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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60138 ***</div>
<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Edith and her Ayah, and Other Stories, by A.
L. O. E.</h1>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto; max-width: 80%;" cellpadding="10">
<tr>
<td valign="top">
Note:
</td>
<td>
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
<a href="https://archive.org/details/edithherayahothe00aloe">
https://archive.org/details/edithherayahothe00aloe</a>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p> </p>
<hr class="full" />
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<h1>EDITH AND HER AYAH,<br />
<span class="smaller">And Other Stories.</span></h1>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 430px;">
<img src="images/illus1.jpg" width="430" height="650" alt="" />
</div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" height="750" alt="" />
<p class="center">A · L · O · E</p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Edith</span> and<br />
her <span class="smcap">Ayah</span><br />
AND OTHER STORIES</p>
<p class="center">T. NELSON AND SONS.
LONDON, EDINBURGH AND NEW YORK.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header10.jpg" width="500" height="250" alt="" />
<p class="caption">WHATSOEVER A MAN SOWETH THAT SHALL HE ALSO REAP</p>
</div>
<p class="titlepage larger">EDITH AND HER AYAH,<br />
<span class="smaller">AND OTHER STORIES.</span></p>
<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br />
A. L. O. E.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<img src="images/aloe.jpg" width="200" height="30" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="center smaller">AUTHOR OF “EXILES IN BABYLON,” “TRIUMPH OVER MIDIAN,”<br />
“THE YOUNG PILGRIM,” ETC.</p>
<div class="figcenter titlepage" style="width: 200px;">
<img src="images/footer0.jpg" width="200" height="70" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="titlepage">LONDON:<br />
<span class="smaller">T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;<br />
EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.<br />
1872.</span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p>
<h2>Contents.</h2>
<table summary="Contents">
<tr>
<td class="tdr">I.</td>
<td>EDITH AND HER AYAH,</td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#I">7</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">II.</td>
<td>THE BUTTERFLY,</td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#II">20</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">III.</td>
<td>THE PENITENT,</td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#III">29</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">IV.</td>
<td>THE REPROOF,</td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#IV">37</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">V.</td>
<td>THE VASE AND THE DART,</td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#V">40</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">VI.</td>
<td>THE JEWEL,</td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#VI">49</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">VII.</td>
<td>THE STORM,</td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#VII">57</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">VIII.</td>
<td>THE SABBATH-TREE,</td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#VIII">65</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">IX.</td>
<td>THE WHITE ROBE,</td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#IX">76</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">X.</td>
<td>CROSSES,</td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#X">84</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XI.</td>
<td>THE TWO COUNTRIES,</td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#XI">93</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XII.</td>
<td>DO YOU LOVE GOD?</td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#XII">102</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XIII.</td>
<td>THE IMPERFECT COPY,</td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#XIII">106</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XIV.</td>
<td>A STORY OF THE CRIMEA,</td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#XIV">112</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XV.</td>
<td>“I HAVE A HOME, A HAPPY HOME,”</td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#XV">119</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span></p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header1.jpg" width="500" height="170" alt="" />
<p class="caption">BLESSINGS ARE UPON THE HEAD OF THE JUST. PROV. 10:6</p>
</div>
<h2 id="I">I.<br />
<span class="smaller">EDITH AND HER AYAH.</span></h2>
<div>
<img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-m.jpg" width="100" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="dropcap">“Mamma,” said little Edith, looking
up from the toys with which she
was playing at the feet of her
mother—“mamma, why does
Motee Ayah never come in to
prayers?”</p>
<p>Mrs. Tuller was seated at her desk in the
large room of her bungalow (house) in India.
The day was hot; the blazing sun shone
with fiery glare; but the light came into
the room so much softened by green blinds
and half-closed shutters, that the place was
so dark that the lady could scarcely see to
write. The punkah, a kind of huge fan,
moving gently to and fro above her, made a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>
refreshing air which would have sent her
papers fluttering in every direction had not
weights been placed to keep them down.</p>
<p>Mrs. Tuller paused in her writing, but
did not reply to the question asked by her
child regarding her ayah, or native nurse.</p>
<p>“Mamma,” said little Edith again, “does
not Motee Ayah love the Lord Jesus?”</p>
<p>“Alas, my child, she does not know
him!”</p>
<p>“But will you not teach her, mamma?”
and the fair-haired girl looked up in her
mother’s face with such a pleading look in
her soft gray eyes, that, touched by her
interest in the poor heathen, Mrs. Tuller
bent down, kissed fondly the brow of her
child, and whispered, “My love, I will try.”</p>
<p>Nor did Mrs. Tuller forget her promise.
Again and again she spoke to Motee of the
Christian’s faith and the Christian’s God.
It saddened the heart of the lady to feel
that to seek to teach Motee religion was
like trying to write upon water. The ayah
joined her dark hands together, listened, or
seemed to listen, said, “Very good, very
good,” to everything that the beebee (lady)<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>
told her, but always returned to her idol, a
hideous little wooden image, and performed
her poojah (worship) to Vishnu, as if she
had never heard of a purer religion. Mrs.
Tuller grew quite disheartened about her.
Sometimes the lady blamed her own imperfect
knowledge of the language, and sometimes
she felt almost angry with the ayah
for her blindness and hardness of heart.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/illus2.jpg" width="500" height="425" alt="" />
<p class="caption">TEACHING THE AYAH.</p>
</div>
<p>Poor Motee had been brought up from
infancy amongst idolaters; she had never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>
been taught truth when a child, and now
error bound her like a chain. Motee had
actually been led to think it honourable to
her family that, many years before, there
had been a suttee in it; that is to say, a
poor young widow had burnt herself with
the dead body of her husband. Happily,
our Government has forbidden suttees—no
widow can thus be burnt now; but still the
cruel heathen religion hurts the bodies as
well as the souls of the Queen’s dark subjects
in India. Motee’s own father had
died on a pilgrimage to what he believed to
be a holy shrine. Travelling on foot for
hundreds of miles under a burning sun, the
poor idolater’s strength had given way, and
he had laid himself down by the roadside,
sick, faint, and alone, to die far away from
his home. Poor Motee had never reflected
that the religion which had thus cost the
lives of two of her family could not be a
religion of heavenly love. She worshipped
Vishnu, for she knew no better; and when
her lady spoke to her of the Lord, the ayah
only said to herself, that the God of the
English was not the God of the Hindu, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>
that she herself must do what all her fathers
had done.</p>
<p>Mrs. Tuller’s <em>words</em> had little power, but
her <em>example</em> and that of her husband were
not without some effect upon the ignorant
ayah. Motee knew that the sahib (master)
who prayed with his family, never used bad
words, nor was unkind to his wife, nor beat
his servants, nor took bribes. Motee knew
that the beebee who read her Bible was
gentle, generous, and kind. The ayah
could not but respect the religion whose
fruits she saw in the lives of her master
and mistress.</p>
<p>But it was not only the lady’s words and
the lady’s example that were used as means
to draw the poor Hindu to God. Little
Edith had never heard the beautiful saying,
that “the nearest road to any heart is
through heaven,” and she would not have
known its meaning if she had heard it, but
the English child had been taught that the
Saviour listens to prayer. Every night and
morning Edith, at her mother’s knee, repeated
the few simple words, “Lord Jesus,
teach me to love thee!” and now, of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
own accord, she added another short prayer.
Mrs. Tuller caught the soft whispered words
from the lips of her darling, “Lord Jesus,
teach poor Motee Ayah to love thee!”
The mother took no outward notice, but
from her heart she added “Amen” to the
prayer of her child.</p>
<p>The hot season passed away; the time
had come when Mr. Tuller and his family
could enjoy what is called “camp life,” and
move from place to place, living not in a
house but a tent. The change was pleasant
to the party, most of all to little Edith.
She delighted in running about and playing
with the goats, pulling the ropes, watching
the black servants taking down the tents,
or in riding on her little white pony.
Edith’s cheeks, which during the hot weather
had grown quite thin and pale, became
plump and rosy once more; and merry was
the sound of her childish voice as she gambolled
in and out of the tent.</p>
<p>One day, as Edith was playing outside,
near the edge of a jungle or thicket, her
attention was attracted by a beautiful little
fawn, that seemed almost too young to run<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
about, and which stood timidly gazing at
the child with its soft dark eyes.</p>
<p>“Pretty creature, come here,” cried Edith,
beckoning with her small white hand; “have
you lost your mother, little fawn? Come
and share my milk and bread,—come, and I
will make you my pet, and love you so
much, pretty fawn!”</p>
<p>As all her coaxing could not lure the
timid creature to her side, Edith advanced
towards it. The fawn started back with a
frightened look, and fled into the jungle as
fast as its weak, slender limbs could bear it.</p>
<p>The merry child gave chase, following the
fawn, and calling to it as she ran, pushing
her way as well as she could between the
tall reeds and grass, which were higher than
her own curly head.</p>
<p>Motee soon missed her charge, and quickly
hurried after Edith. So eager, however, was
the child in pursuit of the fawn, that she
was some distance from the tents before the
ayah overtook her.</p>
<p>“O Missee Baba,” cried the panting
nurse, “why you run away from your
Motee?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span></p>
<p>“I want to catch the pretty fawn; I want
to take it to mamma; it is too little to be
by itself,—I’m afraid the jackals will get it!”</p>
<p>“I am afraid that the jackals will get
Missee Baba,” cried the ayah, catching the
little girl up in her arms. “Missee must
come back to the beebee directly.”</p>
<p>Edith was a good little child, and made
no resistance, though she looked wistfully
into the bushes after the fawn, and called
out to it again and again in hopes of luring
it back. Motee attempted to return to the
tents, but did not feel sure of the way,—the
vegetation around grew so high that she
could scarcely see two yards before her.
She walked some steps with Edith in her
arms, then stopped and looked round with
a frightened air.</p>
<p>“Motee, why don’t you go on?” asked
Edith.</p>
<p>“O Missee Baba, we’re lost!” cried the
poor Hindu; “lost here in the dreadful
jungle, full of wild beasts and snakes!”</p>
<p>Edith stared at her ayah in alarm, yet at
that moment the little child remembered
her mother’s lessons. “Don’t be so frightened,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
Motee,” said the fair-haired English
girl; “the Lord Jesus can save us, and
show us the way to mamma.”</p>
<p>There was comfort in that thought, which
the poor heathen could not have drawn from
calling on Vishnu and the thousand false
gods which the ignorant Hindus adore.
The little child could feel, as the woman
could not, that even in that lonely jungle a
great and a loving Friend was beside her!</p>
<p>Again Motee tried to find her way, again
she paused in alarm. What was that dreadful
sound, like a growl, that startled the
ayah, and made her sink on her knees in
terror, clasping all the closer the little girl
in her arms! Motee and Edith both turned
to gaze in the direction from which that
dreadful sound had proceeded. What was
their horror on beholding the striped head
of a Bengal tiger above the waving grass!
Motee uttered a terrified scream,—Edith a
cry to the Lord to save her. It seemed
like the instant answer to that cry when
the sharp report of a rifle rang through the
thicket, quickly succeeded by a second; and
the wild beast, mortally wounded, lay rolling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>
and struggling on the earth! Edith saw
nothing of what followed; the shock had
been too great for the child; senseless with
terror she lay in the arms of her trembling
ayah!</p>
<p>Edith’s father, for it was he whom Providence
had sent to the rescue, bore his little
darling back to the tent, leaving his servants,
who had followed his steps, to bring
in the spoils of the tiger. It was some
time before Edith recovered her senses, and
then an attack of fever ensued. Mrs. Tuller
nursed her daughter with fondest care, and
with scarcely less tenderness and love the
faithful Motee tended the child. The poor
ayah would have given her life to save that
of her little charge.</p>
<p>On the third night after that terrible
adventure in the woods came the crisis of
the fever. Mrs. Tuller, worn out by two
sleepless nights, had been persuaded to go
to rest, and let Motee take her turn of
watching beside the child. The tent was
nearly dark,—but one light burned within
it,—Edith lay in shadow,—the ayah could
not see her face,—a terror came over the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>
Hindu,—all was so still, she could not hear
any breathing,—could Missee Baba be dead!
Motee during two anxious days had prayed
to all the false gods that she could think of
to make Missee Edith well; but the fever
had not decreased. Now, in the silence of
the night, poor Motee Ayah bethought her
of the English girl’s words in the jungle.
