Then they passed away from the dreary desert places where black houses were, into beautiful plains where the grass was mingled with bright and lovely flowers, and rivulets gracefully flowed along; and here were lovely temples, shining with precious stones, so that Ruth clapped her hands at beholding them. "Here," said the old woman, "are more beautiful treasures, which are my great glory and delight."

She showed Ruth one, round which the whitest blossoms grew among green leaves, in which were treasured all the smiles ever given to comfort people who had grief in their heart; and these smiles shed about the whole temple a light like a halo of glory.

In another were the soft, loving words which many children had given others, poorer and lowlier than themselves, to encourage their weak hearts; words which they had given and forgotten, but which had yet been carefully gathered up, and put in this temple. From this temple a low sound of sweet music rose, which filled Ruth's heart with a perfect peace, as if she had found everything she could ever desire.

In another temple yet were all the words of love, which children express and feel in their hearts to each other. From this temple proceeded louder tones, but yet those of sweetest harmony.

In another, all the gentle, loving words ever whispered to the animals.

"I prize these highly," said the old woman.

"It is very strange," said she, looking upon the temples, "that I find these precious treasures thrown about very carelessly upon the earth. The children never dream of their worth, and were I not always ready there, some would be lost. But remember, Ruth, none are suffered to be lost; and so, when the children to whom these belong are going into heaven, they shall find there many a treasure they did not dream of possessing. Thus shall the treasures they had forgotten grow brighter and brighter, while others they had perhaps remembered have grown corrupted and vain!"

At these words, Ruth longed to lay many treasures in the temples, and she heard a song, which the different tones of the temple formed in the air. It melted her heart with its divine harmony.

"O," cried Ruth "could I but sing such a song to my father! he who loves songs so well. What joy it would be to him!"

"And would you patiently sing the song though he thanked you not?" asked the old woman.

"I desire him only to hear it," replied Ruth; and at that moment the power came to her, and such a song poured from her throat!

She was so enchanted! But, when glancing in the brook, she saw her own figure so lit up with beauty as scarcely to be able to recognize it. The old woman saw her amazement, and replied to it:

"I will send you back to your home that you may sing this song to your father; and remember, little Ruth, that beauty only is worthy to have which proceeds from the sweetness of thy words and the loveliness of thy smile. In heaven thou mayst be as lovely as thou wilt. Send up, then, fit treasures for the temple, and they will be kept safely until thou needest them."

Then, as the tones of the old woman's voice died away, Ruth found herself in the garden again, near her mother's house, and, had it not been for the fruit and bunch of violets in her pocket, she would have believed it a dream; but, when she went into the house, and gave Grace and Jessie the peaches, and her mother the big, beautiful violets, and began doing all sorts of kind things for every one, she felt how very real it all had been. And then, too, she would sing that beautiful song she had heard in the old woman's star, and her father, delighted, caught her up in his arms, kissing her again and again.

Ruth did not forget what the old woman had told her—how she might bring the beauty of heaven about her form; and when she grew up people loved her, and said, "I would rather look like Ruth, to smile and speak like her, than to have the brightest hair and bluest eyes of any court beauty."



THE OLD MAN'S STORY.

Come about me, little ones, and I will tell you my story. I seem old to you now; but once I was as young as you. I had twelve brothers and sisters; but now they are all gone before me into the better land, and I remain here alone upon the earth without them.

I am very old. My teeth have fallen away from my mouth one by one, until they are all gone. My bald head has a very few gray hairs; my ears are deaf, so I can scarcely hear your young, sweet voices: and the bright sky is dimmed to my eyes. Slowly my footsteps totter along the earth, as when I first stepped into my mother's outstretched arms.

My wife long ago went before me to the grave, and I have left many children there. Many a time have I seen the green sod laid over the grave of loved ones. Often have I wept at the sight of God's servant, Death; but when next he comes I shall hail him with joy, for he will be to me the beloved friend who bears me to my home above.

Now that I am grown old, God lovingly carries me back to the days of my childhood. He sends many a loving spirit upon the wings of consolation to bear me into the fair region of youth. The scenes of the few years since—all the noise and bustle of my manhood's prime—are banished far away from me, and only the stillness and quiet of my childhood close around the last moments of my earthly existence. Thus, dear children, bathing me in the innocence and trustful spirit of my childhood, does God prepare me for my home in his beautiful garden.

