carry her load.

So they passed along the way before the five girls. All were carrying something but not all were carrying their load alike. Some smiled, and some sang as they staggered beneath a heavy load; others groaned and fretted with the weight of a much lighter one. Some were not only carrying their own load but helping to carry others.

"And now," said the Angel Who Rights Things, "do you see a load that you would prefer? If so, then I will ask the bearer to exchange with you. Will you choose by the size of the burden or the ease with which it is carried?"

But though they searched long and diligently, they found no load easier than their own.

At last one turned to the Angel and said, "We find no one to choose. And since we must carry a burden, will you tell us how best we may carry these?"

Then the face of the Angel lighted with pleasure till it glowed like the sun. "When one asks how to carry and not why he must carry, already the load is lighter," she replied. "If you will, your school can give to you a vision that will make your load seem very easy; your church can give to you a love that will make you eager to go there and learn to serve; your home cares can give you ideals for your own little home some day; your mother can show you how to grow into beautiful womanhood if you will but give her a chance; your troubles at home can give to you a sympathy that will not only lift your own burden but help with those of others. All these levers that you have seen helping to lift loads have been right at your hand to help you if you would only have given them an opportunity.

"How shall you bear your burdens? With a smile on your face, and love in your heart, and any lifter that you can find."

Then the Angel Who Rights Things went on her way to find others who groaned beneath their burdens because they had never learned how to carry them.



HER PRAYER

Every time the King automobile went past the little home of Julia Lowe when Julia was there, she ran eagerly to look into the face of the lady who sat inside. She had such beautiful clothes; she sat so tall and stately; she had such a wonderful smile. She was Julia Lowe's ideal woman.

Julia had gone with two other girls to ask Mrs. King to help them with their Liberty Loans and she had not only taken bonds but had given them flowers from the great garden back of the house, and had invited them to come again. Every time she saw her go by, Julia wished she, too, might have such a sweet face and such a heap of good things as Mrs. King had.

Now Julia worked in an office downtown, so, of course she thought she had to act and to do as the other girls in the office did. When they wore their hair very straight, hers was straight also; but when they wore puffs, she had to get up much earlier in the morning to force her pretty hair into great puffs over her ears. Mother wanted her to wear serge dresses in the office, but the other girls wore georgette waists, so of course she had to wear them also. Some of the girls in the neighborhood liked to go to the library to read, so they had formed a club for that purpose and had asked Julia to join. But the girls in the office liked to go to dances and picture shows, and so she must go to them also—else how could she talk things over with them at the noon hour, and tell them of the boys she had been with, and the places where she had gone? Oh, yes, she just must do as the girls in the office did. But in spite of it all, she wasn't very happy and sometimes she wished she could run away from it all and just go back to school again as her mother had wanted her to do.

When she looked at Mrs. King, somehow her beautiful face seemed to make her want more than ever to do better. What was there about her that made Julia love her at a distance and yet be afraid of her when she came near her? Julia didn't know. But she did know that deep in her heart she wanted to be like her and didn't know how. If only she had money and beautiful things, perhaps it would be different.

One day when the leaves were very beautiful in their fall colors, a dainty little note was left by the postman for Julia and it read,

"Dear Julia:

"I hardly know you but I am going to ask a great favor of you. Mr. King has been called out of town and he is not willing to have me stay in the house all alone, for it is very big and lonely since Mary died. I wish very much that you would let me call for you at the office this afternoon. Then we will go out in the country to see the beautiful colors and have our supper at the Country Club. Then, when we come home in the moonlight, I should like to have you spend the night with me here. I shall hope that you can come.

"Sincerely,

"Margaret L. King."

Julia was so happy as she read it that she could hardly contain herself—to go for a ride in the wonderful car; to eat at the Country Club; to sleep at the home of Mrs. King—why, she had never even dared to dream of such a thing. It was too good to be true.

Of course she must look her very best, so she asked for an extra half hour at noon. She would wear her new thin waist with the very low neck, for the girls had told her that she looked "too sweet for anything" in that. Her silk skirt was shabby but it would never do to wear her serge, even if it were new, when she rode with Mrs. King. As she put on the high-heeled slippers, she noticed that they were much run over, but they would have to do. It took her a long, long time to fix her hair just as she wanted to have it, for one dip must just touch the next at the right angle.

Finally all was ready but the extra touches to her face. There was the rouge for which she had spent so much money. The boss at the office had told them that they would lose their job if they came with it on their faces again but she must risk it this once. A little penciling of the eyebrows, a little powder here and there, and Julia felt very sure as she looked at herself in the glass that she would "do."

Her shoes needed brushing but she hadn't time for them, for, even now, she had only time to run as fast as she could to get the car which would bring her to the office in time. There was a button off her coat which she had forgotten, but the coat needn't be worn; her fingernails needed attention, but she never cared much about them. As long as her face, and her hair, and her clothes were all in style, she was all right to go anywhere.

Promptly at five, the King car came to the door of the factory and Julia stepped in, followed by the envious glances of her friends in the office. What a ride it was through the open country! Miles and miles of beauty such as Julia had never seen. Mrs. King found so many interesting things for her to see that all the restraint wore away, and she found herself talking to her friend and telling her all about her own life and pleasures.