Little Edith had said that the Lord could
save them,—and had he not saved from
the jaws of the savage tiger? Could he
not help them now? The Hindu knelt beside
the charpoy (pallet) on which lay the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>
fair-haired child, put her brown palms together,
bowed her head, and for the first
time in her life breathed a prayer to the
Christian’s God: “Lord Jesus, save Missee
Baba!”</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/illus3.jpg" width="500" height="400" alt="" />
<p class="caption">THE AYAH PRAYING.</p>
</div>
<p>“O Motee! Motee!” cried little Edith,
starting up from the pillow with a cry of
delight, and flinging her white arms round
the neck of the astonished Hindu, “the
Lord has made you love him,—I knew he
would,—for I prayed so hard. And oh,
how I love you, Motee—more than ever I
did before!” The curly head nestled on
the bosom of the ayah, and her dark skin
was wet with the little child’s tears of joy.</p>
<p>Edith, a few minutes before, had awoke
refreshed from a long sleep, during which
her fever had passed away. And from that
hour her recovery was speedy; before many
days were over the child was again sporting
about in innocent glee. And from that
night the ayah never prayed to an idol
again. Willing she now was to listen to all
that the beebee could tell of a great and
merciful Lord. Of the skin of the tiger
that the sahib had slain a rug was made,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>
which Edith called her praying-carpet. Upon
this, morning and night, the white English
girl and her ayah knelt side by side, and
offered up simple prayers to Him who had
saved them from death. Mrs. Tuller’s
words had done less than her example in
drawing a poor wandering soul to God; but
the prayer lisped by her little lamb had had
greater effect than either.</p>
<p>Oh, if, in our dear land, all the little ones
who have no money to give to the missionary
cause, who have never even seen an
idolater, would lift up their hands and hearts
to the Lord, saying, “Teach the poor heathen
to love thee!” how rich a harvest of blessings
would be drawn down by such a prayer
on those who know not the truth, and still
sit in darkness and the shadow of death!</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<img src="images/footer1.jpg" width="200" height="70" alt="" />
</div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header2.jpg" width="500" height="170" alt="" />
<p class="caption">BUY THE TRUTH AND SELL IT NOT. Prov. 23:23.</p>
</div>
<h2 id="II">II.<br />
<span class="smaller">THE BUTTERFLY.</span></h2>
<div>
<img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-a.jpg" width="100" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="dropcap">A party of boys had been playing
in the fields on a sunny afternoon
in the bright month of June.
They had been chasing a gay
butterfly, which, in its uncertain
flight, had led them over hedge
and ditch, till at last the beautiful prize was
won, and the brilliant insect remained a
helpless prisoner in the hands of its pursuers.
Alas, for the butterfly! A few moments
before so gay and so free, sometimes resting
on a blossom, then fluttering up towards
the sky, its lovely wings were rudely torn
away, and it lay quivering in the agonies of
death. At this moment Ella Claremont, a
young lady of the village, approached the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>
party; she had seen the chase and its close,
and looked with regret on the poor mangled
butterfly. “Why did you not let it live?”
said she; “it had never harmed you, and it
was so happy. You easily took away its
little life,” she added; “but could any of
you, could any power on earth, give that
life back again?”</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/illus4.jpg" width="500" height="500" alt="" />
<p class="caption">A HELPLESS PRISONER.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p>
<p>The boys looked one upon another, and
were silent, till the eldest of them, Giles,
replied, “I am sorry that I killed it, but I
did not know that there was any harm.”</p>
<p>“Surely,” said Ella, in a very gentle
voice, “in a world where there is so much
pain, one would be sorry to add, even in the
least degree, to the amount of it. There is
another feeling,” continued she, “that should
make us merciful to every creature; we
should look upon it as one of the wonderful
works of God.”</p>
<p>“Why,” said Anthony, “a butterfly is
only a caterpillar after it has wings.”</p>
<p>“True; but what human skill could form
a caterpillar! It has been calculated that
in a single caterpillar there are <em>sixty thousand
muscles</em>!”</p>
<p>An exclamation of astonishment burst
from the boys.</p>
<p>“They must be finer than spiders’ threads,”
cried Giles.</p>
<p>“I daresay,” replied the lady, “that you
are not aware that each separate spider’s
thread is said to be formed of about <em>three
thousand</em> joined together.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p>
<p>“The world seems full of wonders,” exclaimed
little Robert.</p>
<p>“It is indeed; the more we search into
God’s works, the more wisdom and skill do
we behold.”</p>
<p>“I’ll not kill a butterfly again,” said Giles.</p>
<p>“I never see one fluttering in the sun,”
continued Ella, “without thinking of those
lines:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">‘Thou hast burst from thy prison,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Bright child of the air!</div>
<div class="verse">Like a spirit just risen</div>
<div class="verse indent1">From its mansion of care!’”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>“That sounds very pretty,” said Giles;
“but I don’t understand it.”</p>
<p>“It is not very difficult to explain,” replied
Ella. “The butterfly teaches us a
joyful lesson; it is what is called a <em>type</em> of
immortality! You see the lowly caterpillar
crawling over a leaf,—it cannot raise itself
towards the sky,—it cannot leave the earth;
in this it is like what <em>we are now</em>. Then, as
you know, it seems to die; it is wrapped up
in its little covering, and there it lies without
motion or feeling—that is like what <em>we
must be</em>.”</p>
<p>“Ah! I see; when we are in our coffins,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>
dead and buried,” cried Robert. “But the
bright butterfly soon bursts from the dark
case, and we do not rise from our graves.”</p>
<p>“<em>We shall</em>,” replied Ella earnestly; “<em>we
all shall rise again</em>. No longer prisoners
bound to earth, no longer creeping on amidst
trials and sorrows, but free, happy, glorious,
shining in the beams of the Sun of Righteousness.
‘For the trumpet shall sound, and
the dead shall be raised’ (1 Cor. xv. 52).
Why should we fear death—why should we
dread being laid in the cold tomb? When
we think of the hope set before us, well may
we cry, ‘O death, where is thy sting? O
grave, where is thy victory?’” (1 Cor. xv. 55).</p>
<p>There was a deep silence for a few moments;
nothing was heard but the song of a
lark high overhead, as it soared towards the
sky.</p>
<p>Then Giles spoke in a tone of awe, “Will
<em>all</em> rise again?”</p>
<p>“Yes, all.”</p>
<p>“Will all rise to be free, and happy, and
glorious?”</p>
<p>“Alas, no!” replied Ella.</p>
<p>“How can we tell,” continued the boy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
after a little hesitation, “whether <em>we</em> shall
be among the happy ones?”</p>
<p>“There will be but two classes then,” said
Ella, “as there are but two classes amongst
those called Christians now. We may divide
all who have heard of a Saviour into <em>those
who love God, and those who love sin</em>. Those
who love sin will awake to misery; those
who love God will awake to glory.”</p>
<p>“But,” said the boy anxiously, “there
may be some who love God and really try
to obey him, and yet sin sometimes.”</p>
<p>“<em>All</em> sin sometimes,” replied Ella. “There
is not one human being free from sin.”</p>
<p>“Then,” said Giles, “I should be afraid
that, when the trumpet sounded, my sins
would be like chains, and keep me down, so
that I could not rise.”</p>
<p>Every eye was turned towards Ella; every
ear anxiously listened for her reply; for
every young heart was conscious of some
sin, and felt the difficulty which Giles had
started.</p>
<p>“It would have been so,” replied Ella,
“had not the Saviour died for sinners like
us. His blood washes us <em>quite clean</em> from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>
all guilt—that is, if we really believe on him
and love him. Let us look upon our sins as
chains <em>now</em>, and struggle hard to burst them,
and pray for grace to help us: then, if we
are Christ’s people, we shall rise joyfully in
that great day when ‘the Lord himself shall
descend from heaven with a shout, with the
voice of the archangel, and with the trump
of God’” (1 Thess. iv. 16).</p>
<p>“I think,” said Giles, after a pause, “that
sins are like chains, and very hard to break
too. There is temper, now! I know that
I’ve a bad temper; I determine over and
over again that I will get rid of it; but the
harder I struggle, the tighter the chain
seems to grow.”</p>
<p>“And mother is trying to cure me of saying
bad words,” cried little Robert; “but
it’s no use—they will come; I say them
when I’m not thinking about it.”</p>
<p>“Have you tried prayer?” inquired Ella.
“Do you not know the precious promises,
‘If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of
God, that giveth to all men liberally, and
upbraideth not; and it shall be given him’
(James i. 5). ‘Ask, and it shall be given<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>
you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it
shall be opened unto you’ (Luke xi. 9).
These words have often been such a comfort
to me, when I felt how heavy my chain
was, and how weak my efforts to get rid of
it. And now, my young friends, I must
leave you; will you think over what I have
said?”</p>
<p>“Yes, miss, and thank you for it,” said
Giles, touching his cap.</p>
<p>Ella paused as she was turning to depart,
and gazed upon the sky, all bright with the
evening sun, setting amidst clouds of crimson
and gold.</p>
<p>“How glorious!” she cried, “how beautiful
that work of God! He, too, speaks of
the resurrection; he sinks to rise again!</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">‘Just so is the Christian; his course he begins,</div>
<div class="verse">Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins,</div>
<div class="verse">Then all in a moment he breaks out and shines,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And travels his heavenly way.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">‘And when he comes nearer to finish his race,</div>
<div class="verse">Like a fine setting sun, he grows richer in grace,</div>
<div class="verse">And gives a sure hope, at the end of his days,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Of rising in brighter array!’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>“Farewell, my children. Whether we
shall see each other again on this earth,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>
who shall dare to say? But we shall meet
again when the last trumpet sounds, and
the dead hear the Saviour’s voice, and the
saints awake in his likeness. Let us live
now as those who are waiting for the Lord,
and who long for the hour of his appearing.”</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“Oh! when through earth, and sea, and skies,</div>
<div class="verse">Th’ archangel’s final summons flies,</div>
<div class="verse">May we, through Christ, immortal rise</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Towards a heavenly home!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“They who together life have trod,</div>
<div class="verse">May they together burst the sod,</div>
<div class="verse">And glorious rise to meet their God!</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Come, Jesus, Saviour, come!”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<img src="images/footer2.jpg" width="200" height="70" alt="" />
</div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header3.jpg" width="500" height="250" alt="" />
<p class="caption">THE HAND OF THE DILIGENT MAKETH RICH</p>
</div>
<h2 id="III">III.<br />
<span class="smaller">THE PENITENT.</span></h2>
<div>
<img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-w.jpg" width="100" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="dropcap">“What is the matter with you,
Charley?” said George Mayne, as
he returned home from the factory,
and found his little brother crying
violently on the door-step.
“What has vexed you, Charley, my boy?”</p>
<p>“Oh, my father will never forgive me,”
sobbed the child.</p>
<p>“I cannot think that, he is so good and
so kind. Come, dry up your tears, and tell
me what has happened; perhaps I may be
able to help you out of your trouble.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;">
<img src="images/illus5.jpg" width="350" height="500" alt="" />
<p class="caption">CHARLEY’S GRIEF.</p>
</div>
<p>It was some time before, soothed by the
kindness of his brother, the boy became
calm enough to explain the cause of his
grief. With a voice half choked with tears
he began: “Father had sent me to pay the
baker—he had given me a half-crown to do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
it—he had <em>trusted me</em>; and now it is all—all
gone! Oh, father will never forgive me!”
and he burst into a fresh agony of sorrow.</p>
<p>“You lost the money, did you? Well,
father can ill afford it, but he will forgive
you for an accident, I am sure.”</p>
<p>“But it was <em>not</em> an accident, that is the
worst of it! You see, I met Jack and Ben;
they were playing at pitch-farthing, and
they called to me to join them.”</p>
<p>“But father has forbidden us to keep
company with those idle boys.”</p>
<p>“I know it—but I disobeyed him—I was
very wrong—and I am very miserable.”</p>
<p>“I hope that you did not join the game?”</p>
<p>“Not at first—I told them that I had
given father my solemn promise never to
gamble; but they jeered me, and laughed at
me—and I played with them—and they got
all my money from me—the half-crown that
was not mine, with which I had been <em>trusted</em>.