I told you I had twelve brothers and sisters. O, well do I recall them all! They come near, and I feel their presence as of old! I am glad to linger mostly on their early days; for, in after life, their hearts were filled with sorrow, their fresh spirits wearied, and care brought and filled their souls with other feelings than those of love and sympathy to others.

Our fairest and brightest brother was Fred. I was only one year younger than he, and I remember well how I watched my mother while she nursed him, and sent me away from the arms which a little before had been my sole possession. I could not understand it, and my little heart was filled with dismay. I would creep away by myself, sit down, and in the most pitiful manner repeat to myself, "Poor Sammy! poor Sammy!" The sense of desolation was very great; and in the whole course of my life I do not remember to have known a more distressing grief. When I grew to be a man, and disappointments came upon me; when I laid my wife and children in their graves, and knew there was not one left of my line but myself—a miserable old man—there was hope in my sorrow, light in my darkness; for I knew the love of God and the life of eternity. These deep sorrows had, also, bright heights; but it was not so then. I could not feel God's love. My mother's care had been all I knew; and, now that it seemed given to another, I was alone and wretched. There was a terrible sense of injustice, which nearly broke my heart. I could not understand how my little brother could have the right to what was denied me.

I have always tenderly pitied children who had griefs; then they need our care more than the grown children, who feel God's love and wisdom. But these little ones grope in a kind of darkness. Suffering is a mystery to them; they can perceive no cause or end for it; they only know they suffer.

After a while, I, too, was allowed to sit on my mother's lap with this brother, and then I began to love him, he was so beautiful. There was no child in the county which could be compared with him, and, simply because of his beauty and his cunning ways, he gained the power of a king over the household, so that as soon as he began to run about he ruled it, and me even more than the rest.

The country was very new then, and all the gay, flourishing towns and villages, which are now scattered in every direction, scarcely existed even in the minds of the first sanguine settlers. Dark woods and sombre swamps covered the surface; and what do you think we had instead of roads, when we wanted to go from one town to another? The first one who found his way along cut pieces of bark out of the trees, and others followed these marks, until after a time they cut down the trees and made a road. I think this is the reason old roads in this country are so crooked; for you know a man cannot walk very straight through a forest.

Our near neighbors lived a mile from us, and it was quite a little journey to go and see them. We had a village, too, in which were but two buildings, the meeting-house and blacksmith's shop. You children would hardly think you could live in such a place; yet such was the state of things ninety-three years ago.

Well, my father and mother had come up from a town near Boston, because my grandfather could give them some land here, and they built their house, and made it their home. The house stands now; it is the very one in which my brothers and sisters were all born.

In her parlor my mother had a very nice piece of furniture, which her mother had given her as a wedding present, and of which she was very proud, inasmuch as no parlor in the county could boast the like. It was a looking-glass!

Well, laugh! No wonder it seems funny to you that any one should so prize a looking-glass, when you all have so many of them; but you can have no idea how different everything was then. The people were very poor, and, although they owned many acres of land, yet they could frequently sell it but for one dollar an acre, and thought that a fine bargain. You see we had no money to buy the elegant luxuries you have in your houses—the carpets, and sofas, and rocking-chairs. Our floors were hard, covered now and then with a little sand, perhaps, as a great luxury. The chairs were straight and high, while our tables were small and low, and the cups from which we drank our tea as small as those you play with. But, before I say any more, I want to tell you of the fate of mother's looking-glass.

The great room (as mother's parlor was called) was always kept carefully closed, and a very sacred, awful and mysterious place it was to us children. It so happened, one day when mother had gone away, that my little brother Fred began to be acted upon very powerfully by a desire to take one peep into that room. By some strange neglect mother had left the door unlatched—for she kept her bonnet in there, and always put it on before the glass. The temptation to go in was altogether too powerful for Fred to withstand, and, especially as others had never pronounced the little monosyllable no, to him, he had no mind to begin by saying it to himself. So in he went, and almost the first thing he saw was mother's looking-glass, hanging over the table between the two front windows. As he went towards it he saw a little boy, who seemed to be peering and staring at him from between the windows. He had no idea it was himself he saw, never having seen the looking-glass before, nor his own reflected image. You may be sure he looked right earnestly upon the strange child. If he stepped forward, so did the boy; if he turned away, and then looked cautiously back to watch the boy, there he was, looking at him in a very sly manner. Freddy, enraged at this, rushed out for a stone, and, bringing it in, hurled it at the looking-glass. But it was all in vain, for, even after the glass rattled down and strewed the floor with its many pieces, that impudent boy peeped at him from every bit of glass in which he looked.