Then Mrs. King told her a little about what she did with her time and, to her surprise, Julia found that Mrs. King was a very busy woman. Over and over as they talked, Julia noticed how soft and sweet Mrs. King's voice was and how carefully she used the best of English. And again, Julia found herself wishing she were like Mrs. King. Somehow she did not care to use the slang words that seemed so necessary when she talked with the girls.

When their coats were removed at the Country Club, Julia found that Mrs. King was very simply dressed in a dark blue serge dress with little white collar and cuffs. Many other girls and women in the group were dressed in the same way. Then Julia became suddenly conscious of the run-over heels and the torn skirt, for she and Mrs. King were in the center of the room, and she was being introduced as "My friend Julia." How she did wish she had taken mother's advice and worn the new, pretty serge!

In one of the corners of the dining-room there was a little table for two that overlooked the lake, and towards this Mrs. King made her way. Here they could see every one and yet be quite alone. Then Mrs. King told her a little of the people in the room. Here was the wife of a noted judge; that was the High School teacher of whom she must have heard the girls speak if they had ever been to that school.

"And who are these two girls in front of us?" asked Julia. "Isn't the dark-haired one a beauty? Evidently the young man with her thinks so, too."

Then Mrs. King's face grew quiet as she said,

"Those are two girls of whom we are very fond here, but I am so sorry to see Jessie doing as she is. No, Julia, she is not pretty. She has painted her face and all her natural beauty is hidden. Usually she is very attractive. Her friend's face is sweet and clean. Evidently she does not care to attract attention to herself by the use of paint and rouge. She believes in being true to her best self even though she is not in the height of style. When you have lived longer, you will know, dear, the truth of what I say."

Poor Julia. Her face burned like fire. Mrs. King had said "My friend Julia," yet she, too, had paint on her face—not red like the girl in front, to be sure, but it was there. Why had no one told her before? All the girls did it and she thought it was the thing to do. Then there came to her an impulse to ask Mrs. King about it, so she said frankly,

"Mrs. King, I have some paint on my face, too, but I put it on because I was coming out with you. I thought you would like to have me look my very best."

"Indeed I do, girlie," said Mrs. King, putting her hand on the hand of the girl opposite her. "Indeed I do want you to look your best. I have liked you ever since I came to Hillcrest to live and it has hurt me to see you trying to do as all the other girls did. I have wished so often that you would be a leader in doing the finer things and help others to see what real beauty is and how to get it. Real beauty is not put on from the outside; it grows from within."

Julia looked at Mrs. King's sweet, loving face very hard for a minute and then said,

"I have liked you, too, and I have watched you go back and forth, wishing I could be like you. Will you show me how? Mother has tried but I thought she did not know. No one else has ever tried to tell me about your kind of beauty."

So they made the compact. Then they sat and watched for well-dressed women; for women in whose faces there was strength of character and purpose; for girls whose very manner showed they were ladies; for men who honored the girls in whose company they were. Such fun as it was! Julia never knew the time to go so fast. It was so plain now that clothes did not necessarily make the lady. She was almost sorry when it came time to go home.

In the house, a great fire was burning and it looked so cozy.

"I have looked into your windows many times as I have passed and wished I could sit before the fire and dream and dream," said the girl. "May I sit down here for a while?"

"We will both sit here," said Mrs. King, "then I will tell you about my little girl who used to sit here with me."

How Julia's heart ached for her friend as she told her of her love for her own dear girl, of the plans they had made, of the sudden sickness and death, and of the loneliness of the big house since she had gone! She had thought Mrs. King had everything to make her happy, yet the thing she wanted most she could not have.

"Her hair was much like yours and sometimes, as you have passed, I have wished I could comb yours as I did hers. Would you mind if I did?" said the mother.

"I should love to have you," said Julia.

"Well, then, when the fire has died out, we will go up to her room. In the drawer there I have a little white dress that perhaps you would like. I will comb your hair just as I did hers and see if the dress will fit you," said Mrs. King. "If you look sweet and girlish in it, I will give it to you."

While Mrs. King slipped away to get the things needed for the hairdressing, Julia went to the great white bathroom, and when she came out her face was sweet and clean and every trace of the paint and powder was gone. Her pretty brown hair was down her back in ringlets and her face wore a look which the girls at the office had never seen there.

Then Mrs. King brushed, and brushed, and brushed till the hair was soft and shiny. Low in her neck she coiled it, making it look girlish and neat, fastening it with a tiny velvet circlet. Then Julia held her breath as Mrs. King took from a drawer a little white dress. It was a simple silk mull but it was prettily made. Below it was a dainty petticoat and at the bottom of the drawer were white oxfords and fine, lisle stockings.

"These were ready for her graduation, dear, but she never wore them once after they were made," said the mother softly, as she fingered the dress lovingly.