Oh, father will never forgive me!”</p>
<p>“Now, Charley, do you know what I
advise you to do?” said George. “Go to
father at once, confess your fault to him, let
not one sin lead you to another.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span></p>
<p>“Confess to him!—I dare not.”</p>
<p>“I will go with you, Charley; I will
plead for you.”</p>
<p>“But father is so poor; he will be in
debt, and he cannot bear that! He will be
so angry. Oh, cannot I say that some one
snatched the half-crown out of my hand?”</p>
<p>“Charley, Charley!” cried his brother,
almost sternly, “the Evil One is tempting
you. He has gained one victory over you;
would you be his slave entirely? Pray to
God for strength to struggle against this
temptation: remember that liars have no
place in heaven. I will plead for you, I say;
and as for the money, I have been saving up
pence for the last six months to buy a particular
book which I have much wished to
have—I have just enough of money, and I
will pay the debt.”</p>
<p>“O George, how good you are! But if
the debt is paid, need I confess?”</p>
<p>“Yes; you have not only lost the money,
but broken father’s command, and broken
your own promise. Hide nothing. Take
my hand, Charley, and come with me at
once; every moment that we delay doing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>
what is right, we add to the difficulty of
doing it.”</p>
<p>So hand in hand the two brothers appeared
before their father, who was resting
himself after a hard day’s work. George
encouraged poor Charley to confess his
fault; he entreated forgiveness for the
offender; he placed in the hand of his father
his own hard-earned savings. The parent
opened his arms, and pressed both his sons
to his heart! Then making Charley sit
down beside him, the good man thus
addressed his repentant child:—</p>
<p>“I forgive you, my boy, for the sake of
your brother; but there is another Friend
whom you have offended, whose commandment
you have broken, whose forgiveness
you must seek.”</p>
<p>“I know that I have sinned against
God,” said Charley sadly.</p>
<p>“And for whose sake do you hope to be
forgiven?”</p>
<p>Charley looked up in the face of his
father, and replied, “I hope for forgiveness
for the sake of the Lord Jesus Christ.”</p>
<p>“And if you are grateful to an earthly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>
brother for pitying you, and pleading for
you, and paying your debt, how can you be
thankful enough to that heavenly Saviour
who shed his own <em>blood</em> to win for you a
free pardon, and who now is pleading for
you at the right hand of God?”</p>
<p>Charley was silent, but his eyes filled
with tears.</p>
<p>“And now, George, my boy, bring me
the Bible,” said his father; “it is time for
our evening reading.”</p>
<p>“What part shall I read?” inquired
George, reverently opening the sacred book.</p>
<p>“Oh, let him read of some one who had
sinned and was forgiven!” said poor Charley.</p>
<p>At his father’s look of assent, George
turned to the touching story of the woman
who, weeping and penitent, sought for
mercy from the Saviour, and found it.</p>
<p>“Behold, a woman in the city, which was
a sinner, when she knew that Jesus sat at
meat in the Pharisee’s house, brought an
alabaster-box of ointment, and stood at his
feet behind him weeping, and began to wash
his feet with tears, and did wipe them with
the hairs of her head, and kissed his feet,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>
and anointed them with the ointment.
Now when the Pharisee which had bidden
him saw it, he spake within himself, saying,
This man, if he were a prophet, would have
known who and what manner of woman this
is that toucheth him: for she is a sinner.
And Jesus answering, said unto him, Simon,
I have somewhat to say unto thee. And he
saith, Master, say on. There was a certain
creditor which had two debtors; the one
owed five hundred pence, and the other fifty.
And when they had nothing to pay, he
frankly forgave them both. Tell me, therefore,
which of them will love him most?
Simon answered and said, I suppose that he
to whom he forgave most. And he said
unto him, Thou hast rightly judged. And
he turned to the woman, and said unto
Simon, Seest thou this woman? I entered
into thine house, thou gavest me no water
for my feet: but she hath washed my feet
with tears, and wiped them with the hairs
of her head. Thou gavest me no kiss: but
this woman, since the time I came in, hath
not ceased to kiss my feet. My head with
oil thou didst not anoint: but this woman<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>
hath anointed my feet with ointment.
Wherefore I say unto thee, Her sins, which
are many, are forgiven; for she loved much:
but to whom little is forgiven, the same
loveth little. And he said unto her, Thy
sins are forgiven” (Luke vii. 37-48).</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<img src="images/footer3.jpg" width="200" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header4.jpg" width="500" height="190" alt="" />
<p class="caption">ENTER NOT INTO THE PATH OF THE WICKED. Prov.</p>
</div>
<h2 id="IV">IV.<br />
<span class="smaller">THE REPROOF.</span></h2>
<div>
<img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-a.jpg" width="100" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="dropcap">A lady and her young daughter
were travelling by train. Two
gentlemen occupied seats in the
same carriage, and presently entered
into conversation with each
other. Their language was such
as pained their fellow-traveller to hear.
The sacred name of the Deity lightly
uttered, the profane oath on their lips,
showed how little they regarded that solemn
warning, “<em>For every idle word men
shall speak, they shall give an account the
day of judgment.</em>” Fearful of uttering her
thoughts to the strangers, the lady turned
to her daughter, who, after having shown<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
the fidgety restlessness common to children
upon a journey, now sat still with open eyes
and ears, a wondering listener to the conversation.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/illus6.jpg" width="500" height="525" alt="" />
<p class="caption">IN THE TRAIN.</p>
</div>
<p>Anxious to divert the attention of Adine,
the lady pointed out to her various objects
on the road, and then proceeded to repeat
anecdote after anecdote from the funds of a
well-stocked memory. Adine was soon all
attention; and at last even the gentlemen,
having worn out their own subject of conversation,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
paused to listen to the mother
entertaining her child.</p>
<p>“Did I ever tell you the story of a great
king,” said the lady, “who once overheard
two of his courtiers speaking in a way
greatly to displease him? He gently drew
back the curtains of his tent, and uttered
this quiet reproof: ‘<em>Remove a little further,
gentlemen, for your king hears you!</em>’</p>
<p>“Adine,” continued the mother, with a
flushed cheek and beating heart, for she
wished, yet feared, to make her lesson plain
to the older listeners, “may not some people
yet need such a reproof?”</p>
<p>“It would be of no use, mamma,” replied
the child simply; “for, let us remove as far
as we can, <em>our heavenly King always hears
us</em>!”</p>
<p>There was not another oath uttered during
the remainder of that journey; the lesson
had not been given in vain.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<img src="images/footer4.jpg" width="200" height="80" alt="" />
</div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header5.jpg" width="500" height="210" alt="" />
</div>
<h2 id="V">V.<br />
<span class="smaller">THE VASE AND THE DART.</span></h2>
<div>
<img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-n.jpg" width="100" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="dropcap">“Not at school again, Harry?” said the
teacher, Willy Thorn, as he seated
himself in the little parlour of
Widow Brown, and regarded with
a kind but almost sad countenance
the flushed face of her grandson. “You
have not been with us for a month, Harry,
and I fear that you never go to church. I
had hoped better things of you, my boy.”</p>
<p>“It’s all from the bad company that he
gets into,” said the widow, taking off her
spectacles and wiping the glasses. “He is
a good lad at heart, sir; but you see as how
he has no firmness—he can’t say <em>No</em>. Harry
intends to do well one hour, and forgets all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>
about it the next; but I’ll be bound you’ll
see him at school and at church too, some
day or other.”</p>
<p>“He knows not how long he may have
the <em>opportunity</em> of doing either. Remember,
Harry, the fate of your young companion,
Sam Porter, hurried in one instant into
eternity—not one moment given him to
repent, to call on his Saviour!—all his
<em>opportunities</em> past for ever!”</p>
<p>Harry sighed and looked down.</p>
<p>“Well, my boy,” said Thorn, more cheerfully,
“if you have made good resolutions
and broken them a hundred times, <em>try again</em>;
try with <em>faith</em> and <em>prayer</em>, and God may
give you the victory yet! I heard a little
allegory to-day. I thought that it might
interest, and perhaps benefit you; so, as it
is too dark at present for reading, I will
repeat it to you, if Mrs. Brown would like
to hear it.”</p>
<p>“I am quite agreeable,” said the old
woman, leaning back in her arm-chair.</p>
<p>“What is an allegory?” inquired Harry.</p>
<p>“Real truths shown in fiction. You will
understand better what an allegory is when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
you have listened to this. It is called the
story of</p>
<p class="center">“THE VASE AND THE DART.</p>
<p>“A young boy entered a beautiful garden,
which extended as far as the eye could
reach. Through the whole length of it
stretched a narrow avenue, bordered with
overhanging trees. Slowly the boy pursued
his way along it, listening to the songs of
the birds, and admiring the green foliage
above him, through which, here and there,
streamed the rays of the glorious sun. He
quickly perceived that he was not alone; on
either side, all down the long avenue, stood
a line of maidens, beautiful to behold. They
were all robed in white, with wreaths of
fresh flowers on their heads, and greeted the
boy with a bright smile of welcome. Each
held in her right hand a vase of gold, in her
left a sharp iron dart.”</p>
<p>“I do not understand this allegory at
all,” said Harry. “Did any one ever see
such maidens as these?”</p>
<p>“These maidens,” replied Thorn, “are
well known to <em>all</em>—they are called <em>Opportunities</em>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>
Who has not met with opportunities
of doing good, opportunities of receiving
good?”</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/illus7.jpg" width="500" height="575" alt="" />
<p class="caption">THE ROWS OF MAIDENS.</p>
</div>
<p>“I see, sir. Pray go on.”</p>
<p>“As the boy approached the first maiden,
she held out her vase to him, and invited
him to take the contents. On the golden
vase appeared the word <em class="smcap">Prayer</em>, and the
sweetest, fairest fruits were heaped up within<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
it; but the boy scarcely glanced at the
proffered gift. ‘It is wearisome!’ he cried;
so pushed it aside and passed on.”</p>
<p>“Opportunity for prayer!” cried old Mrs.
Brown. “Ah, sir, who can count how
many times we have pushed that away from
us! God forgive us!”</p>
<p>“The boy sauntered on,” resumed Willy
Thorn, “and soon another fair maiden stood
before him: she also held forth a vase of
bright gold, full of pieces of glittering silver.
On it was inscribed the word <em class="smcap">Knowledge</em>.”</p>
<p>“Here is the opportunity of gaining learning
at school,” said Mrs. Brown, who was
an intelligent old woman, and had read a
good deal in her youth.</p>
<p>“But the boy scarcely glanced at the
proffered gift. ‘It is troublesome!’ he
cried; so pushed it aside and passed on.</p>
<p>“A short space further on another maiden
stopped him, with a bright and joyous countenance.
Her gold vase contained the loveliest
flowers, and on it appeared written, <em class="smcap">Acts
of Kindness to others</em>. The boy looked at
it wistfully for a moment, tempted by the
sweet perfume of the beautiful blossoms.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>
Opportunity smiled, but <em>selfishness</em> stayed the
hand of the boy, half stretched out to empty
the vase: he pushed it aside and passed on.</p>
<p>“The next maiden who greeted him was
calm and fair, with a grave and earnest look.
Her vase was full of refined gold, and this
was the motto which it bore: <em class="smcap">Attendance
at the House of God</em>. A sound of church-bells
came on the breeze, and the sweet
music of a distant hymn; but in vain they
fell on the boy’s listening ear. ‘It is dull!’
he cried; pushed the rich vase aside, and
passed on.”</p>
<p>“But you said, sir,” observed Harry,
“that the maidens held darts in their left
hands, as well as vases in their right. What
do you mean by them?”</p>
<p>“You shall hear before I end my story.
So the boy reached another maiden, who
looked like an angel from heaven. Her
eyes shone like stars in the calm blue sky,
and the tones of her voice thrilled deep into
the heart. Her vase was overflowing with
sparkling jewels, brighter than those which
monarchs wear. On it shone in glittering
letters, <em class="smcap">The Word of God</em>.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p>
<p>“Oh, I hope that he put out his hand
and took <em>that</em>!” cried the aged woman, resting
hers on her Bible.</p>
<p>“Opportunity cried, ‘Oh, pass me not by!
<em>Search the Scriptures</em>, that can make you <em>wise
unto salvation</em>.’ She held forth her vase
with imploring look, but the boy was intent
on pursuing his way. ‘I care not for it!’
he cried; so pushed it aside and passed on.”</p>
<p>“Well, he might have the same opportunity
of reading the Bible again and again,”
said Harry.</p>
<p>“Not the <em>same</em>,” replied Willy Thorn;
“the boy could not retrace one step of his
way. No moment of time can ever be
recalled. Every opportunity of doing good
once past, whatever others may arise, <em>that</em>
opportunity is past for ever!</p>
<p>“‘I shall meet with more maidens,’ said
the boy. ‘I see an endless number before
me; doubtless they carry vases as precious
as those which I have rejected.’ But even
as he spoke the words, he came suddenly on
a black iron gate, and he could pass on no
further. Shuddering, he read on the gate
the solemn word, <em class="smcap">Death</em>!</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span></p>
<p>“Then would he gladly have turned
round: then would he have earnestly asked
for one more <em>opportunity</em> for prayer—one
more <em>opportunity</em> of doing what is right;
but <em>the last had been passed</em>—he had slighted
the treasure of the <em>last</em>! Nor can we
despise opportunities, and not suffer for
doing so; if they offer the vase, they also
carry the punishment meet for those who
neglect its contents. As the boy stood
trembling at the gate of Death, a dart came
hissing through the air, and inflicted on him
a burning wound: then came another and
another; every opportunity despised sent
its messenger of vengeance, and the wretched
boy, writhing with the arrows of conscience
in his soul, sank down at the gate, <em>and
perished</em>!”</p>
<p>“Alas!” cried Harry, “where can I then
find safety, for <em>I</em> have neglected more opportunities
than I can number of <em>doing good</em>
and <em>receiving good</em>?”</p>
<p>“Ask the Lord for pardon through the
blood of the Saviour!” exclaimed Thorn.