When my mother came home, and went to put away her bonnet in the great room, as usual, she found her beautiful looking-glass lying on the floor, broken into a hundred pieces. When she came out, and demanded of us what it meant, Fred told her of a little boy he saw behind it, at whom he was offended and hurled a stone, but that still the boy looked at him from the pieces of glass and made him very angry.

Then mother laughed when she heard Fred's story, and, catching him up in her arms, kissed him again and again. She forgot to chide him for his disobedience in going where he had been forbidden to go, and for his foolish anger at the supposed boy. She was so much amused at his version of the story, that she did not explain to him what the boy was, and how the looking-glass reflected figures before it, but he was left to find that out by his experience afterwards.

If my brother, long before that, had learned lessons of love and forbearance, this circumstance, slight as it may seem, would never have occurred. Instead of the threatening and distrustful look in the mirror, he would have found a laughing face, and a tiny, loving hand would have been given him. O, my dear children, this story has a higher meaning than I thought of when I commenced! In the feelings of those whom we approach we see the reflection of our own; if we approach any one with love, it is given to us from them. Think of this: it will serve you well, and teach you to be careful, ere you hurl the stone, to know what is the object of your anger.

I have often thought that we all helped to make my brother selfish. He was so very beautiful that we indulged him in every whim he had; so he came to look upon us at last as bound to serve him. I do not blame him only; they who had the nurturing of him, they to whom his young spirit was sent so fair from God's heavenly gardens, in their unwise love taught him to think of himself, and make others serve his purposes.

These dear, helpless little ones—they come to us in fresh beauty like a spring morning, and we taint their spirits with selfishness, and darken them with worldly care!

Years after, when my brother and myself had grown to men, we bound our interests in one. He had quicker parts than I—was a much better scholar; so I trusted all our business confidently in his hands. But I grieve to say he did not meet my confidence with honor—he took from my purse to enrich his own; and when I stood by his bedside, at last, and saw how the deep wrinkles were worn in by care upon his once round cheek, I wept. I wept that he should die without having found in life that peace which any one would have predicted for him over his cradle, when the rosy cheeks sank into the soft pillow, and the long lashes of his baby eyelids rested upon them! I love that brother now, and his child, who had become penniless after his death, I warmed in my chimney-corner, and held to my heart as though she had been my own child. Brother, I know thou hast repented, long ago, of the wrongs thou didst inflict, and that some time, in the presence of God, I shall clasp thee in my arms, pure again as when we sat together on our mother's knee!

See how I have wandered away off from my story!

Let me tell you how we got our clothes. Did you ever ask yourself what we could do then, when there were so few shops, and so little money to carry to the shops?

We had sheep, who gave us wool, which my mother spun, and wove it into cloth. Just think of that! Do you imagine you would have as fine clothes, if your mothers had to spin all the cloth? She knit, too, O, so fast! as well in the dark as the light. I have known her to knit a coarse stocking easily of an evening—her fingers flew along the needles! Cotton cloth was a great rarity among us. I remember once my mother had a cotton gown, and it was esteemed very precious.

Father made our shoes, and rough ones they were too, and which we only wore in the coldest part of the winter. The long winter evenings were so beautiful to us! Father taught us to read and spell, and chalked out sums on the wall for us; then we would draw profiles on the wall, for the great blaze of the wood-fire cast a bright light, and, consequently, the shadow was well marked. A huge chimney-place we had, with a broad hearth, and all about this would we sit, roasting apples and popping corn by the heat of the fire.

So we lived; in the summer, playing "hi-spy" around the corners of the barn, and, in the winter, living snugly in the chimney-corner, telling stories.

When the revolutionary war broke out,—you've heard of that, of course; but then I'm afraid you'll never know how much we endured then; our feeling against the injustice of Mother England was very great. You do not know how we had loved her, nor how we children used to listen to stories of that beautiful country beyond the sea. Our father and mother spoke of it as "Home," and we all hoped that some time, when we were men and women, we might go "Home." Then, when she began to tax us for more money than we were able to pay, in order to build grand palaces, it seemed hard to us; and, even after we had remonstrated again and again, she took no notice of our petitions. She laid a heavy tax on some little comforts we had, such as sugar and molasses; and then, when we refused to buy them rather than pay the tax, she imposed a heavy tax on tea, and sent a great deal of it here to force us to buy it. We wouldn't have the tea, however, and you must have heard how a party of men, disguised as Indians, threw it all into Boston harbor.