There were tears in the eyes of the mother and tears in the eyes of the girl as the dress was put on. And when Julia looked into the mirror she seemed to see a strange girl. How little she looked like the girls in the office! But she liked her hair—and she liked the looks of her face—and she loved the simple, white dress.

Last of all Mrs. King slipped about her neck a little string of pearls. "These are my gift to you, Julia," she said. "Wear them when you think you are dressed as you and I have planned to-night and be as beautiful as the pearls. Remember, dear, we may put beautiful things on the outside but they can never make us beautiful. It comes from the inside because of what we are. It stands the test of study. It is always real. A girl who does not live up to the best she knows can well be called a coward. Good night, dear, I am glad there is a girlie who loves me."

Then with a good-night kiss she was gone—gone, as Julia knew, to be more than ever lonely for her own little girl.

For a long time Julia stood looking at the dress, and the slippers, and the stockings. Mrs. King had plenty of money, yet these were to have been her daughter's graduation clothes. And she had not finished school because she could not have clothes like the rest of the girls who were to have expensive ones. Mrs. King was honored all through the city, yet she was dressed in a simple serge dress at the Country Club. It was all very strange! Some one had things very much mixed up concerning what a girl should wear. How long it seemed since she had left the office in the afternoon!

The room was so dainty that it took Julia a long time to get ready for bed. How she would love to have a room like this! Maybe it would be easy to be good. She looked at the dress again, as she laid it carefully over the chair. It was all hers. The girls would laugh at her but she loved it. Then she lifted the little string of pearls—not cheap, big ones such as she had worn on Sunday, but dainty, beautiful ones, and they whispered again to her,

"Be as beautiful as the beads, girlie. True beauty is never put on from the outside. It comes from inside because of what you are."

Long she stood in the moonlight near the window looking at them. Then she dropped on her knees and said,

"Dear God, she has shown me the best. Help me not to be a coward as I go out and try to do it. Help me to be as beautiful as the pearls. I thank Thee for to-day. I want to show others what real beauty is and how to get it. Please help me."

And the Father heard the prayer of the girl kneeling there in her white night-gown, for it came from a sincere heart—and He answered.



THE BEST DAY

By Mrs. Annie G. Freeman

One sunny summer afternoon Margaret sat reading beneath the shade of an old apple tree. Before her stretched a charming view but on her face was a troubled, dissatisfied look.

"Oh, dear," she sighed. "Even this book is stupid. It is the dullest, most stupid day that I ever saw."

"Stupid day?" said a tiny voice. There on the rock before her sat the daintiest little golden-haired fairy that she had ever seen. The fairy's feet were resting on a woodbine vine that was creeping up the wall, and her wings were as delicate as those of a butterfly.

"What makes such a bright day as this stupid?"

"Oh, I suppose it is myself," said the discontented girl.

"I believe it is," said the fairy. "Now I will take you with me to the Palace of Time and you shall choose a day that suits you better. Come."

Over green meadows, through pleasant pastures, beside babbling brooks that sparkled and played in the sunshine, the fairy led. At last they came to the Palace of Time. The fairy led the way up the long hall to the throne on which Time sat, and told her errand.

"Take the little friend to the Hall of Days," he said, "and give her the day that pleases her best."

How delighted the maiden was! Wouldn't you be if a fairy should take you out of a stupid day and promise you the day that pleased you most? She just skipped along, her feet scarcely touching the ground in her joy. In a great room filled with all kinds of bright lights, they stopped.

"This is the Hall of Days," said the fairy. "Take whichever day pleases you most."

Like great balls of glass the days were of many colors and of many kinds. Some were dark and some were light; some were dim and others clear.

One was like a crystal and the odor of roses seemed to come from it. Its colors were soft and Margaret gazed deep into it. Vague dreams seemed to come from it and memories happy and delightful. But she couldn't live on dreams and memories. That wouldn't do. She might like that sort of a day once in a while but her young life demanded something to do on the best day. This was a day that had gone.

One other day pleased her much. It shone like the sun on the new fallen snow. It was so white and so pure that she lifted it carefully lest she should soil and spot it.

"It is too bright. It hurts my eyes," said she, putting it back.

"Yes, little girl," said the fairy. "That is to-morrow. It must be shaded by many things before one can bear it."

Then, just between the two, Margaret spied the most beautiful ball of all. It wavered and shimmered; now it was red, now green, now yellow and now pink. Oh, there were so many colors that she could not name them all. Wave upon wave of color swept through it and all seemed shot with the golden lights.

"That is the one that I want," she cried happily. "That is the most beautiful day of all."

"Take it, then," said the fairy. "It is yours."

All the way home, the maiden clasped it tightly.

"With this day," she said, "I can be joyful. With this day I can make so many people happy, and it is so bright that I can see the best way in which to go. It is as light as a feather. I can hardly wait to show my friends the beautiful day that I have chosen, for I love it dearly."

"Yes, indeed," said the fairy, as she flew off in a different direction. "It is a wonderful day. Infinite wisdom and love helped you to choose aright. That is To-day."

"What a beautiful day!" said the maiden as she sat in the shade of the old apple tree. "I believe I have been dreaming. But this is too beautiful a day to idle it away. I will go and do something for some one to make others see its beauty also."