“‘<em>Now is the accepted time, now is the day
of salvation</em>;’ neglect not <em>this</em><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
opportunity—<em>it may be your last</em>! O my young friend!
no day leaves you as it found you; every
day brings its <em>opportunities</em> of <em>prayer</em>, <em>praise</em>,
<em>reading the Bible</em>, and <em>obeying God’s laws</em>;
every day you have chosen either the vase
or the dart.”</p>
<p>Dear reader, to you would I address a
few words. If this little story has raised
the thought in your heart, “How have <em>I</em>
improved my opportunities?” oh, push it
not aside and pass on! Let not the day
close without prayer; seize the golden prize
while yet it is offered to you, or hope not
to escape the dart!</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<img src="images/footer5.jpg" width="200" height="80" alt="" />
</div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header6.jpg" width="500" height="250" alt="" />
</div>
<h2 id="VI">VI.<br />
<span class="smaller">THE JEWEL.</span></h2>
<div>
<img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-a.jpg" width="100" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="dropcap">As a lady was walking across Hyde
Park, rather early in the day, she
happened to take her handkerchief
out of her pocket, and drew out
with it, by accident, a little red case.
It fell on the path, and rolled almost
to the feet of a poor girl who was standing
near. The child was clad in rags, her hair
was rough, her face and hands dirty; she
was one who had no one to care for her, no
one to teach her what was right. Half
eager, half afraid, she stretched out her
hand to seize the prize, but first turned
round to see that she was not observed, and
met the eye of the lady.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></p>
<p>“Stop!” said Mrs. Claremont, who had
heard the case drop on the ground; “stop,
little girl, <em>you are in danger of losing something</em>!”
and while the astonished Ann knew
not what could possibly be meant by such
strange words, the lady quietly stooped down
and picked up the case herself.</p>
<p>She then again addressed the child; her
manner was not angry, but calm and kind,
and Ann, notwithstanding her fear and
shame, felt a pleasure in listening to so gentle
a voice.</p>
<p>“Come beside me while I rest on this
bench,” said Mrs. Claremont, “and tell me
what I meant, when I said that you were in
danger of losing something.”</p>
<p>Ann only stared at her, and made no
answer.</p>
<p>“Do you know that you have a soul?”</p>
<p>“I know nothing about it,” muttered the
girl.</p>
<p>“Then,” said Mrs. Claremont, “I will
show you what you were going to take, and
explain to you what you were in danger of
losing.”</p>
<p>“I’ve got nothing to lose,” thought Ann,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>
but she watched the lady with some curiosity.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/illus8.jpg" width="500" height="525" alt="" />
<p class="caption">THE LADY AND THE LITTLE GIRL.</p>
</div>
<p>“You see,” continued Mrs. Claremont,
“this little red case. It has nothing fine
about it,—it looks old and worn. Did you
think it worth stealing?”</p>
<p>“I thought there was something in it.”</p>
<p>“You thought right; the most precious
part is <em>within</em>. So it is with you, and all
people, my child. Your body, which can be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>
seen and felt, is like the <em>case</em> of the jewel;
your soul is the jewel itself.”</p>
<p>“What is a soul?” said Ann.</p>
<p>“When I speak to you, you <em>think</em> of what
I say—the part of you that <em>thinks</em> is the
soul; if any were kind to you, you would
<em>love</em> them—the part that <em>loves</em> is the soul.
You can see that tree; it lives, but it has no
soul in it, it cannot <em>love</em> or <em>think</em>. Do you
understand me now?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” answered the girl.</p>
<p>“You cannot see this jewel, because the
case is shut; I am going to open the case,
and show it to you.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Claremont unclosed the little case,
and Ann beheld a very beautiful jewel, which
sparkled like a star in the rays of the sun.</p>
<p>“This jewel was given to my great-grandmother
on her marriage,” said Mrs. Claremont.</p>
<p>“Oh, how bright and fine it is!” cried
Ann; “it does not look at all old!”</p>
<p>“It will never look old. When I and my
children’s children are in their graves, it will
look beautiful and fresh as ever! And so it
is with the soul. Our bodies must be laid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>
in the tomb, but our souls—those jewels
within—will never, never die!”</p>
<p>“Where will they be when our bodies are
dead?” asked Ann.</p>
<p>“Either in happiness or in misery, according
as we have been God’s faithful
people here or not,” replied Mrs. Claremont.
“Now tell me, my poor child, for which
should we care most,—the <em>case</em> or the <em>jewel</em>,
the <em>body</em> or the <em>soul</em>?”</p>
<p>“The soul,” answered Ann.</p>
<p>“And it was your soul which you were
putting in danger even now; for <em>sin</em> is the
ruin of the soul. It is written in God’s
Word, ‘What shall it profit a man if he
gain the whole world and lose his own soul,
or what shall a man give in exchange for his
soul?’ To procure a few more comforts for
your weak perishing body, would you throw
away the precious jewel within?”</p>
<p>Ann looked at the lady very sadly, and
then replied, “No one ever spoke to me in
this way before; no one cares for <em>my</em> soul!”</p>
<p>“O my child, there is One who cares
for it, One to whom it is very precious!
The Lord Jesus Christ left the glory of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>
heaven to come and save poor souls. He
bought yours with his life’s blood. He
died on the cross, that it might shine for
ever in glory!”</p>
<p>“Does the Lord really care for me?” inquired
Ann anxiously. “Why, then, am I
so wretched and so poor?”</p>
<p>“He does care for you; he does love
you; you are precious to him. And as for
being poor and wretched—look again at this
beautiful jewel, and tell me where you think
that it came from first.”</p>
<p>“I cannot tell.”</p>
<p>“It came from the dust,—it was dug from
the dark earth. It had no great beauty
then; those who did not know its real value
would have despised and thrown it away;
but there were those who knew that it was
precious. So we too belong to the dust,
fallen sinful creatures; and we would have
lain there for ever, had not the Lord had pity
upon us and raised us, and brought us into
the sunlight of his gospel.”</p>
<p>“If the jewel was not bright at first, what
makes it so bright now?” inquired Ann.</p>
<p>“It has been <em>cut</em> and <em>polished</em>, and so it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>
with our souls. God sends them poverty or
trials here, to prepare them to shine in his
palace above! If the jewel had been a living
thing it would not have liked to have been
cut, but it would never have been bright
without it.”</p>
<p>“I should like to know more about the
Lord who cares for my soul, and bought it
with his blood,” sighed Ann.</p>
<p>“Have you a Bible or Testament, my
child?”</p>
<p>“No, ma’am.”</p>
<p>“Can you read?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Ann sadly.</p>
<p>“There is a Ragged School near, to which
you might go and be taught, and hear about
the Lord Jesus, and what he has done for
your soul.”</p>
<p>“I know where the school is,” said Ann.</p>
<p>“Go, then, and you will be made welcome,
my poor little friend. I do not remain in
London myself, but I will leave with the
teacher some clothes, and a beautiful Bible,
which shall be yours as soon as you can
read it.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, ma’am,” said the girl.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p>
<p>“And one little word before we part,
perhaps never to meet again in this world,”
continued Mrs. Claremont. “If you cannot
read you can <em>pray</em>—have you ever prayed to
God?”</p>
<p>“Never,” replied Ann.</p>
<p>“Your soul can never be safe until you do.
Kneel down, morning and evening, and at
least repeat these few words: ‘<em>O Lord, forgive
my sins, and make my heart clean by
thy Spirit, for Jesus Christ’s sake.</em>’ So short
a prayer you can remember, can you not, if I
repeat it over to you two or three times?”</p>
<p>“I think so,” said Ann.</p>
<p>“Pray with your whole heart, my child,
and God, for the sake of the Saviour, will
hear and bless you. Love him who first
loved you, believe in his mercy, and obey
his holy commandments. Then what matter
if for a few years, or months, or days, you
be called upon to wait or suffer here? Death
will soon unclose the worn-out case, and
remove the precious jewel to that glorious
place where tears shall be wiped from every
eye, and sorrow and sighing shall flee for ever
away!”</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header7.jpg" width="500" height="170" alt="" />
<p class="caption">THE FEAR OF THE LORD IS THE BEGINNING OF WISDOM. Prov. ix. 10</p>
</div>
<h2 id="VII">VII.<br />
<span class="smaller">THE STORM.</span></h2>
<div>
<img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-a.jpg" width="100" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="dropcap">A little vessel was floating over
the Sea of Tiberias; the Lord
Jesus and his disciples were within
it. “And there arose a great
storm of wind, and the waves beat
into the ship, so that it was now
full. And Jesus was in the hinder part of
the ship, asleep on a pillow; and they awake
him, and say unto him, Master, carest thou not
that we perish? And he arose, and rebuked
the wind, and said unto the sea, Peace, be
still! And the wind ceased, and there was
a great calm” (Mark iv. 37-39). The tossing
waves sank down at his word, and the
obedient waters lay like a sheet of glass,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>
reflecting the blue sky above! “And he
said unto his disciples, Why are ye so fearful?
how is it that ye have no faith? And they
feared exceedingly, and said one to another,
What manner of Man is this, that even the
wind and the sea obey him?” (Mark iv.)</p>
<p>Dear little reader, are <em>you</em> in trouble or
temptation? Then are you like the disciples
on the stormy Sea of Tiberias. Perhaps
your relations are harsh and unkind, or
perhaps you are a poor orphan without a
friend in the world, and are ready to say,
“No man careth for my soul!” But you
have one Friend, a powerful Friend, a loving
Friend, who has led you on your voyage
through life until now, and will lead you to
the end! The Lord Jesus is beside you,
though you see him not. Hear what he says
to those who love him: <em>Can a woman forget
her sucking child! yea, they may forget, yet
will I not forget thee</em> (Isa. xlix. 15).</p>
<p>Or are you in great poverty, hungry and
weary? You can scarcely earn your daily
bread, you have no comfort, no rest, no home!
In the bitterness of your heart, you cry,
“Lord, carest thou not that we perish?” O<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>
my child, the Saviour is <em>not</em> asleep! He
knows your trials, he has felt them all—the
Lord of heaven and earth once “<em>had not
where to lay his head!” Behold, the eye of
the Lord is upon them that fear him, upon
them that hope in his mercy; to deliver their
soul from death, and to keep them alive in
famine</em> (Ps. xxxiii. 18, 19). <em>Many are the
afflictions of the righteous; but the Lord
delivereth him out of them all</em> (Ps. xxxiv. 19).
Ask the Lord to help you, to feed you, to
comfort you, above all, to give you his Holy
Spirit; for if we love and trust in him, then
<em>our light affliction, which is but for a moment,
worketh for us a far more exceeding and
eternal weight of glory</em>. Then the rough
wind of trouble will but bring you on more
quickly towards heaven, and even here below
Jesus may bid the waves of affliction <em>be still</em>,
and there shall be a <em>great calm</em>!</p>
<p>Or are you in the storm of temptation?
You wish to please God, you wish to go to
heaven, but you feel as though the way were
too hard for you. You think, “I cannot
resist that temptation; I can give up all but
that one sin. If I do not join my companions<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
in what is wrong, I shall be despised;
if I do not tell such a falsehood, I shall be
beaten; if I do not work or sell on Sundays,
I shall be starved!” In such a storm of
temptation turn to the Saviour still; <em>for in
that he himself hath suffered being tempted, he
is able to succour them that are tempted</em> (Heb.
ii. 18). Cry, “Lord, save me or I perish!
Give me thy Holy Spirit, that I may be
ready to follow thee through trouble and
temptation. Whatever I may suffer here,
oh, keep me faithful to thee!”</p>
<p>Think on this one great truth, dear reader.
The <em>comfort of the voyage</em> matters <em>little</em> in
comparison to the <em>place</em> where we are going.
The voyage of life cannot last very long;
the fiercest storm must soon pass away!
Look at these two different passengers, and
think which of them you would pity.</p>
<p>See one vessel bounding gaily over the
bright water, the wind in her favour, the sun
shining upon her; and look at that man on
her deck! He is a <em>slave</em>; he is going to
suffering and misery, he dreads to arrive at
the port. <em>Do you not pity him?</em> Yet his
case is happy compared with that of those<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
who forget God—who, caring but for pleasure,
living only for this world, are yet hurrying
on to death—<em>and after death the judgment</em>!
