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Just published, 
 Vol.1. 
 
 KATIE JOHNSTONE'S CROSS. 
 
 liY A. M. M. 
 
 . Vol. II. 
 
 JESSIE GEEY. 
 
 By M. L. g. 
 
 Vol. III. 
 
 THE OLD AND THE NEW HOME. 
 
 By [. E. 
 
 Aol. IV. 
 
 SOWING THE GOOD SEED. 
 
 By ALICIA. 
 
 /// course of preparation. 
 Vol. V. 
 
 ALICE HERBEET and EMILY'S CHOICE. 
 
 By E. V. N. 
 
 T()RONT(): JAxME.S CAMPBELL AND SON. 
 May be ordered oj any Bookseller in the Dcmhiion. 
 
 mmmt^ 
 
Mpi>^ 6e. rue riC'MCr 
 
 &,iO(/frH, of ^uc^^<^^ 
 
 
 SOWING THE GOOD SPED. 
 
 r 
 
f 
 
 HELEN RAYMONDS NEW HOME. 
 
 "She walked up the winding avenue foi the first time." — Pnge 29. 
 
 — Frontispiece, 
 
•f 
 
 Sowing the Good Seed 
 
 k- 
 
 % €m\nV\nn (^iiU 
 
 Bv ALICIA 
 
 ' Uo not, then, stand idly waiting for some nobler work to do. 
 For your heavenly Father's glory ; ever earnest, ever true. 
 Go and ioil in any vineyard ; work in patience and in prayer ; 
 If you want a field of labour, you can find it anywhere," 
 
 TORONTO 
 JAMES CAMPBELL AND SON 
 
 1870 
 
 . t 
 
 ^MittHM^ 
 
"TWW^W^WPPWWWiP" 
 
 IS Ut9 
 
 L5Si. 
 
 Entered, according to Act of the Farliament of Canada^ in the 
 year One Thousand Eight Hundred and Seventy, Aj/ James 
 Campbell, /;/ the Office of the Minister of Agriculture. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 Maggie's home, . • • • 
 
 [ CHAPTER TI. 
 
 Willie's new friend, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 POOR OR RICH ? . 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CHANGES IN MAGGIE'S HOME, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNBEAMS, . 
 
 I'AOK 
 
 12 
 
 21 
 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 \ . . 26 ' 
 
 ' THE CEDARS, • • ' ' 
 
 I 
 
 • 4 
 
 35 
 
CONTENTS. 
 CHAPTRR VII. 
 
 nUDa OF PUOAJiai; Al'I'KAIllNG, 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A IMY OF REST, . 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MRS GORDON'S TROUBLES, 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 JOHxNxNlE's FIRST VISIT TO THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL, 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 TWILIGHT TALKS, 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 SH.VDOVVS FALLING, 
 
 ' • • . 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LITTLE JOHNNIE GOES HOME, 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE SHADOWS DEEPEN, 
 
 » 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 OtH father's PROTECTING CARE, • 
 
 r.\<U'; 
 
 42 
 
 411 
 
 57 
 
 %5 
 
 71 
 
 77 
 
 83 
 
 88 
 
 n 
 
COyTENTS. xl 
 
 J-AliK 
 
 CHArTKU XVI. 
 
 LESSONS TAUGHT IN TlIK HICK-UOUM, ... 97 
 
 CHAPTEll XVn. 
 
 M us (SOUDON's PLliASANT PLANS, . . . . 10^ 
 
 CHAPTER XV 111. 
 
 I A FAUKWKLL TO OUK FlUKNDS, 
 
 108 
 
 .■.,.■.»„.,.'. ,-.,v.....A,^..w»-.,...^«-aM.Ai»^..<^»^ I liHiiiiltiMlli 
 
r 
 
 V 
 
 10 
 
- i '4 
 
 4. ■ ■ *'SM 
 
 ^1 
 
 CHAPTER I. # 
 
 <? 
 
 t 
 
 "A little room with a rugless floor 
 And the winter blast, 
 As it whistles past, 
 Peering in at the slender door." 
 
 AGGIE LINTON'S home was far from 
 being a comfortable one; it was a small, 
 
 poorly- built bouse, containing four low 
 rooms, tbrougli the thin walls of which the cold 
 winds whistled during the long winter days 
 and nights, often driving in the snow and sleet 
 to add to the discomfort of the inhabitants. 
 Situated, too, on a bleak hill-side, the house 
 was exposed to all the severities of Canadian 
 weather, and it stood unprotected by shel- 
 tering tree or neighbouring dwelling ; as lonely 
 a looking home as one ever sees in this Canada 
 of ours. 
 