IN THE WAY

Gladys Mercer sat looking at a snapshot which had come to her from one of her girl friends. It showed a strong, athletic woman with a blanket rolled over her back hiking along the road and with her six girls in middies and bloomers. And as Gladys looked at the picture, she smiled at the memories which it brought.

There was the long hike, the tired muscles, the view from the mountaintop, the wonderful sunset, the stillness of the night and the fear of the dark. Then there was the voice of the woman in the picture,

"Girls, you are safer here than in any house you could find. Just remember that God is over all and sleep as sound as can be."

Then there was the sunrise, the pancake breakfast on the hill, and the hike home. Best of all there had been two long days with Mrs. Fuller, the friend of girls. What a good visit they had had with her! What a fine story she had told them at the sunset! What a helpful prayer she had made as they closed their good-night song when the sun went down!

And then from the thought of the trip, Gladys went to the thought of all that Mrs. Fuller had meant to her. She was sunny; she was happy in her work through the day, and happy to give her time to them at night; she was always ready to advise and help; she seemed to know just what to do when they did not know; somehow she could always get them to do the thing they had thought they would not do. She was to Gladys, the motherless girl, a friend, a companion, a leader and a heroine.

What was there about her that made her able to lead? Was it her smile? Was it her ability to do things? What made a leader anyway?

Gladys leaned far back against the old tree under which she had been sitting and said to herself, "I wish—I wish——"

"And what do you wish," said a little voice, and there close to her was a dear little lady dressed in red and in her hand she carried a lamp.

"Who are you?" said Gladys.

"I am the Fairy of Helpful Service," said the little lady. "I heard you talking about one of my helpers, so I was interested to know what you wished when you thought of all she had done for you girls. Now tell me. What do you wish?"

"If you are a fairy, perhaps you can give me my wish. I wish to be like Mrs. Fuller. I want to help girls. I want to get the kind of letters she gets from girls who are far away. I want to see 'my girls' some day giving service all over the world as she does. I want to be like her. Please, fairy, give me my wish."

"I can't make you like her but I can put you in the way of service and then, if you choose, you can become like her and get the things you are asking for. Those things are not given—they are earned, and the cost of them is heavy. I don't really think you mean what you say, for you haven't even wanted to go to school to learn to help. Perhaps the best way would be to let you see her in the way and then you can choose for yourself whether you want your gift. Come and we will watch her climb the way."

So the Fairy of Helpful Service and the girl who wanted to be a leader went together into the House of the Past.

"There," said the fairy, "there is Mrs. Fuller as a little girl. We will watch her grow and you may see where she earned some of the qualities which you admire in her."

There she was, a mischievous little girl of ten, as happy as the day was long.

"Here she is laying the foundation for health," said the fairy, "with long hours of sleep and good food and plenty of play. One begins away back in girlhood to be a leader. Some who would have been good helpers for me cannot serve because they did not begin early enough to get ready."

Then as the little girl played there came into the way a black, black cloud. Gladys shuddered as it came nearer and nearer to the little girl and finally enveloped her. It was death—the death of her father, but after the cloud had passed and the sunshine had come again, the fairy said,

"See, her shoulders are broader. She has learned what loneliness means."

On she went and then she was going to High School. Others had clothes that she did not have. She must hurry to finish because there was no father in the home. So, eagerly she pushed through the High School.

Just here Gladys saw a hand reached out to help and heard a voice saying to the girl, "Of course it will be hard but you can go to college if you really want to go. It will do you good to sacrifice for it." 'Twas the Master of the school who was helping her to keep in the way.

"Can you see her grow?" said the fairy. "She has added concentration, an appreciation of the girl who has little and who must be with girls who have much, and now she has been given a vision."

Then Gladys watched her toil through college, earning her way, often overtired and worried as to where the means to go on were to come from. But she pushed ahead.

"Oh," said Gladys, "how hard she works! I could never do that. I am sorry for her."

"You needn't be," said the fairy. "You need never be sorry for those that sacrifice for an ideal. Be sorry for those who have none and so who live at ease." And they watched her struggle through temptation and toil to the graduation day.

As the college days passed, there came strength of purpose, but there came also the desire to serve. Gladys watched her lead the little group of dirty street boys in the slums.

"How can she do it?" said Gladys. "They are so dirty and so rough."

But the fairy said, "When one wants to serve, she looks at the heart and the life—not at the clothes and the actions. The boys are helping her to keep in the way."

And after college there were happy days. Days of love and comradeship, days of work for the fairy; days when opportunity was everywhere. And in these days of happiness there came lessons of sharing, of winning, of filling the life with sunshine. The path was so bright that it dazzled.

Suddenly, Gladys looked ahead in the path. "Look," she said to the fairy. "Look, oh, how black it is! Oh, I am sorry."

Then the storm descended and all was black in the way—oh, so black and to move took all of one's strength. Against it she struggled, but it seemed as though she must surely be driven from the path. Death and loneliness and worries seemed overpowering.