Poor slaves of sin! do they not know that—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“The greatest evil we can fear,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Is to possess our portion here!”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/illus9.jpg" width="500" height="425" alt="" />
<p class="caption">THE MAN AT THE WHEEL.</p>
</div>
<p>Now look at this other man in a storm-tossed
vessel! He is going <em>home</em>. He is
going to riches, and honour, and happiness,
and <em>home</em>! Though the waves rise high,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
they will not overwhelm him; though the
clouds are so dark, there is a sunshine in his
<em>heart</em>! On the shore he knows that all will
be peace, and he can smile in the midst of
the storm! <em>Do you pity him?</em> But far
happier is the Christian, however afflicted
here; for his heart, and his hopes, and his
home, are in heaven, and he is on his way to
God! His sins forgiven through the blood
of his Saviour, his courage supported by the
power of God’s grace! <em>Blessed is the man
that endureth temptation: for when he is tried,
he shall receive the crown of life, which the
Lord hath promised to them that love him!</em>
(James i. 12).</p>
<p>Think of those who have already landed
on the happy shore, but not till they had
passed through the storm. There are saints
who have suffered, and martyrs who have
died for the Lord! They do not wish <em>now</em>
that their trials had been less;—sweet is to
them the remembrance of the storm! When
holy St. John, banished to Patmos for the
sake of the gospel, saw heaven opened, and
its glory appearing, what did he behold there?
These are his words:—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p>
<p>“After this I beheld, and, lo, a great
multitude, which no man could number, of
all nations, and kindreds, and people, and
tongues, stood before the throne, and before
the Lamb, clothed with white robes, and
palms in their hands. And one of the elders
answered, saying unto me, What are these
which are arrayed in white robes? and
whence came they? And I said unto him,
Sir, thou knowest. And he said to me,
These are they which came out of great
tribulation, and have washed their robes,
and made them white in the blood of the
Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne
of God, and serve him day and night in his
temple: and he that sitteth on the throne
shall dwell among them. They shall hunger
no more, neither thirst any more; neither
shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.
For the Lamb which is in the midst of the
throne shall feed them, and shall lead them
unto living fountains of waters: and God
shall wipe away all tears from their eyes”
(Rev. vii. 9, 13-17).</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“<em>Lord, carest thou not that we perish!</em>”</div>
<div class="verse indent1">How oft is the cry of despair,</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>
<div class="verse">When affliction’s waves roll,</div>
<div class="verse">And the agonized soul</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Scarce can utter its anguish in prayer!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Yet the Saviour is watching beside us,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">His eye cannot slumber nor sleep;</div>
<div class="verse">The bark which he guides,</div>
<div class="verse">Where his presence abides,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Can never be wrecked on the deep!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Oh! how soon would our inward fears vanish,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Our souls smile at perils without,</div>
<div class="verse">Could we hear his mild love</div>
<div class="verse">Thus our terrors reprove,—</div>
<div class="verse indent1">“<em>Ye of little faith, why did you doubt!</em>”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Lord, make us trust ever in thee,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Though our frail bark by tempests be driven;</div>
<div class="verse">Till thy sovereign will</div>
<div class="verse">Bid the rude waves “<em>be still!</em>”</div>
<div class="verse indent1">And we rest in the haven of heaven!</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<img src="images/footer6.jpg" width="200" height="70" alt="" />
</div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header8.jpg" width="500" height="190" alt="" />
<p class="caption">HE THAT LOVETH PLEASURE SHALL BE A POOR MAN. Prov. 21</p>
</div>
<h2 id="VIII">VIII.<br />
<span class="smaller">THE SABBATH-TREE.</span></h2>
<div>
<img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-i.jpg" width="100" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="dropcap">It was on a bright Sunday afternoon
that the teacher, Willy Thorn, on
returning from church, met three of
his scholars sauntering towards one
of the London parks. They perceived
his approach at some little distance,
and instantly began to conceal in their
pockets something that they had been carrying
in their hands. Their nearness to a very
tempting stall, upon which fruit and sweetmeats
were sold, made Willy guess too truly
the cause of the hasty movement. He
thought it better, however, at first to take
no apparent notice of the fact that the
boys had been breaking the Fourth Commandment<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>
by buying upon God’s holy
day.</p>
<p>“Well, my lads,” said Thorn, when he
came up to them, “you are going, I see
towards the park. I will go with you; we
will enjoy the fresh air and bright sunshine
together, and perhaps have a little
discourse, which may be profitable as well
as pleasant.”</p>
<p>The boys were usually very fond of the
society of Willy Thorn; but just now, with
their pockets full of cakes and nuts, they
would have preferred being without it.
However, no objection was made; they
reached the park, and seated themselves
under the shade of a large tree, for the sun
was hot, and the shelter of the foliage was
pleasant on that sultry afternoon.</p>
<p>Willy Thorn looked upwards at the leafy
boughs which hung above him, through
whose screen a long bright ray, here and
there, pierced like a diamond lance. “This
tree has put an allegory into my mind,” said
he. “Boys, are you in the mood for a
story?”</p>
<p>A story was always welcome, and in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
expectation of being amused, the scholars
half forgot that their teacher’s presence was
delaying their intended feast.</p>
<p>“Methought,” began Thorn, “that I had
a dream; and in my dream I beheld a large
and venerable tree. It was several thousand
years old—so you may imagine its size; but
it showed no signs of age; its leaves were
as fresh, its fruit as abundant, as when the
Israelites of old encamped under its refreshing
shade. This tree was called the <em class="smcap">Sabbath-tree</em>.
It was given by its Lord as one
of the richest blessings which was ever bestowed
upon man. Freely might all partake
of its fruit; but all were forbidden by a
voice Divine to break even the smallest
bough from the sacred tree.</p>
<p>“I saw in my dream that many thronged
to the spot where the Sabbath-tree rose, like
a beautiful green temple, in the midst of the
plain; and I stood aside to mark the effect
of its fruit on those who came to gather it.
It strewed the ground in some places so
thickly, that it shone like a carpet of gold.”</p>
<p>“I suppose,” said Bat Nayland, one of
the boys, “that the fruits of the Sabbath-tree<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
are,—going to church, praying, praising,
and reading the Bible?”</p>
<p>Thorn smiled in assent, and continued:
“I saw one haggard man come, faint with
hunger, to the spot. He threw himself
down on the soft grass, and fed eagerly on
the nourishment freely provided. And I
marked joy on his pale face as he ate of the
fruit of the Sabbath-tree, and I remembered
the holy words, <em>Blessed are they which do
hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they
shall be filled</em>.</p>
<p>“I saw an aged woman reach the tree.
She was so feeble that she had hardly power
to stoop to gather the fruit; but as she
tasted it, her strength returned, her bent
form became more erect, she walked with a
firmer step, and I remembered that it is
written, <em>They that wait upon the Lord shall
renew their strength</em>.</p>
<p>“Next, a miserable sufferer approached;
on his countenance was an expression of
pain. He was sick—grievously sick of the
malady of sin, fatal to all who cannot find a
cure. But he knew the healing powers of
the tree. He fed, and even as he fed health<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>
returned to his faded cheek, the anguish of
his soul passed away, and the sufferer found
himself whole.”</p>
<p>“I thought,” said the eldest of the boys,
“that there was but <em>one cure</em> for sin!”</p>
<p>“True, most true,” replied Thorn, with an
approving look; “but in due observance of
Sabbath duties, we learn how to seek and
where to find that cure.</p>
<p>“I had watched in my dream, with a
rejoicing heart, thousands gathering the
precious fruit, and receiving nourishment,
strength, and healing; but now, alas! my
attention was attracted by yet greater multitudes,
who thronged to the spot only, as I
became painfully aware, to break and injure
the beautiful tree. Some enemy had hung
up a hatchet on its trunk, with <em>Disobedience</em>
marked on the handle, and of this numbers
made very free use to cut down large boughs
from the tree.</p>
<p>“‘I am going on a jovial merry-making
in the country,’ cried one; ‘I and my family
shall have a treat. I want some wood to
mend up my broken car.’</p>
<p>“‘Hold!’ exclaimed the youth who had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
been healed, attempting to stay the hand of
the Sabbath-breaker; ‘are there not <em>six</em>
groves nigh at hand?—had you not better
cut what you want from them?’</p>
<p>“‘No!’ cried the man impatiently, swinging
the hatchet aloft; ‘there is no tree so
convenient as this!’ and for the sake of a
little pleasure in the country with merry
companions, he cut a branch from the Sabbath-tree!</p>
<p>“Then came a woman with a face full of
care. She had not faith to trust in him who
clotheth the lilies, and provideth for the
ravens. ‘I want wood for a stall,’ said she,
‘whereon to sell my sweetmeats. I must
earn some more pence for my living; necessity
owns no law;’ and taking the hatchet
of Disobedience, she also brought down a
leafy bough, treading under foot as she did
so a quantity of the ripe, precious fruit.
Not content with thus breaking the Sabbath
herself, she demanded that those who bought
at her stall should each bring, in addition to
their money, a fagot stolen from the holy
tree!”</p>
<p>When Thorn came to this part of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>
story, his scholars glanced consciously at
each other. They all now felt convinced
that their teacher was aware that they had
been buying from a stall on Sunday.</p>
<p>“It was grievous,” continued Thorn, “to
see what multitudes trampled on the Sabbath
fruit, broke away twigs, snapped
branches, to help on their business or aid
their amusements. Some wanted wickets
for cricket, one man required a handle for
his spade; and though a very little delay
would have enabled them to procure wood
from a lawful quarter, they were too thoughtless,
too covetous, or too impatient to reverence
the Sabbath-tree.</p>
<p>“But soon I beheld in my dream, that
while none could faithfully partake of the
fruit without benefit, none without injury
could break off a single branch. As I
watched, much did I marvel to see how disobedience
brought down punishment! The
man who had repaired his car by Sabbath-breaking,
had little pleasure from his intended
treat. As he was driving from a
public-house, suddenly a wheel of the vehicle
came off, he and his party were flung out on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
the road, and sorely bruised by the fall. In
some cases, the wood so unlawfully taken
appeared to turn at once into dust! The
man digging with his Sabbath spade, found
it suddenly snap asunder, and the splinter
ran into his hand, inflicting a terrible wound.”</p>
<p>“Oh, but how could that be?” exclaimed
one of the boys. “Many a fellow goes
larking on Sunday, and the wheel of his car
never comes off! I don’t know what this
part of your story can mean.”</p>
<p>“It means,” replied Willy gravely, “that
disobedience to God, the wilful breaking of
his holy commandment, unless the sin be
repented of and <em>renounced</em>, is certain to bring
punishment in another world, and <em>very frequently
also in this</em>. There are multitudes of
lost, miserable sinners, who may trace their
first steps on the path of ruin to <em>breaking
the Sabbath of God</em>. No one ever yet, on
his death-bed, could say that he <em>really profited</em>
by money so gained, or that he had no
reason to regret a pleasure gained by disobeying
his Maker’s command.</p>
<p>“The poor woman who sold sweetmeats, I
found in my dream, was not long in suffering<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>
the penalty of disobedience. In one of the
fagots so sinfully laid upon her stall, the
serpent Remorse had lain coiled, unnoticed,
unseen! As she was counting her unholy
gains, made by not only sinning herself, but
causing others to sin, the fierce reptile darted
at her breast!—with difficulty was the serpent
torn from its hold, and the poor sufferer
sank on the ground, bleeding, fainting, trembling
at her danger, and weeping for her sin!
It was some time before she was able feebly
to creep to the spot where comfort and
healing might yet be procured by a proper
use of the fruits of the Sabbath-tree.</p>
<p>“While the poor woman was in sorrowful
penitence, doing all that lay in her power to
show her regret for the past, the boys who
had purchased at her stall—who had wilfully
broken the Sabbath, not to supply real
wants, but to indulge their own greedy inclinations—”</p>
<p>“I’ll tell you what <em>one</em> of them did, sir!”
exclaimed Bat Nayland, springing up from
the ground: “he just emptied his pockets
of what he had bought, said that he was
heartily ashamed, and seeing an old lame<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>
beggar near, he gave every crumb of his
purchases to him!”</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/illus10.jpg" width="500" height="650" alt="" />
<p class="caption">THE LAME BEGGAR.</p>
</div>
<p>And suiting his action to his words, off<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>
darted the boy, and astonished a ragged old
man on crutches, by bestowing upon him at
once all his cakes and his nuts!</p>
<p>Dear young readers! if any of you have
been tempted to disobey your Master’s commandment,
by buying on the day which the
Lord hath set apart for himself, oh, consider
it not as a trifling transgression.</p>
<p>Resolve with prayer henceforth never to
break the smallest twig from the Sabbath-tree,
but to feed on its sacred fruits with
faith, and hope, and love. Be assured, then,
dear children, that they will become sweeter
and sweeter to your taste, and prepare you
for the enjoyment of that <em>Tree of Life which
is in the midst of the paradise of God</em>.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<img src="images/footer7.jpg" width="200" height="70" alt="" />
</div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header9.jpg" width="500" height="170" alt="" />
<p class="caption">HE THAT WALKETH UPRIGHTLY WALKETH SURELY. Prov. 10:9</p>
</div>
<h2 id="IX">IX.<br />
<span class="smaller">THE WHITE ROBE.</span></h2>
<div>
<img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-w.jpg" width="100" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="dropcap">“What was that noise in the street?”
exclaimed Mrs. Claremont, laying
down the pen suddenly. Ella
sprang to the window.</p>
<p>“O mother, something must
have happened! some accident! there is
a crowd collecting round a poor little
girl!”</p>
<p>“We may be of some use!” cried Mrs.