 I A 
 
j^--r 
 
 U\C\C 
 
 vV/ 
 
 MAGGIE'S HOME. 
 
 Yet Maggie Linton could remember a time — very 
 ' far back indeed, it seemed — wlien she, with her father 
 and mother and Jittle_Will, lived in a comfortable^ 
 cheery home, where they did not mind how cold the 
 wind blew, or how fierce the storm raged, for thick brick 
 and mortar shielded them, and a warm fire lit up their 
 bright, cheerful kitchen ; and when father was not bent 
 and old-looking, nor his hair gray and thin. !NIaggie 
 sometimes wondered how the great change came about ; 
 she did not like to ask her father, but somewhere down 
 in the child's heart there was a consciousness that the 
 great white tavern, with the sign of King Willianv 
 swaying backward and forward in the breeze, was the 
 cause of all ; and she never passed the large door, with 
 its four panes of glass covered with crimson moreen, 
 and under which the ominous words " bar-room " were 
 painted in gold letters, without ^n involuntary shudder, 
 and a thankful feeling that father never closed that 
 great door behind him. Sometimes, too, a fear would 
 cross her mind lest Will or little Johnnie, the poor 
 delicate little brother, who had never known any home 
 save the dreary cottage on the hill, might sometime be 
 tempted thither ; and ifMaggie Linton had ever prayed, 
 a petition would certainly have arisen from that motherly 
 ,^ ) little heart of hers, that her brothers might not be led 
 «-^ ' into temptation. Maggie was scarcely thirteen, and 
 yet a veritable little woman was she ; ever since she 
 
 {J^a^^ 
 
MAGGIE'S HOME. 
 
 "•■•»| II ■'■I.I 
 
 VvV 
 
 could remember she had been obliged to care for others; 
 
 and since the day when Johnnie v:as born, he had been 
 
 her own especial care. Long bef ore m other had di^d, 7>/^T"'3 
 
 father and brothers had learned to look to Maggie for /WC^ ; ? 
 
 whatever of care or comfort fell to their lot ; and often 
 
 file childisH"fornrwa¥ we jtf^ with constant labour, and 
 
 the over-charged mind and heart discouraged and sad ; 
 
 but a brave, loving spirit dwelt in the little woman — a 
 
 spirit which would have given Maggie Linton courage 
 
 to die for those she loved, if need be. She would wish, 
 
 sometimes, that she could make home more cheerful, 
 
 but it was hard to add the slightest air of comfort to 
 
 their abode, and the little housekeeper, with her many 
 
 cares, soon grew discouraged, and things went on again \ 
 
 in the same old way. 
 
 It was a dull evening, early in November, when our 
 story opens. It was six o'clock now, and Maggie's 
 father comes in from his daily work ; turning to Maggie 
 with a smile, as he closes the door behind him, he said, 
 *' Well, my child, supper 'most ready %" 
 
 Maggie had been more tried than usual that day — 
 Johnnie had been more fretful than ever — and she had 
 found it hard work to scrape together anything worthy 
 the name of " supper " from the little that remained in 
 the house. To-morrow would be pay-day, to be sure, 
 
 but that was little comfort when there was not enough 
 
 k^cK 
 
 for to-day's wants. 
 
MAGGIE'S HOME. 
 
 r 
 
 Tlie fcither, who had been once a good mason, and 
 
 . /J (^j^ able to get plenty of employment and good wages, had 
 injured himself m some way by lifting a heavy stone, 
 jL some few months before his wife's death; and now, 
 being capable only of light work, bis wages were low 
 and his work less certa in. Th e summer h.id been 
 trying, and now building for the season would soon be 
 ^fan M37^nd~tlien they would have to depend upon* 
 
 ■■■■-"■■■- ■'■. .....1* 
 
 what little Linton earned in sawing wood, or any such 
 work he could get. It was no wonder that Maggie felt 
 disheartened</that November night, when the wind 
 •whistled through the crevices of the four walls, that 
 were s^ce a sHeTter Tr( i the cold, reminding them 
 that still chiller bias; would blow before the dreary 
 
 |__ winter was ended. 
 
 iSfaggie merely answered " Yes," to her father's 
 
 f, question, and went on stirring some Indian-meal and 
 MU^UtI'' water on the top of [the dull stove,/ which was all that 
 supplied warmth to the dwelling. The stock of wood 
 was evidently low, for it was with difficulty she could 
 get the porridge to boil. Having at last succeeded, she 
 turned to her father, saying, in no very gentle tones, 
 "Where's Willie? When I do have supper ready, 
 there's always one of you that 's not here." 
 