But the storm passed and, when once again there was peace, a great strength had come in its place, for there was sympathy for others who suffered, there was an appreciation of the value of friendship, and there was a knowledge that God helps.

Little by little the road widened, though often it was lonely and hard. There were many steep places but each added something. And then Gladys saw the picture change.

There was Mrs. Fuller with her girls and she was leading them by the hand. But it was by no means easy. Some held back; some chose to play by the way; some looked longingly at the things by the wayside that would harm. But her one hand reached up and her other hand helped them ahead as she tried to keep them in the way.

As the picture faded, Gladys turned to the fairy. "I thought it had been all sunshine but now I see how hard it has been to learn to understand and to help. I love her better than I did before, now that I have seen her in the way. Thank you, fairy."

"But wait," said the fairy. "You asked me for a gift. Do you still want it? Do you still want to follow her?"

"To follow means study, and sacrifice, and temptations conquered, and sympathy, and all sorts of hard things, doesn't it? I never thought about it. But I love Mrs. Fuller and I still want to lead girls—I still want the letters and I still want to be like her. Please, Fairy of Good Works, put me in the way and I will go back to school and begin to get ready."

Then the little lady smiled as she waved her wand over the head of the girl. "Your life may be much more sunny than hers, dear. Not all must have the same things to overcome. But whatever you meet in the way, you must struggle against it and come out stronger because you have struggled. Can you see away off there in the distance the hands of girls—oh, so many of them—eagerly reached out for help? They are 'your girls.' And here is the way. Above there is one who helps and I am here though you may not see me. Push forward or the girls will have no helper. Good-by and good luck to you."

But as Gladys reached out to detain her, her hat fell to the ground and she found herself sitting against the tree. In her hand was the picture of Mrs. Fuller and her girls. Long she looked at the picture. Then she said to herself,

"I never knew the way was so long or so hard to be like you but if just one girl can love me some day as I love you, then I shall be glad I have walked in the way. I am ready to try and I hope I can win."



AN OLD, OLD STORY

It was a dark and rainy day when about the inn-fire, close to the great caravan way that led through Canaan, in the land of Palestine, a group of camel-drivers and travelers were gathered. They looked very different from what they do to-day, for nearly four thousand years have passed since then. But they were all huddled together listening to stories and songs.

In the group there were men from Egypt; there were men from Babylon, the great city far to the East; there were men from the land of Canaan; and then there were some wandering nomads who had lately come from the East and so were called by the Canaanites "Hebrews," which means, "People from the Other Side." Most of these men were shepherds, but they loved to meet with the camel-drivers and learn of the customs and habits of the people of other lands. 'Twas a strange group of men sitting about the little fire.

In those days, as now, men loved to tell stories that had come down to them from their fathers and grandfathers, and often they found that a story from Egypt was but little different from one that had been told in Babylonia. So they loved to listen to the story-tellers.

But on this day it had rained and rained till the streams were full and the way was very hard to go. Thus there were very many men in the inn. 'Twas the turn of the Babylonian, so he began,

"I will tell you one of the very oldest of our stories—about a great rain-storm.

"Years and years and years ago the Gods in heaven began to fear that the men of the earth were going to live forever and so they made a plan by which to destroy them. There should be a great rain for days and days and days, and all these men and women and children should be drowned. Then the Gods would be free from their worries.

"But one of the Gods named Ea had a friend who lived on the earth, and so he sent word to him to go with all his family into a big, big ship and take with him two of every kind of animals. Utnapishtim, the friend, did as he was told.

"Then the rain came and for six days and nights there was no let-up at all. Deeper and deeper it grew till the Gods in heaven grew afraid and cowered in the highest corner of heaven. By this time every living thing, except the ones in the big ship, was destroyed.

"But after six days, the rain ceased. Then the man sent out a dove, but it returned, for it could find no place to rest. Later he sent out a raven and it did not come back, so he knew the waters were going down. Then he made a great sacrifice to the Gods and they came, they saw the great destruction and they gloated over it, pleased that their plan had worked so well."

There was applause when he had finished from many of the group, but the Hebrews did not applaud. They had been taught that there was one true God, not many Gods. They had been taught that God was kind to all and not one that gloated over destruction of men. They were not pleased with the story of the great flood.

Then there came nights out under the stars and they heard the stories of how the earth was made; of how man came to be; of the meaning of many of the things that they saw all about them. But in every story there were found Gods who were cruel, who were unkind, who quarreled and fought. There were many, many Gods, but none was like unto their God.

As the old Hebrews listened to all these old, old stories from the countries about them which were told so often, they shook their heads sadly and said,

"We have come into this country to live and bring up our children. But if they hear these stories, they will believe some of them and forget the true God. They must have stories of their own that show how great and mighty is the God of Israel. But what shall we do about these stories? If we say the stories are false, they will laugh at us and say, 'Why, our people have known these stories since long, long before there was a Hebrew on the earth. What our fathers have told us as true is surely true.' And if we say to our children, 'You must not listen to these stories,' they will be all the more eager to listen. What shall we do?"