Claremont, and she and her daughter were
at the street door in a few seconds.</p>
<p>“What is the matter? is any one hurt?”
inquired the lady of a milk-woman who was
standing looking on.</p>
<p>“A child knocked down by a horse, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>
believe, ma’am. They should take the poor
thing to the hospital.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Claremont waited to hear no more;
the crowd made way for her, and she was
soon at the side of a young girl who was
crying violently, and the state of whose
crushed bonnet and soiled dress showed that
she had been down on the road.</p>
<p>“I don’t think there’s any bones broken,
only she’s frightened,” observed a baker
among the spectators; “I saw the horse
knock her down as she was crossing the
road.”</p>
<p>“Come this way, my poor child, out of
the crowd,” said Mrs. Claremont, leading
the little girl towards the house; “we will
soon see if the injury is severe.”</p>
<p>The weeping child soon stood in the hall;
hartshorn and water was brought to her by
Ella, but on tasting it, the girl pushed it
away in disgust, in a peevish and irritable
manner. In vain Mrs. Claremont sought
for any trace of injury; the road had been
soft after much rain, and not a scratch nor a
bruise appeared; yet still the girl cried as if
in agony of pain or of passion.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span></p>
<p>“Where are you hurt?” inquired Ella
soothingly; the child only answered by a
fresh burst of tears.</p>
<p>“I am thankful that no harm seems done,”
said Mrs. Claremont.</p>
<p>“There is harm!” sobbed the girl; “all
spoiled, quite, quite spoiled!”</p>
<p>“What is spoiled?”</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/illus11.jpg" width="500" height="500" alt="" />
<p class="caption">THE SPOILED DRESS.</p>
</div>
<p>“My dress, my beautiful new dress!” and
the ladies now observed, for the first time,
the absurd and unsuitable manner in which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>
the child had been clothed. Now, indeed,
her finery was half covered with mud; but
the pink bonnet, though crushed, the white
dress, though stained and torn, the gay blue
necklace, and hair in curl-papers, showed
too plainly the folly of the wearer.</p>
<p>“What is your name?” inquired Ella.</p>
<p>“Sophy Trimmer.”</p>
<p>“Where does your father live?”</p>
<p>“He lives just round the corner.”</p>
<p>“You should be very thankful that
your life has been spared,” said Mrs. Claremont.</p>
<p>Sophy did not look at all thankful, she
only glanced sadly down on her torn dress,
and whimpered, “Just new on to-day.”</p>
<p>“You remind me,” said the lady, “of a
story which I read in the papers some years
ago. A lady was going in a vessel to Scotland,
and carried with her a quantity of
jewels to the value of a thousand pounds.
She thought so much of these jewels, that
she was heard to say, that she would almost
as soon part with life itself as lose them.
An accident happened to the vessel on the
way to Scotland; the water rushed into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>
the cabins, and the poor lady was taken out
drowned.”</p>
<p>“That is a shocking story,” said Sophy.</p>
<p>“She could not carry her jewels with her
to another world. But there is one ornament
which even death itself has no power
to take away.”</p>
<p>“What can that ornament be?”</p>
<p>“An ornament more precious than the
crown of the Queen, ‘the ornament of a
meek and quiet spirit, which is, in the sight
of God, of great price’ (1 Pet. iii. 4). The
poorest may wear this—the rich are poor
without it. O my child, care not to appear
fair in the eyes of your fellow-mortals, but
in the sight of God; your ‘adorning, let it
not be that outward adorning of plaiting the
hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting
on of apparel; but let it be the hidden man
of the heart, in that which is not corruptible’”
(1 Pet. iii. 3, 4).</p>
<p>“What do you mean by ‘corruptible?’”
said Sophy.</p>
<p>“That which time can destroy. Nothing
in this world lasts for ever: flowers bloom
and decay; the fruit which was delicious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
one week, the next is only fit to be thrown
away; the loveliest face grows wrinkled;
the finest form must soon turn to dust in
the tomb.”</p>
<p>“I don’t like to think of such things,”
said Sophy; “they make me sad.”</p>
<p>“They would make us sad, indeed, were
this world <em>our all</em>. But we look forward, in
faith, to a place where there is no corruption,
no change, no death, because <em>no sin</em>; we hope
to wear white robes in heaven which will
never be defiled with a stain. Do you know,
Sophy, what makes them so white?”</p>
<p>Sophy shook her head.</p>
<p>“We are all weak and sinful, less fit to
appear before a holy God in our own righteousness,
than you are to enter the Queen’s
palace in those soiled garments. It is ‘<em>the
blood of Jesus Christ which cleanseth from all
sin</em>;’ through his merits, and his mercy, you
may appear spotless before the judgment-seat
of God, if you believe in him now, and
‘<em>keep yourself from idols</em>.’”</p>
<p>“I have nothing to do with idols,” said
the girl peevishly.</p>
<p>“More perhaps than you think. <em>Anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>
that you love better than the Lord</em> is an idol.
The miser loves money best; that is his idol.”</p>
<p>“Like old Levi, who half starves himself
to scrape up pence,” interrupted Sophy.</p>
<p>“The ambitious man makes power his
idol—some make their children their idols.”</p>
<p>“Like Mrs. Porter, who—”</p>
<p>“Hush,” said Mrs. Claremont, “you have
nothing to do with the idols of your neighbours;
try and find out what is your own.”</p>
<p>“I do not think that I have any.”</p>
<p>“Do you then love God with all your
heart? Is it your chief business to serve
him; your greatest delight to do his will?”</p>
<p>“No; of course, I like to amuse myself
like other people.”</p>
<p>“Have you ever given up <em>any one</em> thing
to show your love to him who made you?”</p>
<p>Sophy looked vexed, but made no reply.</p>
<p>“Whom do you like best to please?
Whom do you like best to serve? Have
you no idol which you decked out this very
morning in all the finery which you could
collect?”</p>
<p>“I suppose that you mean <em>myself</em>.”</p>
<p>“Yes; <em>self</em> is the idol of the vain, their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
hopes and joys are bound up in self, therefore
their hopes and joys are amongst the
corruptible things which must pass away.
O my young friend, the foolish pleasures
which you felt this morning in these fanciful
clothes, in one moment was changed to pain;
and but for the mercy of God, your own
poor body might now have been lying
crushed and lifeless. Why rest your happiness
upon that <em>which cannot last</em>, and which
may, any hour, be taken away from you for
ever?”</p>
<p>“Gay, gaudy clothing always gives me a
feeling of pain when I look upon it,” observed
Ella; “I believe that with so many
it has been the first step to misery here and
hereafter.”</p>
<p>“It is like the gay bait on the hook,”
said her mother, “not in itself deadly, but
covering a fatal snare. Oh, ‘love not the
world, neither the things that are in the
world. If any man love the world, the love
of the Father is not in him. And the world
passeth away, and the lust thereof: but he
that doeth the will of God abideth for ever’”
(1 John ii. 15, 17).</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header10.jpg" width="500" height="250" alt="" />
<p class="caption">WHATSOEVER A MAN SOWETH THAT SHALL HE ALSO REAP</p>
</div>
<h2 id="X">X.<br />
<span class="smaller">CROSSES.</span></h2>
<div>
<img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-t.jpg" width="100" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="dropcap">There was unusual silence in the little
Sunday school when Ella Claremont,
its gentle teacher, entered it for the
first time in deep mourning. All
had known of her sorrow; all had
heard that her brave young brother had
died of wounds received in battle in a far
distant land. They thought of him whom
they had seen some few months before so
bright and happy, with a smile and a kind
word for all, now lying cold in his bloody
grave; and there was not a heart in the
school-room which did not feel sorrow and
sympathy.</p>
<p>Ella could not at first address her school;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
her words seemed choked; the tears gathered
slowly in her eyes; but she found strength
in silent prayer, and spoke at length to her
pupils, but in a trembling voice.</p>
<p>“Dear children, I have had much sorrow
since we last met and talked of the joys of
heaven—a beloved brother has, I trust,
through Christ’s merits, joined the bright
hosts rejoicing there. But should not I
meekly bear the cross which my heavenly
Father sees good to send me? To every
one passing through this life is given a cross—a
trial to bear. To some it is so light
that they scarcely feel it; with others so
heavy that it bows them to the dust. Each
of you knows, or will know, its weight.
But let none be afraid nor cast down. The
cross prepares for the crown. There is
something from God’s Word inscribed on
every cross; and if we have but faith to
read it, it makes the heavy, light; and the
bitter, sweet! ‘Blessed are the dead which
die in the Lord’ (Rev. xiv. 13), is the inscription
on mine.”</p>
<p>Every one passing through life has some
cross to bear! Yes; amongst those young<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>
girls assembled in the school-room there
were some whose trials were deep, who had
much need to read the inscription to make
them endure the burden.</p>
<p>Dear reader, are you in trial? Have you
known what it was to weep when you had
none to comfort you—to wish that the
weary day were over, or the more weary
night at an end—to wonder why God sent
you such sorrows? For you I now write
down what were the crosses of some of the
children in Ella’s school; for you I write
down what were the inscriptions upon them.
Perhaps you may find amongst them the
same trial as your own, and feel strengthened
to bear your cross.</p>
<p>Mary Edwards was very poor—hers was
a heavy cross. One of seven children, and
her father blind; often and often had she
come to school faint with hunger and sick
at heart. But for the kindness of friends,
the family would have been half-starved.
Mary had never known what it was to have
a blanket to cover her; very seldom had
she been able to eat till she was satisfied;
her clothes had been mended over and over<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
again, to keep them from falling to pieces;
ill did they protect her when the cold wind
blew through the broken pane, or found its
way through the crevices in her miserable
hut. Yet Mary had comfort in the midst
of her poverty; she remembered him “who,
though he was rich, yet for our sakes he became
poor.” She had read the inscription
on her cross: “Hath not God chosen the
poor of this world rich in faith, and heirs of
the kingdom which he hath promised to
them that love him?” (James ii. 5). And
Mary would meekly repeat the hymn of
good Bishop Heber:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“The cross our Master bore for us,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">For him we fain would bear;</div>
<div class="verse">But mortal strength to weakness turns,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">And courage to despair.</div>
<div class="verse">Then pity all our frailty, Lord,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Our failing strength renew;</div>
<div class="verse">And when thy sorrows visit us,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Oh, send thy patience too!”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>Amy Blackstone never spoke of her cross;
she bore it in silence without complaining.
Her father was a drunkard—her mother
never entered the house of God. If she
heard the name of the Holy One uttered in
her home, it was but in an oath or a profane<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
jest. She never complained, as I have
said; for, while others would have been
complaining, she was praying. Fervently
did she pray for her unhappy parents—fervently
for herself, that evil example might
not draw her from God. Many a silent
tear she shed over her cross; and this was
the inscription upon it: “I reckon that the
sufferings of this present time are not worthy
to be compared with the glory which shall
be revealed in us” (Rom. viii. 18).</p>
<p>All pitied Ellen Payne, for her cross was
sharp. A lingering, painful disease had
taken the strength from her limbs, the
colour from her cheek. She never rejoiced
in one waking hour free from pain, and
often the night passed without sleep. The
doctors gave no hope, medicine no relief.
She had nothing to look forward to but
pain, increasing pain, till she should sink
into an early grave. This was her cross;
and this was the inscription upon it: “Be
thou faithful unto death, and I will give
thee a crown of life” (Rev. ii. 10).</p>
<p>Jane White had been a deserted child;
she had never known a parent’s care. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>
seemed one of the neglected, despised ones
of earth, with none to love her, and none to
love. She felt lonely and desolate. This
was her cross; and this was the inscription
upon it: “When my father and my mother
forsake me, then the Lord will take me up”
(Ps. xxvii. 10).</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/illus12.jpg" width="500" height="600" alt="" />
<p class="caption">ANN BROWN.</p>
</div>
<p>Ann Brown lived with her aunt. Few
of the girls were better dressed, or seemed
more comfortably provided for, than she.
Had she, then, no cross to bear? Yes; for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>
she dwelt with a worldly family, who laughed
at her for being “righteous overmuch.”