 " Willie stayed behind to pick up some pieces that 
 were scattered round at the building yonder, but he '11 
 not be long, I think. The poor lad '11 be cold ; why 
 
 4 
 
MAGGIE'S HOME, 
 
 can't you make a bit more blaze ? " And tlie worn, 
 weary -lookinf^ man drew bis chair to the stove an 1 
 held his hands over it, as if to try and win from it some 
 slight degree of warmth. " It 's growing very cold," he 
 added. 
 
 ^aggie muttered" something/to the effect that she H^^ 
 gauMjiQt make blaze w ithout wood ; [nevertheless, her 
 clouded brow cleared,] and she told Johnnie, who sat 
 on a low stool by his father's feet, to set out the cups 
 and saucers. The child obej'^ed, drawing a chair to the 
 cupboard, an(^ carefully lifting down their little store of 
 crockery-ware, broken and cracked, yet much prized in 
 a home where lost or broken articles were not easily 
 replaced. Soon Will entered, his arms full of short 
 pieces of lath and chips of vood, while on his back 
 he carried a bag of shavings. Welcome they were that 
 cold November night, and Maggie looked up with a |n/VC 
 smile as he drew up a chair and filled the stove with 
 the pine, which crackled and burnt away all too 
 quickly. " But we must not use too many at once," 
 she said, as she stowed her treasure carefully away in 
 a corner of the room. 
 
•^xi^ 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Be kind to one another, 
 
 Not to the good alone : 
 E'en to the cold and selfish heart, 
 
 Let deeds of love be shown. 
 So shall ye be His children 
 
 Who rains His gifts on all, 
 And even on the thankless ones 
 
 Bids His bright sunbeams fall. " 
 
 S the tliree gathered round tlie deal table, 
 
 
 5i^ to partake of the frugal meal Maggie's 
 skill had prepared, Will said, *' Maggie, 
 do you Imow the j^mig.JMj.-that has come .to 
 4*^ stop at the big house just beyond the church_? " 
 No," replied his sister, " nor I don't want 
 to ; any~ one as lives there can't be very- 
 good?^ COH ^ t i cf ^"ri ('; X^^ kf C p\ lar^S 
 "Why?" inquired Will, looking up inquir- 
 ingly into his sister's face, over which a cloud 
 of displeasure had gathered. 
 
 " I don't think any one could be very good 
 
 6 
 
WILLIE 'S NEW FRIEND. 
 
 that lived witli Mrs Gordon," returned Maggie, de- 
 cidedly. _ 
 
 ** And why not ? " inquired her father, now growing 
 interested in his children's conversation. 
 
 ''I see enough of her ; she 's always visiting about | 
 among the houses on the hill ; but I think she knows 
 better than to come here often," said the little house- 
 keeper, with an air of importance. " Only the other 
 day she came into Widow Bates' house when me and 
 Johnnie were there, and began talking to her about the 
 children up here, and what a shame it was that they 
 did not go to Sunday-school, she said, as she wasn't 
 agoin' to give a copper's worth, of anything to people 
 who didn't go to church or send their children to juo^ci^^^lf 
 Sunday-schojolj_and she tossed her head, she did, as 
 she looked at Johnnie's worn little dress, — I couldn't 
 bear to see her look so at liim.^^ And^ l^Iaggie's eyes 
 filled with tears as she looked at the wee wan face 
 beside Eer,~arrd" quietly she than half the 
 
 pol:Tion she had allotted to .herself — originally not 
 nearly so large as the others::— from her own plate to 
 Johnnie's. " She said," she continued, choking down* 
 
 
 
 her sobs, "thatTf we only went to Sunday-school we , 
 would get warm clothes ; but how can we go at first,_ 
 all ragged ? and I wouldn't go to Sunday-school for 
 the sake of clothes, I wouldn't., J jd^a^dcaLsoon^ 
 at home than go to church to beg for clothes." And tho 
 
 7 
 
 \ 
 
 # 
 
WILLIE 'S NE W FRIEND. 
 
 little woman drew herself up to licr full height, which 
 
 was not very great, and commoncf.A energetically to 
 
 wash and wipe the cups and plates. Ker father sighed 
 
 ftC^ -as he drew his chair near the stove again. 
 