Finally it was decided that the stories of the Egyptians and the Babylonians must be remade so as to be fit for their children to hear and they must teach the beliefs of their own religion in stories of their own.

So, many weeks later as the men were gathered out under the stars on a beautiful night, one of the best of the Hebrew story-tellers said quietly,

"I have listened to stories about the making of the world from many of you but I think my story is better than any you have told. Would you like to hear the story of how the God of Israel made the world?"

"'Tis a Hebrew who is talking," said one. "I didn't know you people had any stories. Give it to us. Then we can compare it with our own great stories."

And the Hebrew story-teller began:

"In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And these are the generations of the heavens and the earth when they were created in the day that the Lord God made the earth and the heavens,

"And every plant of the field before it was in the earth and every herb of the field before it grew; for the Lord God had not caused it to rain upon the earth, and there was not a man to till the ground.

"But there went up a mist from the earth and watered the whole face of the ground.

"And the Lord God formed man out of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.

"And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

"And the Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it.

"And out of the ground the Lord God made every beast of the field and every fowl of the air and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them: and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof."

There was silence when the story was finished. This God of whom the Hebrew was telling was wise and mighty enough to make the world, yet he was thoughtful and kind. He allowed man to be a helper. There was only one God. They liked the story so well that they began to tell it also and soon the beautiful story was known all through the land of Canaan. Little by little it drove out the other stories and became the most loved one.

And when the old Hebrews saw the power of the story that told of the one great God rather than the many false Gods, they just took many of the old stories and made them good and wholesome for their own little children to hear.

So great were the stories that the old Hebrews told that you will find many of them living still. You can read them in your own Bible in the book of Genesis.

Ever since that day years and years ago, men have been asking that same old question, "Who made the world?" The greatest men of science and history have tried to answer it, but none of them have found a more beautiful answer to the question than this one which the old sheik told in the days of the long ago and which you will find in the second chapter of Genesis in your Bible.



HIS DEBT

It was a hot, sultry day in that little town near the Western coast of Africa when Afa Bibo came. He had had a long, long journey from his home among the Ntum people far to the south of Efulen. So he, as well as the men who had brought him, was glad when they saw the rude little hospital looming up at the end of the path.

Years and years before, when Afa Bibo was just a little baby, his mother and father, because they were superstitious and ignorant, had deliberately infected the little one with yaws, one of the most loathsome of African diseases. Little by little the disease had spread through his system till now, a boy in his teens, he was gradually losing his sight. So they had brought him to the white doctor who had done so much for boys and girls in the neighborhood, to see if he could also help Afa Bibo.

It took only a glance at the one eye to know that the sight was gone forever. But there was a chance that the other might be saved. To be sure, the inflammation was there and much damage had been done, but still there was a chance. So they put him under the care of the nurse and began the fight that was to tell whether he was to be one of the many African blind ones who suffer so much and help so little, or whether he was to be like other boys.

It was a long, hard time for the little fellow. The eyes must be washed with a solution that was very painful; he must spend long hours not only lying in bed but with all light shut from his eye. He grew very weary with it all. But after the months had gone, Afa Bibo went out of that hospital with an eye as clean and white in the ball as yours or mine.

Of course, he was anxious to go back to his people and tell them what wonderful things had been done for him, but the Doctor said,

"Afa, you can do much with your one good eye, but if you will stay right here and go to school with the boys for a time, you can do much, much more. You can be as good as one man, two men, and perhaps as much as three. If you will stay, you can be a big man in your own tribe. It may be you could be a teacher and tell the boys there how to read and write or it might be—yes, it might be—you could be a doctor and make other boys to see, just as we have done to you."

So Afa Bibo stayed in the mission school and learned to study, and to work, and to think. For a time he felt badly to think he had only one eye when all his companions had two, but little by little he seemed to have forgotten it.

Then came the day when the Christian people of that little African church were to pledge a definite number of days of service in carrying the message of the Christ to others. Some were to go out and teach; some were to carry Testaments and tracts written in Bulu to others; some were to help about the mission station so that there might be a better place in which to teach the ones who came. Some were to raise extra crops so they might have something to give to those who went far out to teach. Every one could give something, even though it was very different from what another gave.

As it neared the time for the service, the black people might be seen coming from all directions. Some had walked five miles, some ten, and some even twenty. All had something to eat so that they might stay to hear all the good news that could be given in a day. They filled the little bare building which the boys of the school had builded for a church; they filled the window spaces; then they filled the yard about the church. Oh! there were very many of them and all were eager for the service to begin.

Holding the roof of the little church were large poles which had been painted white and on these the pledges were to be made. So as the service began, many looked at the poles and thought what a wonderful thing it was to be allowed to give of themselves to the God who had become their own.

Soon the pledging began. First to go was the old chief who had given up his twenty wives that he might become a Christian. He was old. What would he give? First he made a slanting line and then he crossed it. Ah! that was ten days of service.

Then others were ready, and some gave ten days, some one or two weeks, and some could even give a month. The lines covered one pole and then another as the people passed down the aisle and out of the building.

Last of all came the boys of the school. How could they give? They were only boys. But they could take of their play time till they had gained a day or more to give. One marked after another and last of all it was the turn of Afa Bibo.