All these things seemed the more cruel because they came from "Home." And, finally, worn out with the injustice constantly experienced at their hands, we prepared to resist them by war.

The declaration of independence, which you celebrate every fourth of July, was received with mingled emotions of joy and sorrow. It was severing an old tie which had once been sweet; but yet it promised us, through the doubtful conflict, freedom and independence.

How enthusiastic we children were! Father made us rude wooden guns; and drilled us every morning, for no one knew how long the war would last; but we were determined to conquer, even though our fathers died in the war, and our children succeeded to it. I remember when the recruiting army came round. I seized my gun, and manfully joined its ranks. But to my dismay I was sent back; my wooden gun, and extreme youth, were thought insufficient to meet the demands of a soldier's duty. I remember well when the battle was fought on Bunker Hill. A great part of the town was gathered upon a slight elevation, from which we could distinctly hear the roaring of the cannons and the clashing of the artillery. It was a terrible day! There was many a woman there who had a father or husband in the battle; and, at each report which filled their ears, they fancied they saw them falling before the foe, and trampled beneath the feet of the conquerors.

Those were trying times. Children, I pray God you may never know such; and you never can, for you will not struggle with poverty as we did. When I look upon your happy faces, and see the satchel full of books on your arm,—when I look in upon your happy homes, upon the career of honor and usefulness before you in the future,—I am, by the strong contrast, transported to those "trying times" when we lived in the cold houses, and wore the coarse cloth; when we sacrificed the refinements of knowledge, and the pleasures of luxury, to the bold struggle of liberty against tyranny; when our hard-working mothers at home melted their last pewter plate, that the guns should know no lack of bullets, and sent all the little comforts of food and clothing they could find, to bless the husbands and fathers toiling in the war; and when the fathers fought with the fangs of thirst and hunger fast upon them, and leaving behind them, upon the sharp ice, the traces of their footsteps, engraven by their bleeding feet. Then, children, tears of joy and gratitude fill my eyes; for we did not toil in vain. In you all do I behold the fruits of our labor. We were ignorant, that you might be wise; poor, that you might be rich; outlawed and disgraced, that you might build up a free and generous nation. And, in reaping these privileges, do not forget the old man, and the old woman, who, bowed and wrinkled with age, need your kind hand. We have given you these things gladly; and now, before we go to our further toil in eternity, let us hear your blessed voices speaking to us in kind tones of love; let us feel your young lips pressed upon our old brows; let us clasp your little hands, and feel the gladness with which your attentions come to us. And when you see an old man, alone, with those of his generation passed away, treat him tenderly. Guide his tottering footsteps, and bear with him when he is slow; for he is waiting for the kind servant, Death. He is thinking of a dear little girl, who, long ago, with her blue eyes and golden hair, her light step and soft embrace, went up to live with the angels; and the tears fall fast over his worn cheeks, as he remembers the lone place she left in his heart, for she was the last thing which had been left him from his broken family. Speak to the old man gently, for his heart is often in converse with the beautiful past! Speak to him gently, for his soul dwells among the angels of heaven!



A STORY OF THE CHRIST-CHILD.

In one of those tall, splendid houses, standing in proud streets, in which some poor people imagine heaven to dwell, lived a little girl by the name of Helen.

It was Christmas-day; and early in the morning did she jump from her bed, and run to look at her stocking by the fireplace, where it was hung that Santa Claus need not be troubled to hunt for it.

There it hung, filled full, and all about on the sides had fallen the presents it was not large enough to hold. O, how quickly did she empty its contents; and how delighted were her exclamations!