 ^CSP^^^ "Well, but," persisted Will, who, for a time had 
 
 (f^ <^^ been silenced by Maggie's outburst, " I don^belicYa 
 
 v^ / the y oung lady is like Mrs Gordon ; least\yays,_slie dgjilt 
 
 /> 
 
 ./ 
 
 iy '.- 
 
 look like her, and^me spoke so kind like.' 
 
 " Where did you speak to her % " asked Maggie, 
 turning quickly round. 
 
 " I met her to-night as I was coming home. I had 
 
 put down my bundle, for it was dreadful cold, and was 
 
 , rubbing my hands to try to get them warm, when she 
 
 y^iC^^^ came along, and she stopped and asked me if I was 
 
 I cf^^ "^^^y cold, and where I lived; how many brothers an3. 
 
 sisters I had, and if we went to Sunday-school ; she 
 
 said she was agoing to take a class, as they call 'em, 
 
 and if I 'd go she 'd teach me herself ; and she said 
 
 she 'djDome and see us." 
 
 '* I don't wa nt her here," said Maggie, wrathfully, 
 I" a-blaming mdbecause I don't keep things cleaner, like 
 Mrs Gordon did when she came ; but she didn't try it 
 again, I can tell you. I can keep things n o tidier ; I 
 doJyiist_the best I can ; " andc^er ag grieved sp irit broke 
 forth in half-sup pressed so bsj " Why Will should be 
 taking up with these jpeo^le I don't see," she con- 
 tinued. (" lie HI be taking to finding fault next." 
 
 ^ 
 
 iHi 
 
 /FAOlT'PfM(?//V^/ 
 
WILLIE 'S NEW FRIEND. 
 
 r-moit% -(f)ua 
 
 f " Nobody *s finding fault, my cliild," interposed her 
 I father ; " we all know you do the best you can, and a 
 I great deal better than many would doj so don't fret ^ 
 [child. jBut if the young lady comes, be civil, Maggie. 
 -jil daresay it would be a grea t deal bet ter f or Will if he 
 ^^^' A\^ go to Sunda y-school .— 4t would t;eep.^lumL from 
 L*^'' running about on SundaVs^vith the boys on the hill: 
 Sjv* he 'd learn somethmg too, maybe, which he needs bad 
 .^'^^ ^enough, poor lad[ BuMt^'s ten to one if the young ^ ^p^rjxn\)/^j 
 V lady ever comes near us ; grand folks often forget thejr f '^ 
 ^0 promises to the poor." 
 
 ^S^' Maggie was silenced by her father's words, but she 
 \i^ *' was far from pacified ; not that she would begrudge Will 
 his " learning," even if she could not get it herself — far 
 from that ; but in her heart there was a little sore spot 
 because Will had "took up " with the grand folks that 
 had caused her so much annoyance. Could Helen Ray-\ 
 mond have taken a peep into the heart of her whose j y 
 home she was longing to visit, doubtless she would have \ 
 been discouraged, and the pleasant visions of "good 
 sister Maggie," that her new-found little friend had 
 conjured up, would have been sadly marred ; but as it 
 was, she was in happy ignorance, and ^a^erl^watched 
 for a few spare moments in her <^ays oftoiljybat^^ 
 
 migliEina^ ^'^^"''^^'^^^55£JSdiiL!l«iS£L^^ 
 " wee brotnerJohnnie." 
 
 The southern side of the hill, on the north side of 
 
 9 B 
 
 LA^K 
 
 iMiiiiiHiiiittilKi 
 
 mil 
 
 ^miiiii 
 
 ^amm 
 
WILLIE 'S NEW FRIEND. 
 