Very near to him stood the kind doctor who had made him free from the pain and able to see the way as he came to the white pole. So he smiled one of his rare smiles as he passed him. Then he made a slanting line and crossed it; another and crossed it. That was twenty days. No boy had given as much as that. But he was making another—twenty-five days. And he crossed the third. Then with his shoulders square and resolve in his face he went out with the rest.

As the missionaries sat before their home on the following day, they saw Afa Bibo coming across the yard to them. Calling the doctor aside, he said,

"Doctor, I am not satisfied with what I pledged yesterday. I want to give more."

"But, Afa," said the doctor, "already you have pledged thirty days. That is a great deal for a boy to give. A pledge to God from you must be as binding as His promise is to us. Work out the thirty days and then come back and give Him more if you like."

"But I am not happy about it," said the boy, "I want to give more."

"I think you had better leave it just as it is, for I am sure you do not know how long thirty days will be when you begin to give it all. Run along and do your lessons. I think you have given much to God," said the Doctor.

Then Afa slowly came very near to the doctor. Looking up into his face, he pulled down the lower lid of the good eye showing it to be white and free from all soreness and pain.

"Doctor," he said, "do you see that good eye? Well, God saved me that eye and I have more to be thankful for than any one else in all that big churchful yesterday. I owe him more than thirty days. Please, sir, I want to pay back a little of what I owe him. Let me make it thirty-five."

So together the doctor, who had given his life for God, and the little black boy, who was just beginning to give, went to the church and put another black mark on the tall white pole. And Afa Bibo went out to work his thirty-five days for God.

Were you to go among the Ntum people to-day, you would find there a man who is beloved by all because he has loved to give of himself to his people. He has a kindly face and a loving heart. It is Afa Bibo, the boy who is still eager to pay for his one good eye.



HOW KAGIGEGABO BECAME A BRAVE

Kagigegabo sat in front of the wigwam watching the fire slowly die out. Her heart was full of bitterness. For days she had watched the Braves get ready for the long chase. They had painted their faces; they had given their war cries; they had fasted and prayed.

And now they had gone and the camp seemed very still. Oh! how she had wanted to go! Why was she born a girl when she did want to be a Brave! Girls could never do brave things—they had to stay at home, and tend the fires, and hoe the garden. Everything a girl had to do, she hated. Everything a boy had to do, she liked. Her name was Kagigegabo, which meant "One who stands forever." That would be a great name for a Brave, but she could never do anything that was worth while. She was only a girl.

Slowly she rose to bring the corn and grind it. There was little needed, for the Braves of the wigwam had all gone—even Guka, her brother, had gone. Before this she had watched the others go and then had had him to cheer her. Oh, dear! Why was she a girl?

Hearing a step behind her, she rose to find Wicostu, the oldest squaw of the tribe, waiting to speak with her.

"I have heard your thought," she said. "You think that to be a girl is to be less than a Brave. It is not so. It is not so. To be a squaw one must be very brave. We cannot go to hunt and to kill, but it takes no less of courage to stay here and guard the tepees. It takes courage to bear pain—it takes courage to be tired and not complain. You can be brave, Kagigegabo, even though you must grow into a Mahala and sit by the fire. The courage is not in the war paint and feathers—the courage is all in the heart."

Kagigegabo sat very still after Wicostu had left her. Over and over she said to herself those last words of the old squaw—"The courage is all in the heart." Perhaps after all she could be a Brave, such as Guka was trying to be.

Down toward the spring she ran to get the water for the meal when, suddenly, a hand reached out of the bushes, and she was drawn into them. When she tried to scream, a heavy band was placed over her mouth, and then her hands were tied, her eyes were bandaged and she felt herself being thrown on a pony. Oh! how fast they went!—like the wind it seemed.

Who had taken her? Where was she going? What did they want? Frightened as she was, she still was trying to think.

Then, like a flash, there came to her something that she had heard the old chief say when she had been trying to get closer to the council fire the last night.

"We shall go by the hill trail, for Eagle's Claw will surely have spies about the camp. We cannot get through the valley alive."

Perhaps she had been taken by the spies and was on her way to the enemy camp of Eagle's Claw. Oh! What did they want? If only she were a Brave, perhaps she would know what to do. Then there came to her the words of Wicostu:

"You can be brave. The courage is all in the heart." But to be brave when one did not know what was going to happen—oh! that was hard.

When the bandage was taken from her eyes, she was in the center of a circle of old Braves. Very fierce they looked as she glanced about the circle. Her knees shook till it seemed she must fall. Then she made a low bow to the chief and pointed to her feet—a sign that she was ready to be his slave.

"Do you see that knife?" he screamed at her. "You shall die unless you tell us by what path and to what place your Braves went to-day. Speak!"

What should she do? If she told, the men would die. If she kept silence, she must die. Her hands trembled. Then she remembered again the words of Wicostu, "Courage is all in the heart," and smiling at the chief she said:

"Kagigegabo will lead you. She knows not the name, but the way."