"A beautiful bracelet!" she said to herself, sitting down on the carpet and drawing her little white feet under her; "just such a one, with the opal stone, as I saw in the window, yesterday, when I went to walk with mamma on Washington-street; and she sent me home, I know, so she could buy it. O, and this beautiful book! how its edges shine! What pictures! Let me see;—'From your affectionate father,'—I knew father gave me that;—and see the pretty cushion, and the box, and the china cups and plates for my doll; and O, a new silk dress for dolly, and something little, away down!" continued Helen, drawing out her hand and peeping into the little stocking; then, putting her hand back, drew out a pretty ring for her finger. "If this is not nice! I never did see anything so pretty,—a ring and a bracelet! O, dear, dear! how happy I am!" She actually danced about the room for joy; and, when Katie came to wash and dress her, she scampered around and around her, for she could not keep still.

There was ever so much candy too, and she wanted only to sit down and eat it, unmindful of Katie's remonstrances.

She had been so delighted with her presents as almost to forget the merry Christmas she was to bid her father and mother; and so, when she went down stairs into the breakfast-room, where the hot rolls were smoking, and the loving parents waiting, they had almost surprised her with their wishes before she bethought herself.

Then she began to think of a party which was to be at her teacher's house, and of the Christmas-tree and the Christ-child, which so many children would go to see in their best frocks and best looks.

So, after the famous Christmas-dinner with its nice roast-meats, and puddings, and pies,—after the game of romps with her father, and the ride on the rocking-horse with her brother, who, at last, from mere mischief, had tipped her off, and sent her crying to her mother,—she began to think about going there. She had seen herself nicely arrayed in the pretty plaid dress, with the ring on her finger, and the opal bracelet on her arm, which she had found in her stocking that morning. Then she bethought herself of how all the children were to bring a few pieces of silver for an offering to the Christ-child, that it might be sent off into distant lands to children who knew nothing of the blessed Christ-child and the Christmas he brought.

It is true Helen had a bright box with a hole in the lid, through which she had dropped many a bright piece of silver; and it is also true that the box had a lock, and the key of the lock lay quietly in one of Helen's drawers; but the money there was destined to some very great and vague purpose; and she never would have dreamed of unlocking the box and taking from it any silver for the Christ-child. She knew well enough papa would give her money for that purpose. So to papa she went, and told him what she wanted; and he, proud that his little girl should carry as much as others whom she would meet there, gave her a beautiful gold piece of money—a veritable five dollars!

Then did Helen speed along with exultation in her heart—exultation for the gold in her tiny pocket, and exultation in the very bright dress, quilted pink bonnet, and pretty white furs. And she was so often thinking, "What will Mary say when she sees this?" Not once did Helen ask herself what the Christ-child, or he whom the Christ-child represented, the Saviour in heaven would say to the gold she brought.

Poor Helen!

She was not bringing the gold for the children so far away. She was bringing it because the others would bring some, and she wanted hers seen of them!

* * * *

Away down in an obscure street, where you would not look for anything kind or beautiful, lived a brother and sister, who made each other very happy in their love. Their names were Johnny and Susan. Johnny was a lame, sick boy, who could not run out of doors and play like other children. It was Christmas morning there too, even, and early had Susan, his sister, awoke to think of the pleasant visit she should make in the afternoon at her teacher's house; and she had even stolen from her bed up to Johnny's bedside to see if he, too, was awake; and when she saw that he was awake and his countenance thoughtful, they began to talk together about the day's pleasure, and how Susan was to remember everything to tell it over by night to Johnny.

"O," said Susan, "to think how beautiful it will be, and I never in a fine house before, and the two sixpences we have earned this week! How glad shall I be to put them in my teacher's hand! Johnny dear," said the little Susan, looking tenderly on her poor brother, "do you not think you need the sixpence yourself? I could buy you a sweet orange, or something nice for you to eat, it is so long since you had anything but bread and water."

"No," said Johnny, "I'd rather much give it to the Christ-child. I love to lie here and think about it, and of those children so far away, who will be glad when they, too, know of this beautiful day. I think of them so much that I love them, Susan, and I wish I had more than the sixpence to send them."

Susan busied herself in preparing the breakfast of bread and water, and then, when it was over and the work done up, she sat down by the side of Johnny's bed, and read to him out of the little book she had brought from her Sunday-school; and Johnny forgot, in the quiet peace of the day, how hard it was to lie still upon the bed, when he so often longed to run out and play; thoughts of love came into his heart, and tears of gentleness into his eyes.

Their dinner was very different from the one Helen had eaten; but they were happy, their hearts were full of expectation,—and Susan had got herself quite ready, and, wrapping the two pieces of silver in a piece of paper, she kissed Johnny, and set off on her way to the teacher's house.