 ■which tlio Lintons' house Wtas situated, was quite 
 thickly covered with low wooden houses, diflferirrg 
 tjlightly in. size or outward appearance; but within, a 
 visitor among the "hill people" (as they were called) 
 might find as great a diversity as it is possible to 
 imagine. Some were dirty, comfortless, untidy ; while 
 others, and" among these it was Mrs Gordon's special 
 at\C^ V'^'!!^-* delight to spend an afternoon or morning, presented an 
 f o<?^.^ air of cheerful comfort, the windows bright and clean, 
 
 Vf 
 
 
 
 Li^^'^re' with their sills of house-plants, — geraniums and roses, 
 
 the never-failing bergamot, or still more fragrant musk. 
 
 fAnd of all this comfort Mrs Gordon believed herself to 
 
 be the prime originator.^ That she had accomplished 
 
 good among the people ^A(\, P"^ ^^ rlp.nipd, arwljfwiig 
 
 also true tlia^ t he inhabitants of the clean, orderly 
 
 Oiiouses were principally decent, honest, church-going 
 
 people, while those who occupied the cheerless dwell- 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 iiigs, that so excited Mrs Gordon's indignation, were 
 BeTdom if ever to be found in the courts of God's house. 
 
 m 
 
 or their children in the Sabbath school. If one wanted - ^ 
 to find the head of such a household, one had to go to . rA y\ 
 the great white tavern, with its creaking sign and crim-^<-<^ 
 son-covered windows. C/ fK7 1 
 
 Mrs Gordon was truly desirous to do eood. but she W^^ 
 had not learned the lesson of love at the feet of her /T /. 
 blessed Master. She liberally praised the church;2oing 
 people of the village, who were clean and tj^^ in then: 
 
n1 
 
 
 WILLIE 'S NE W FRIEND, 
 
 habits, and rewarded_tlieiji^^chi^^ 
 §unday-scliool ; but the homes where G od was no t 
 known, where His worship was opculj: diategflj;.dc(i,jUid 
 where an influence of love, might. VQi'j p.rofitaJbljc^e 
 exercised^ were either passed o^er bj her^ or, if visited , 
 she did not try to win the erring back ^gain l^ g ^iiiip g vi'^ 
 their confidence, and leading^ them to Jesus as thei r 
 friend and Saviour, but rather hindered her otherwise 
 good intentions by finding fault with thfiiCvhalytsj-n^ 
 conduct. She was not yet a partaker of the Spirit of 
 Him who came lowly to seek and to save that which 
 ' was lost. 
 
 w V 
 
 The Lintons' house was far removed from this 
 little colony. Being people who, as the neighbours 
 said, " kept themselves to themselves," they saw little 
 of either class of the dwellers there, and as little of Mrs 
 Gordo n,^ She had_ once vis ited Maggie, but found no 
 very warm response to her advice as to the comfortless '"^ 
 home or the bringing-up of little Johnnie j and, more- ^^^ 
 over, finding the Lintons were not in the habit of going f:'^"^ !^^ 
 to church, she had never called again, and so Maggie only "* ^^ 
 saw her when she passed along the road in her pretty 
 phaeton, or when she met her in one of her very rare 
 visits among the few families she knew among the hill 
 people. 
 
 ■Mi-^iAiir).J}!Si,v^- ^■.iM^,j«ja-t!U.5j.jh. 
 

 utK 15 TO Ttje ^9u\0AreC 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 il 
 
 
 ' Though faith and hope may long be tried, 
 I ask not, need not aught beside ; 
 Hnw^fj^, hnuf r.alm, hnw gatisfif;(j, 
 
 OOH Helen Kaymond! So the world 
 had called her for the last two years \ 
 
 and poor enough was Helen, IT we 
 estimate poverty or riches according to the /AcK 
 abundance of the things which a man or a 
 woman possesseth ; for all Helen Raymond's 
 little store was conveniently held in the small 
 black trunk which bore the iiiitials ^' H. R." 
 B ut ou r Jife_ c onsisteth not in these things ^ „. 
 and although Helen might truly be classed /VJf^ 
 among " the poor of^this world/' yet hers was l-/^^ 
 a soul "rich in faith," and it mattered little "■ 
 
 12 
 
POOR OR RICH? 
 
 that her earthly possessions were few, fo r waB a he 
 not ail heir of the kim^dom which our Father 
 
 O"^ 
 
 m 
 
 heaven has promised to them that love Him ? One day, 
 just two years ago, Helen had been watching from 
 the windows of her father's house the approach of 
 tho CO' i age which had gone to the depot to fetch 
 her father and mother home. They had been absent 
 some few days on a visit to friends in the States, and 
 now Helen was expecting them back. It was past 
 tho time ; she was sure the train must be in now, 
 but the carriage did not come ; and as the short 
 autumn day softly faded into twilight, the watcher 
 grew impatient and anxious. At length she heard 
 the wheels ; the carriage stopped ; she rushed out, — but 
 no father, no mother. What could be the matter? 
 Her father, so prompt, so punctual, never disap- 
 pointed any one, if he could possibly avoid it, and he 
 knew she would be wai'jng for them. 
 