For a long time they counseled. Should they go? At last five of the Braves were ready. They mounted her on a pony. Then they came to her with a great bow and some poisoned arrows and said:

"If you try to escape, these are for you. If you lead us wrong, these are for you. If you lead us right, you shall have this young Brave," and they led forth one of the strong, young Braves of the tribe. "Go."

Out of the encampment went the six horses. Where should she go? She must lead in the way of the hill. But how could she? Once she climbed a tree to get a look out and so gained a little time. Once she led them where the rock dropped sheer and bare, and again she gained time. But nearer and nearer to the meeting place she came.

Suddenly low at her feet she saw a tiny, white flower. It was the one used by her mother to make the sweet drink that would make one sleep, and sleep, and sleep. But if too much was taken, it meant death. A daring plan came to her mind. Dare she do it? Dare she eat of it? Mother brewed it—she must eat it as it was. They were still several hours from where she knew her father was to be found. If her plan succeeded, she could save him.

Reaching down, she dug her feet into the sides of the little pony. Immediately his heels went high in the air and she lay flat on the ground.

Quickly she gathered much of the little white flower and pushed it into her dress. Then when the men came, she was lying with broken ankle on the ground. The pain was intense, but the happiness that they must stop was sweet to the girl. Over and over and over she said to herself, "Courage is all in the heart. I can be a Brave."

She took some of the little white flower and began to eat of it.

"What is it?" said the men. "What do you eat?"

"I eat the sweet flower of this little plant. If you eat of this, you shall not thirst," said the girl.

Now they had ridden far and hard and the day was very warm, so when the men heard this, they bent and gathered bits of the plant. It was sweet and pleasing to the taste, so they ate more and more of it. And the Indian girl watched them and smiled when none could see.

It was decided to get the evening meal while the oldest chief bound the ankle of the girl. So they hurriedly cooked it. But before it was ready, the leader leaned against the old tree and he was asleep. Then another and another slept. Stronger than opium had been the flower that they had eaten.

* * * * *

Kagigegabo watched them while her own eyes began to droop. She must not go to sleep. Oh! what could she do? She must ride when they were asleep. What could she do? She turned and twisted the broken ankle. That helped a bit, for the pain was intense. She pulled great locks of her hair and tied them about her fingers so that the blood would have to force its way about. And after what seemed to her to be hours, she was still awake and the five men were all sleeping.

Slowly, very slowly, she pulled herself away from the fire out into the bush where her pony was tied. Her feet seemed determined not to move and she wanted so much to lie down and sleep. But she kept on till she had led the pony away from the group. Then she mounted and started on her ride.

But it was no use. She could not stay awake. Now what was she to do? They were on the direct road to the valley. For a moment she hesitated. Then quickly she tore her dress in strips. Taking a sharp stone, she cut her arm and with the blood she made two pictures on a piece of wood—the one showed five Indians asleep—the other showed an Indian girl by the road. Taking the strips from her dress, she fastened the bit of wood to the saddle.

She took from her arm the circle of brass which would tell her father from whom the message had come, and fastened it to the saddle. Then a cut of the whip across the legs sent the pony flying down the path.

After he had gone, the girl sat in a dazed way near the path. She was so tired. If only they would hurry, then she could tell them which way to go—but sleep came before the pony had gone even one mile.

Five days later, Kagigegabo opened her eyes slowly and looked about. She was lying on the skins in the wigwam of her mother. Her ankle was tightly bound and she felt very stiff and sore. Across her wrist there was an ugly cut. No one was about so she lay there trying to remember what had happened. How long had she been there and where was her mother?

A step sounded outside and an old war chief—her father—looked anxiously into the tent. When he saw her eyes open, he came slowly in and gazed long at the Indian girl on the bed and then went as slowly out again.

When he came back, there were with him five other chiefs. Around the bed they stood in a silent circle and Kagigegabo wondered what they were going to do with her. Had she done wrong? Was she to be punished?

But the old chief spoke:

"Kagigegabo, you have saved the tribe from ruin, and because of your help, we have captured the enemy, for whom we were searching. They have told us of your bravery and of your wisdom. You were more full of courage than any squaw we have ever known. You shall no longer be called Kagigegabo, but you shall be called Aotonaka, the daring one."

Then upon the arm of the girl who had wished she could be a Brave they bound a red band—the red band of courage.



THE WHITE FLOWER OF HAPPINESS

By Persis Richardson

The King sat in the library of the palace reading an old, old book—a book written when the King's great-great-grandfather sat on the throne. The King had never seen the book before and it was very interesting to him. For the book told of a strange little plant that had grown in the kingdom in those days of the old, old king.

No matter how hard the people had to work, if the little plant was growing in their homes, they were happy. Indeed, the book said that the flower of the plant was so beautiful that no garden was complete without it; so in the days of the long ago, it grew in the gardens of the rich and the poor, while happiness and prosperity reigned in the land.

Eagerly the king read the description of the little flower that grew on this wonderful plant. It was white as the driven snow. It had heart-shaped petals surrounding a wonderful heart of gold, and it was known as the White Flower of Happiness.