But when Susan came among the children there, somehow they all shunned her. In their plays, if they had occasion to speak to her, they passed on quickly, with a suppressed smile and hurried glance on each other. If, by any means, she spoke to them, they looked upon her in astonishment, without answering her words. They often whispered one to another, casting curious looks upon her; so she knew easily they spoke of her. What could it mean? What had she done?

I cannot answer this well. She had a gentle, sweet face; her manners were neither rude nor obtrusive, and when she spoke, though her tones were low, half fearful and trembling, still were her words as kind and polite, if not kinder and politer, than those of the other children.

Poor Susan! and she had thought to be so happy that afternoon; she had anticipated only kindly faces, and loving glances, and kind hands stretched out to her in the plays. For once she had thought to mingle with those pretty children as if they had been her sisters, and, when she went back to dear Johnny, to tell him of their loving words. But now—what! could she tell Johnny, to grieve him, of the sad afternoon she was passing? She looked upon them more closely, trying to find out what it was that separated her from them. 'Tis true she wore no bright plaid dress and delicate cloth boots; she wore no bracelets on her arm; she had not found them in her stocking that morning. There was no necklace about her neck; her hair was not bright and curling; yet, still, what could be the reason they shunned her so?

Susan tremblingly looked over her own dress. Her gown was scanty and of cotton, her pantalets were long and narrow, but they were the best she had; her mother had made them long ago, and Susan had so carefully preserved them. On her feet she wore thick leather shoes; but she knew how the money had been saved, little by little, from week to week, that they might be bought. If they were thick, it was that they might last the longer; and her hair was combed smoothly over her brow and braided on her neck. Her hands, it is true, were not delicate, like theirs—they were hard and red; but they had become so in working for the home, to keep it clean, and working early and late, that the mother might not be detained from her work out, and that the lame, sick brother should have no little want unsupplied.

And was it that her hands were red and her clothes coarse that the children shunned her—even, too, before they looked into her little home, and saw what she did there, how she comforted Johnny, and swept clean the floor, and even found some time to read out of her books? Could they, with their bright frocks and rosy cheeks, have such very weak and wicked causes for their displeasure against this poor child? Could they so willingly hurt her heart, when she had come from so many days of toil to what she had thought would be a day of pleasure, so that she must often turn her head to wipe off the tears with her little red hand? And these children, had they come to honor the Christ-child?

Their teacher had watched their games, and saw how they played among themselves, and cast out the little Susan from their play; and she thought that not only did they dishonor the Christ-child, but her who had brought them all together.

But Susan still thought of the Christmas-tree, the present it should bear for her, and how she should take hers home for Johnny; and she thought, too, of the two little sixpences done up in the paper in her pocket. Helen, too, was not unmindful of her bright gold-piece, and had taken good care to show it before the eyes of all the children; and Susan had seen it, and thought of Johnny,—how he had said he wished he had still more to send to the children so far away,—and she thought the little girl with the gold-piece must be happy enough to send it; and she began to feel half ashamed that she had no more money, and, as their unkind looks continued, she asked herself if she had any right to be there.

But the Christmas-tree was ready. A servant came in and closed tightly the shutters, so the room was all dark, and then the parlor-doors were thrown open, and there stood the tall, beautiful tree, with candles of all colors, which were burning like so many stars, and above it hung the Christ-child, with a smile as of love, and his arms stretched out as he would call them to him. And on the tree were nice gifts, books and toys, pictures, and lace bags, tied with gay ribbons, filled with candies. But Helen, and all the children who had found rich gifts in their stockings that morning, turned indifferently from these, admiring the novelty of the Christmas-tree.

But to the child they had neglected,—the little girl in the cotton gown and coarse, thick shoes, the little Susan,—these gifts, as well as the tree, were very precious; for she had not jumped eagerly from her bed that morning to find rich presents in her stockings, for she did not expect them to be there; she had awoke early to think of the visit to the teacher's house, the sight at the tree, and the gifts it should bear for her and Johnny.

So she prized her gift more than all!

When the children saw how carefully she put the little bags of sweetmeats in her pocket, instead of eating them as they did, they laughed among themselves, and said something about her which was so cruel and so unjust, that I shall not even tell you what it was. They did not know she was saving the candy to eat with Johnny. Then, when she pondered over her little book, in admiration, and held it carefully in her hands, as though she was fearful of stretching it, they said to themselves, she must be very ignorant to care for such a thing. But Susan only shrank off by herself, thankful to have her portion in these things.