When she would not join in profaning the
Sabbath—when she showed that she cared
not for gay dressing or ill-natured gossip—she
became the object of ridicule and scoffs,
more painful to bear than blows. This was
her cross; but sweet was the inscription
upon it: “If ye suffer for righteousness’
sake, happy are ye: and be not afraid of
their terror, neither be troubled” (1 Pet.
iii. 14).</p>
<p>Mary Wade’s cross was in the depth of
her own heart—the struggle to conquer a
passionate, violent temper. She desired to
obey God, she wished to live to his glory;
but sin seemed too strong for her; she
yielded to temptation again and again, until
she was almost in despair. Her health had
been bad when she was an infant; much of
her peevishness and impatience were owing
to the effects of this. But no one seemed
to make allowance for natural infirmity; her
companions did not like her; and, worst of
all, she felt that she was sinning, and bringing
discredit on the Christian name. Poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>
child! hers was an unpitied cross; but
there was hope in the inscription upon it:
“There hath no temptation taken you but
such as is common to man: but God is
faithful, who will not suffer you to be
tempted above that ye are able; but will
with the temptation also make a way to
escape, that ye may be able to bear it”
(1 Cor. x. 13).</p>
<p>Elizabeth Brown was a sad little girl, but
none knew the cause of her sadness. She
had once been the most thoughtless child in
the school, full of mischief, full of gaiety,
never thinking of God. Her heart had
been on earth—her only wish had been to
enjoy herself. Much trouble and sorrow
had she given to her gentle teacher, much
grief to her pious parents; for she had
laughed at good advice, and cared little for
punishment. But now the gay child had
grown thoughtful: a text heard at church
had struck her, and sunk deep into her heart:
“Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for
whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also
reap. For he that soweth to his flesh, shall
of the flesh reap corruption; but he that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
soweth to the Spirit, shall of the Spirit reap
life everlasting” (Gal. vi. 7, 8). What had
she been sowing for eternity? She thought
of her neglected Bible, her broken Sabbaths,
words of untruth and of unkindness, her
mother disobeyed, her teacher disregarded!
Could God forgive her after all that she had
done? Would he ever admit her to heaven?
She feared that her sins were too many to
be pardoned. This fear was her cross.
Oh! praised be God for the precious inscription
upon it: “The blood of Jesus
Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin”
(1 John i. 7). Jesus said, “Him that
cometh to me I will in no wise cast out”
(John vi. 37).</p>
<p>Blessed are they who thus mourn for sin,
<em>for they shall be comforted</em>. Blessed is the
sorrow that worketh repentance! Blessed
are they who so bear the cross that they
shall inherit the crown!</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<img src="images/footer8.jpg" width="200" height="70" alt="" />
</div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header2.jpg" width="500" height="170" alt="" />
<p class="caption">BUY THE TRUTH AND SELL IT NOT. Prov. 23:23.</p>
</div>
<h2 id="XI">XI.<br />
<span class="smaller">THE TWO COUNTRIES.</span></h2>
<div>
<img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-w.jpg" width="100" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="dropcap">When walking through the streets
of London, have you not sometimes
met a party of strangers,
and felt sure that they belonged
to another land, because they
spoke not the English tongue? Had you
listened to them, you would not have understood
them; they conversed in the language
of their own country.</p>
<p>My young friend, <em>what language do you
speak</em>? If I knew but that, I should soon
guess to what country you belong.</p>
<p>Perhaps you answer, “I am English. I
know no language but my own.” True, in
one sense you are English, and you may<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
thank God for it! You were born in
England, and here may spend all the years
or days of your mortal life. But your real
country is in another world, where you will
<em>live for ever</em>! Thousands and millions of
years may pass, but you will be still remaining
in the country which you have chosen.
So, again I ask, What language do you
speak? To what country do you belong?</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/illus13.jpg" width="500" height="600" alt="" />
<p class="caption">FOREIGNERS.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p>
<p>The one is a bright and glorious place,
where sorrow and pain are unknown. Its
citizens are angels and redeemed saints, who,
with shining crowns and harps of gold,
rejoice before the throne of God. The
language which they speak is <em class="smcap">truth</em>.</p>
<p>The other country is too terrible to
describe. Happiness never enters there,
but pain, grief, and remorse abide for ever!
Its inhabitants are the tempter and his evil
ones—hardened sinners who would not
repent, who chose the broad way that
leadeth to destruction. And what is the
language which its citizens have learned?
The language of Satan is <em class="smcap">falsehood</em>.</p>
<p>O my dear young reader, with anxious
love would I once more repeat my question—let
your heart answer it—<em>What language
do you speak—to what country do you
belong?</em></p>
<p>Yet, mistake me not. There are some
whose lips were never stained with falsehood,
who yet cannot be counted among the
citizens of heaven. The proud, the self-righteous,
who trust to their own merits,
who love not the Saviour who suffered for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>
all,—these may have learned the language
of truth, even as foreigners may learn the
tongue of our land; but they belong not to
the country of holiness and joy.</p>
<p>And others there are who have fallen
into sin, whom the “father of lies” has
tempted and deceived; yet God’s mercy
may prepare a heavenly home even for
them, if, believing and repenting, they turn
to the truth. Thus, St. Peter thrice uttered
a terrible falsehood, but repented with
bitter tears, and, through the atoning blood
of his Lord, was received into heaven a
glorious martyr.</p>
<p>But oh, dread a falsehood as you would
dread a serpent; it leaves a stain and a sting
behind. If you have ever been led into this
deadly sin, implore for pardon, like St. Peter.
Like St. Peter, when <em>next</em> placed in temptation,
speak the truth firmly, faithfully, fearlessly;
for truth is the language of heaven.</p>
<p>There are four chief causes which lead to
the guilt of lying—<em>folly</em>, <em>covetousness</em>, <em>malice</em>,
and <em>fear</em>. Examine your own life, and see
if any one of these has ever tempted you to
utter a falsehood.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p>
<p>It was <em>folly</em> which made Richard tell a
traveller the wrong road when asked the
way to the next village. He thought little
of the <em>sin</em> of his lie—it seemed to him but
an excellent jest; but the jest cost a neighbour
his life! The stranger was a doctor,
travelling in haste to attend a patient who
had been taken with a fit. Richard’s falsehood
made the medical man lose half an
hour, when every minute was precious.
Oh, what anxious hearts awaited his arrival!
But he <em>came too late</em>; he found the sufferer
at the point of death, with his desolate
family weeping around him!</p>
<p>It was <em>covetousness</em> which made Sally
declare that her fruit had only been gathered
that morning, when she knew it to be the
refuse of yesterday’s market. Did she forget
that God’s eye was upon her—that her
words could not pass unnoticed by him—that
she would have to answer for them at
the day of judgment?</p>
<p>It is <em>covetousness</em> that makes Nelly stand
begging in the streets, telling to passers-by
her pitiful tale of a father in hospital and a
family starving. Will the money which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>
she gains by falsehood and hypocrisy bring
with it a blessing or a curse? Oh, “What
is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole
world, and lose his own soul? or what shall
a man give in exchange for his soul?”
(Matt. xvi. 26).</p>
<p>It is <em>malice</em> that makes Eliza invent
strange stories of her neighbours. She
delights to spread a slander, or to give an
ill name. She mixes a little truth with
a great deal of falsehood, and cares not
what misery she inflicts. Whom does she
resemble? <em>Not</em> the citizens of Zion. What
language does she speak? <em>Not</em> the language
of Heaven.</p>
<p>It was <em>cowardice</em> which drew Peter into
falsehood when asked who had broken the
china vase: he dreaded a blow; he <em>dared
not</em> speak the truth. Do you not blush for
him, little reader, who feared <em>man</em> rather
than <em>God</em>?</p>
<p>How different is Margaret Lacy! Neither
covetousness nor cowardice could ever make
her pollute her lips with a lie. She serves
a God of truth; she is learning on earth the
language of heaven.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></p>
<p>She was met one day returning, with a
sorrowful step and tearful eye, from a house
to which she had gone to try for a place.
“Well, Margaret,” said Mrs. Porter, “why
so sad? I fear that you have not succeeded.”</p>
<p>“No, indeed,” sighed the poor girl.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/illus14.jpg" width="500" height="400" alt="" />
<p class="caption">MARGARET AND MRS. PORTER.</p>
</div>
<p>“And how was that? I thought that
you were pretty sure of being settled there
comfortably.”</p>
<p>“Why,” replied Margaret, “the lady
asked me why I had left my last place; so
I told her that both I and the cook had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
been sent away because a bank-note had
been lost in the house.”</p>
<p>“You were not so mad as to tell her that?”</p>
<p>“It was <em>the truth</em>,” calmly answered Margaret.
“What else could I have told?”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Mrs. Porter, “at that rate
you will never get a place.”</p>
<p>“God help me!” said poor Margaret,
meekly. “He will not let me starve for
obeying his word. I never touched the
bank-note.”</p>
<p>“I believe you,” answered her neighbour;
“for I do not think that you ever spoke an
untruth in your life.”</p>
<p>And Margaret <em>did</em> get a place. Carter,
the butcher, engaged her the next day.
“Say nothing against her to me,” he cried.
“I know the girl; she would sooner touch
red-hot iron than money that was not hers.
And as for <em>truth</em>, I’d take her word against
the oaths of a dozen!”</p>
<p>Once, as Margaret was cleaning out the
parlour, not perceiving her master’s new
watch, which lay on the table concealed by
a newspaper, she threw it by accident down
to the ground. Startled and alarmed, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>
raised it and put it to her ear, longing to
hear the regular beat, which might show
that it was unhurt. Alas! all was quite
still—what mischief she had done! Margaret
dreaded her master, who was a passionate
man; she dreaded, perhaps, losing
her place. She might have replaced the
watch on the table, and said nothing; its
stopping might be thought accidental. But
Margaret would not stoop to <em>hide the truth</em>
any more than to tell a lie. With a beating
heart and a trembling hand she carried the
watch to her master, and confessed the
whole truth. Was she dismissed or struck,
as she had feared that she might be? No;
Carter, vexed as he was, could not but
admire her honesty and candour.</p>
<p>“Well, Margaret,” he cried, “were your
life to depend on it, I don’t believe you
would buy life itself with a lie.”</p>
<p>Can this be said of you, reader? If not,
oh, pray for forgiveness of your sin, and for
grace from <em>this hour</em> to forsake it. May
God enable you to speak the truth from
your heart, and to learn upon earth the
language of heaven!</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header3.jpg" width="500" height="250" alt="" />
<p class="caption">THE HAND OF THE DILIGENT MAKETH RICH</p>
</div>
<h2 id="XII">XII.<br />
<span class="smaller">DO YOU LOVE GOD?</span></h2>
<div>
<img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-t.jpg" width="100" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="dropcap">The following anecdote was given as
<em>a fact</em> by a clergyman at Hampstead,
in a sermon to children:—</p>
<p>A gentleman, travelling on a
railway, was much struck by the
vivacity of a lovely little girl about five
years of age, who, with her mother, happened
to be travelling in the same carriage,
and he took a great deal of notice of the
child. About ten minutes before the train
reached the station at which the lady and
her daughter were to alight, the little one
went up to the gentleman, and putting her
lips close to his ear, asked softly, “Do you
love God?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/illus15.jpg" width="500" height="400" alt="" />
<p class="caption">THE CHILD’S QUESTION.</p>
</div>
<p>The traveller, who apparently was not a
devout man, was so startled by the unexpected
question, that he coloured to the
roots of his hair; and the child, seeing his
confusion, and probably frightened at her
own boldness, retreated, and hid her face on
her mother’s bosom until the train stopped
at the station.</p>
<p>But her solemn question had sunk deep
into the mind of the traveller. “Do you
love God?” he repeated to himself again
and again. For a long period the words
haunted him, till at length he was able to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
give to them the only reply which a true
Christian can give.</p>
<p>About two years afterwards, the gentleman
happened to be in the town at which he had
left his little fellow-traveller on that never-to-be-forgotten
day. While passing along
it, he fancied that he saw at a window the
face of the mother of the child. His desire
to see the little one to whom he owed so
much was so great, that he could not refrain
from knocking at the door and introducing
himself to the lady. Upon seeing her, he
inquired after her lovely child. The lady
was dressed in mourning. God had sent
her heavy affliction; her sweet girl now
slept in the silent tomb. The mother took
the stranger to a room, in which were laid
out various trifles which had belonged to
her darling.</p>
<p>“It may interest you to see these,” she
said; “these are all that remain of my child.”</p>
<p>“Oh no!” exclaimed the traveller; “here
am I!” and he related to the wondering
parent how the word spoken in season by
those infant lips had been the means of
leading him to his God.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p>
<p>Even that feeble child had done her work
for her Master before he called her to her
rest; even that feeble child had been given
a soul to be her “joy and crown of rejoicing
for ever.”</p>
<p>O dear young reader! how would you
now answer that whispered question, “<em class="smcap">Do
you love God?</em>” Could your heart give
the reply, “<em>I love him because he first loved
us</em>”?</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<img src="images/footer9.jpg" width="200" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header4.jpg" width="500" height="190" alt="" />
<p class="caption">ENTER NOT INTO THE PATH OF THE WICKED. Prov.</p>
</div>
<h2 id="XIII">XIII.<br />
<span class="smaller">THE IMPERFECT COPY.</span></h2>
<div>
<img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-a.jpg" width="100" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="dropcap">“Always busy at your drawing,
Edwin?” said his elder brother
Henry, as he entered the school-room
one morning.</p>
<p>Edwin looked up for a moment
with a smile, and then went on
tracing with evident pleasure the outline of
a face. His brother came behind him, and
looked over his shoulder; Edwin listened for
his remarks, though without ceasing to draw.</p>
<p>“You are taking pains, I see,” said Henry
at last in a kindly tone; “but I am afraid
that you will have to use your india-rubber
here, and here; these lines, you may perceive,
are not in good drawing.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p>
<p>“I don’t see much wrong in them,” replied
Edwin, suspending his pencil, with
something of vexation in his tone, for he
had expected nothing but praise.</p>
<p>“If you compare them with your study,
you will perceive that all this outline is incorrect.