After this, came the time when they would bring their offerings for those children who live in the far-off lands, where there is no Christmas; and the children began to wonder if Susan had any money, and to show each other what they had. Then their teacher drew her chair among them, and began to tell them what it really was to wish that others might enjoy what we did; what it was to help them to do so, and be careful not to rob them of one smile.

"This money which you would send to those children, that they may be happy as you are, if it does not tell them of your love, is useless to them. And if, to obtain it, you have, in any way, denied yourself of one little thing, be sure God will look very lovingly upon you; and those children, when you meet them in heaven, will put their arms about you, and tell you of their gratitude."

When the teacher said these last words, Susan's lip quivered, and her eye sparkled, for they were words of meaning to her; but they did not affect the other children, for they were words of no meaning to them.

But Susan saw those children in heaven, in her fancy, and Johnny was there, no longer lame and sick; they ran and played over bright fields, and no one laughed at them, or repulsed them, or wore brighter clothes than they. They threw garlands of flowers to each other, and when they laughed the tones of their voices were like music.

Then the teacher called Susan to her side, and Susan put in her hand the two little pieces of silver; and the children, when they saw how carefully they had been wrapped in the bit of paper, exchanged glances, and they who had the most money in their pockets smiled scornfully, as children can, upon one another. The teacher asks Susan how the little money was got, and the child answers in a low tone:

"Please, ma'am, they are Johnny's and mine; we saved them since you told us so long ago."

And the teacher, as she thinks of the lame, sick Johnny, and what those pennies might have bought him—how he had denied himself—feels the tears come into her eyes, and she speaks to the children of Johnny, and tells Susan that when she comes into heaven, she shall certainly see the children she blesses now. But when she calls the others to her, and they show her the money so easily obtained, the teacher will not take it.

"Since you denied yourself not one thing for it, how do I know love made you bring it. And if love did not send it, how could it make the far-off children happy? And how can you love those so far off, when you have all helped to make this Christmas afternoon so unhappy a one to one of the children I invited here with you? If you love not those close by you, you cannot love those at a distance."

She told them how Susan nursed her sick brother; how she read to him, watched over him with cheerful smile and kind love; what she did for her brother's comfort, and she showed them that the two pieces of silver from Johnny and Susan were really worth more in the sight of God than their silver dollars and gold pieces.

Then she told them a story. When Christ was one day sitting in the temple, he looked upon all those who came to put money in the treasury. Many rich people, with proud airs and haughty hearts, threw in large sums of money; people called them benevolent, and sang loud praises to them.

But Jesus did not call them benevolent, neither did he praise them.

At last came a poor widow, bringing with her two mites, which made one penny. She had saved them of all she had, and humbly, with love in her heart, she threw them into the treasury. What a little, in comparison with what the others had thrown there! and yet Jesus, who before had not spoken, said of her:

"I say unto you, this poor widow hath cast more in than all they which have cast into the treasury. For all they did cast in of their abundance, but she, of her want, did cast in all that she had, even her living!"

And the teacher was careful to tell them, it was the spirit of love in which the two mites were brought, not simply that they were two mites, which made Christ bless the woman; for if, in the same spirit, she had brought twenty mites, her blessing would have been the same.

The children saw, then, how shameful had been their conduct, and it seemed just to them that the Christ-child should refuse their offerings.

But they asked if they might not give their money to Susan and Johnny?

"No," replied the teacher; "she does not need your money; she could give you nothing in return for it. But, instead, you may give her your love;—that she would like, and can return;—and, by-and-by, when you have learned well your lessons of kindness, give the money where love prompts you."

And, from that time, they began to learn these lessons; they saw how Susan, if her clothes were coarse, had in her heart what was worth more than fine clothes, and all the riches which are in the world; and if they would have their gifts acceptable to the Christ-child, they must have such in their hearts!

* * * *

Susan went home happy—bearing on her arm a basket of grapes and oranges for Johnny, to tell him how the teacher had sent them to him, and that they must be more and more loving and self-denying, since their God would love them.



The only Original Illustrated Juvenile Magazine published Once a Week.

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LITTLE AGNES. TRYING TO BE USEFUL. I'LL TRY. ART AND ARTLESSNESS.

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THE END