Where is the study?” asked Henry,
looking in vain for it on the table.</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s somewhere up-stairs,” said Edwin.
“I remember very well what it is
like, and can go on without looking at
it every minute.”</p>
<p>“Would you oblige me by bringing it?”
said his brother.</p>
<p>Edwin went up-stairs, rather unwillingly,
and soon brought down a beautiful study; a
face most perfect in form and expression.</p>
<p>Henry silently put the two pictures together.
Edwin gazed with bitter disappointment
on his own copy, which but a few
minutes before he had thought so good.</p>
<p>“I shall never get it right!” Edwin exclaimed,
in a burst of vexation; and snatching
up the unfortunate drawing, he would
have torn it asunder, had he not been prevented
by his brother.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/illus16.jpg" width="500" height="525" alt="" />
<p class="caption">THE BROTHER’S CRITICISM.</p>
</div>
<p>“My dear Edwin, you have doubly erred;
first in being too easily satisfied, and then in
being too easily discouraged.”</p>
<p>“I shall never make it like that beautiful
face!” cried the disheartened boy.</p>
<p>“You need patience, you need help, you
need, above all, often to look at your copy.”</p>
<p>Edwin took up the pencil which he had
flung down, and carefully and attentively
studied the picture. He found very much
in his copy to alter, very much to rub out;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>
but at last he completed a very fair sketch,
which he presented, with a little hesitation,
to his brother.</p>
<p>“I shall have this framed, and hung up
in my room,” said Henry.</p>
<p>“Oh, it is not worth that!” exclaimed
Edwin, colouring with pleasure and surprise.</p>
<p>“Not in itself, perhaps,” replied Henry;
“but it will serve often to remind us both
of an important truth which was suggested
to me when I saw you labouring at your
copy.”</p>
<p>Edwin looked in surprise at his brother,
who thus proceeded to explain his words:—</p>
<p>“We, dear Edwin, as Christians, have all
one work set before us: to copy into our
lives the example set us by a heavenly
Master. It is in the Bible that we behold
the features of a character perfect and pure.
But how many of us choose rather to imagine
for ourselves what a Christian should be
like! We aim low; we are content with
little progress; we perhaps please ourselves
with the thought of our own wisdom and
goodness, while every one but ourselves can<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>
see that our copy is wretched and worthless.”</p>
<p>“What are we to do?” asked Edwin.</p>
<p>“We must closely examine the study set
us in the Bible; we must compare our lives
with God’s law; and we shall then soon find
enough of weakness and sin to make us
humble ourselves before God. When we
read of the meekness and gentleness of
Christ, we shall be ashamed of our own
passion and pride; when we find how
holy was our great Example, we shall be
grieved to think how unlike to him we
are.”</p>
<p>“We can never make a good copy,”
sighed Edwin; “we may just give up the
attempt at once.”</p>
<p>“You judge as you did when you wished
to tear up your picture in despair, as soon as
you saw how imperfect it was. No, no, my
dear boy; I say to you now, as I said to you
then, you need <em>patience</em>, you need <em>help</em>, help
from the good Spirit of God; and, above
all, you need to look often at your study, to
keep the character and work of your Lord
ever before your eyes.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span></p>
<p>“But if I do my best, I shall still fall so
short!”</p>
<p>“I know it,” said Henry gravely; “but
feeling that you never can reach perfection
here, should not prevent your aiming at it.
God will complete his work in the hearts of
his servants, not on earth, but in heaven.
There the copy, feebly commenced below,
shall be made a likeness indeed! For what
says the Word of God: <em>We know that when
he shall appear we shall be like him, for we
shall see him as he is</em>!”</p>
<p>“To see the Lord, and to be made like
him; it seems too much to hope for!” cried
Edwin.</p>
<p>“It is not more than God has promised,”
replied Henry, “to those who come to the
Saviour by faith. Worthless as our copy is
in itself, it will be glorified, made beautiful,
made perfect; and will be raised to a place
of honour in the mansions of our heavenly
Father!”</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<img src="images/footer10.jpg" width="200" height="70" alt="" />
</div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header5.jpg" width="500" height="210" alt="" />
</div>
<h2 id="XIV">XIV.<br />
<span class="smaller">A STORY OF THE CRIMEA.</span></h2>
<div>
<img class="dropcap" src="images/dropcap-i.jpg" width="100" height="170" alt="" />
</div>
<p class="dropcap">I daresay that you have heard of
the war in the Crimea. Perhaps
you have a father or a brother in
the army, and have often listened
to stories of the brave and noble
conduct of our soldiers on the terrible field
of battle. I am going to tell you of one of
the bravest and noblest actions that happened
during the whole course of the war, though
my hero never drew a sword nor fired a
musket at the Russians.</p>
<p>After the fearful battle of Alma, when
the victory had been won by the English
and the French, after the cannon had
ceased to roar or the foe to fight, a long<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>
painful task remained for the victors—to
attend to the wounded and to bury the dead.</p>
<p>At last our poor sufferers were removed
to the ships, and only mounds of earth
showed where hundreds of the killed lay in
their bloody graves; and the army was
ready to move on to attack the enemy in
another place.</p>
<p>But more than seven hundred poor fellows
were still stretched on the ground—not, like
the dead, beyond reach of earthly pain,
but covered with wounds and gore—some
with their legs and arms shot away, some
unable to move, groaning in terrible agony,
and wishing in vain for death to put an end
to their misery.</p>
<p>And who, do you think, were these wounded
men? They were Russians, and our enemies!
Their bayonets had been red with the blood
of our brave soldiers; they had fired the
shots which made so many widows and
orphans in England. And now, what was
to be done with all these miserable sufferers?
Our army could not carry them along with
it; they must be left behind. Poor helpless
Russians! if none dressed their wounds,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>
they must perish; if none gave them food,
they must starve.</p>
<p>There was a British surgeon, of the name
of Thomson, who resolved to separate himself
from all his friends, to stay behind to
take care of his wounded enemies. We may
fancy that he had a long struggle in his
mind before he could decide upon this
generous act. Selfishness might whisper to
him many reasons for leaving the poor
Russians to their fate.</p>
<p>“What!” we can imagine some friend
saying to the surgeon, “would you remain
here alone in the midst of enemies, some of
whom, it is said, have even fired at Englishmen
who were bringing them relief. If the
Tartars should attack you, who will defend
you? You cannot depend upon these
wounded Russians. Then think of the
labour which you are undertaking. No one
man can possibly dress the wounds of seven
hundred; you can only help a few, or die
yourself of fatigue. No, be wise; leave
these wretched men to the chance of some
of their own people coming to assist them;
you know that there is not one amongst<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>
them who would not have willingly killed
you, had it been in his power.”</p>
<p>Dr. Thomson may have heard words such
as these, but they did not change his generous
resolution. The British army marched away;
he and his soldier-servant remained behind,
saw their friends and comrades all disappear
in the distance, and then turned to their
noble but sickening work,—binding up the
ghastly wounds of their enemies.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/illus17.jpg" width="500" height="350" alt="" />
<p class="caption">NOBLE WORK.</p>
</div>
<p>Do you not think that Dr. Thomson
deserved a rich reward for all this? I do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>
not doubt that he has received a reward,
but not from man, for his labours of love
shortened his life. In a few days the
generous, self-devoted surgeon followed to
the grave the brave soldiers who died fighting
for their Queen. And shall not his
name be honoured as well as theirs? We
trust that he died prepared for the great
change, full of faith and hope as well as
charity; and we may also trust that some
of those whose lives he had been the means
of saving lived to know their Saviour, and
to serve God upon earth, and that they
will one day meet their generous friend in
heaven.</p>
<p>But it is not of Dr. Thomson that I would
speak to you now, but of One of whose
mercy and love all the noblest deeds of his
servants are but as a faint, dim shadow.</p>
<p>And first let me ask you, dear child, Do
you know what <em>sin</em> is, that from which all
sorrow comes? It is sin that causes cruelty
and strife in the world. It is <em>sin</em> that gives
a worse wound than any sword or cannon-ball;
for they may destroy the body, but <em>sin
destroys the soul</em>.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span></p>
<p>And now let me ask you another question:
Do you know that we are all by nature
wounded by sin; that we are all unable to
help ourselves, even like those poor Russians;
that if left to ourselves we must all die—I
mean, <em>lose the everlasting life of heaven</em>?</p>
<p>Yes; this was the state of the whole
world. It was all lying in wickedness,
therefore lying in danger; and not one of
us could have been saved—<em>no, not one</em>—had
not the Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God,
taken pity on our sad state, and left heaven
and all its glory, its light, and its joy, to
come and labour to help miserable sinners.
Not only did he labour, but he <em>died</em> to save
us; he suffered himself to be nailed to the
cross, that he might heal the wounds which
sin had made, and give us health and life
never-ending!</p>
<p>But perhaps you will say: “I do not
think that I am among the wounded. I do
not think that I need any one to save me.”</p>
<p>Oh! my child, have you ever thought
over your life, or recalled your actions,
words, and thoughts, during <em>one</em> day? Have
you never been disobedient to a parent, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>
unkind to a companion? Has your mouth
never spoken words that were ill-natured or
false? Have you never been proud, discontented,
or selfish? Does not your conscience
tell you that you have been wounded by
sin? Now, let me tell you how you may
find healing.</p>
<p>And, first, you must <em>believe on the Lord
Jesus Christ</em>; you must believe that he <em>died
for sinners</em>, and that he is willing to save all
who ask him for pardon and mercy.</p>
<p>Then you must be sorry for and leave off
your sins, praying to God to help you to
amend. A child who says that he repents,
and then goes and sins just as readily as before,
is like a wounded man who, when the
surgeon has dressed the injured place, tears
off the bandage and will not let it heal.</p>
<p>And oh! you must love the Saviour with
your whole heart. Can you help loving him
who has loved you so much? Think of the
glory which he left; was it not left for you?
Think of the blood which he shed; did it
not flow for you? Think of the death
which he endured; was it not borne for
you?</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/header7.jpg" width="500" height="170" alt="" />
<p class="caption">THE FEAR OF THE LORD IS THE BEGINNING OF WISDOM. Prov. ix. 10</p>
</div>
<h2 id="XV">XV.<br />
<span class="smaller">“I HAVE A HOME, A HAPPY HOME!”</span></h2>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza dcap">
<div class="dropcap"><img src="images/dropcap-i.jpg" width="100" height="170" alt="I" /></div>
<div class="first-verse">have a home, a happy home,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">And friends to love me there;</div>
<div class="verse indent2">With daily bread</div>
<div class="verse indent2">I still am fed,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Have still warm clothes to wear;</div>
<div class="verse">I’ve health and strength in every limb,—</div>
<div class="verse indent1">How grateful should I be!</div>
<div class="verse">How shall I show my love to Him</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Who shows such love to me!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza dcap">
<div class="verse">Many are blind, or deaf, or lame,—</div>
<div class="verse indent1">I hear the sweet birds sing,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Can bound along</div>
<div class="verse indent2">With joyful song,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Can watch the flowers of spring.</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
<div class="verse">No wasting pain my eye to dim,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">From want and sickness free;</div>
<div class="verse">How shall I show my love to Him</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Who shows such love for me!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza dcap">
<div class="verse">And blessings greater still than these</div>
<div class="verse indent1">A gracious God has given,—</div>
<div class="verse indent2">The precious word</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Of Christ our Lord,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">To guide my feet to heaven.</div>
<div class="verse">Among the shining cherubim</div>
<div class="verse indent1">I trust my home shall be;</div>
<div class="verse">How shall I show my love to him</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Who shows such love to me!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza dcap">
<div class="verse">My God! I am a feeble child,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Oh, teach me to obey;</div>
<div class="verse indent2">With humble fear</div>
<div class="verse indent2">To serve thee here,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">To watch, and praise, and pray!</div>
<div class="verse">My love is weak, my faith is dim,</div>
<div class="verse indent1">But grace I ask from thee,</div>
<div class="verse">That I may prove my love to him</div>
<div class="verse indent1">Who loved and died for me!</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;">
<img src="images/footer11.jpg" width="300" height="70" alt="" />
<p class="caption">FINIS</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60138 ***</div>
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