 The poor girl was not long left in suspense ; all too 
 soon came the fearful, crushing tidings t-hat Jone of 
 those accidents — alas ! too common on Amencan railA , p^m s g- 
 ways— had lef t poorj^jeleji .R aymnnd fa th erlfigs^_mother/ 
 less.|' No need to dwell on the sad events which followed. 
 The bringing home the mangled bodies, the leaving the 
 dear old home, the facing the cold, unsympathising ^//^ 
 world/which cared so little for the woes of the orphan i^^J^c\(^ 
 cast upon ifs mercies. But Godf Is merciful ; even the 
 
 Ttrr-'iriiiiirii 
 
POOR OR RICH 7 
 
 heaviest blow He lightens ; and Helen Raymond could 
 
 say — 
 
 Thy way, not mine, Lord, 
 
 However dark it be ! 
 Lead me by Thine own hand ; 
 Choose out the path for me. 
 
 hoose Thou for me my friends, 
 My sickness or my health ; 
 Choose Thou my cares for me, , , 
 
 My poverty or wealth. ^'- - 
 
 " Kot mine, not mine the choice, 
 In things or great or small; 
 Be Thou my Guide, my Strength ; 
 My Wisdom, and my All." 
 
 Fortunately for Helen, she was received as gover- 
 n^s"iiitfra'"CnrrTsirari famHy, the mother of which she 
 had tnowi7 for some years. A few months, however, 
 before our story opens, this lady was obliged to leave 
 Canada, and then Helen came to live with Mrs 
 Gordon, to whom we have already alluded, who lived 
 in the "big house," as the villagers called it. Very 
 different Helen found this to her former home, but 
 she knew she could not choose, — that her Father, 
 doubtless, had some work for her among these un- 
 \j^ Ck "^ tried scenes, if it lay only within the walls of Mrs 
 Ia/| SM^^ Gordon's k SuSusT^imasa But a new field of l abour 
 
 TO/'Ot^^ seemed opening to her, and her heart beat high with 
 SJCfis^ . quiet joy as she started off one afternoon to find 
 — fiCjT \ out where "sister Maggie '* lived. The wind wa3 
 
 vV 
 
 / 
 
 
 
POOR OR RICH? 
 
 Eharp and cold, and old Winter had reminded his 
 
 subjects that he would soon usurp Autumn's throne 
 
 by sending down innumerable messengers in the guise 
 
 of tiny, fleecy snowflakes. Many of them had settled 
 
 noiselessly among the fallen, withered leaves ; some 
 
 fell lightly on the hard frozen ground, while others / 
 
 were floating in the air, as if uncertain whether tocome /I/q "T^^ 
 
 to earth — where nothing mire can last-— or not. There ^ 
 
 was mucn, too, beside the outward dreariness that 
 
 surrounded her, to make this young orphan's heart 
 
 sad, and yet it was with quick, bounding steps she 
 
 pressed the light snow beneath mer dainty fee tj and 
 
 (ascendecl the hill-side. ~'l(Ph'(CC ^^"^^ i^oUNOtH<q ^TeP^^ 
 
 Helen had little difficulty in deciding which house 
 answered Will's description of his home ; and indeed 
 it stood alone, some distance from the little group of 
 houses, as if in outward appearance it described the 
 character and disposition of its inhabit^ints. Maggie 
 Linton would have indignantly repelled the idea that 
 the thought of the ycrmig ladjTs ^gromi^^ / |£x.CWA/\A^|; 
 
 made the slightest change in her xoutiag..i;iijS:Qj;:^4fl^ | poSS^6^t 
 yet, almost unconsciously, the little housekeeper had 
 tried during the last two or three days to keep the 
 house a little more tidy, and she had most certainly 
 sat up late for two nights to mend Johnnie's little 
 dress, that the young lady might at least not toss_ her 
 head at the sight of her brother's tattered clothes, 
 
 B 
 
 _i^_ll^gl_|^^_^^^^ 
 
M. 
 
 rooR OR Ricin 
 
 
 \ 
 
 Q'^\Q,(lM')^k\A yet, notwithstanding Maggie's cITorts, a very 
 H^ ^^\ tVjUilJCoTntoftl^s honie~tr^empfr to Helen, as the childish 
 TMl^l^ f\/vi mistress, with a little graciousness in her manner as 
 trXCH'iN^}^ she remei-^bered her father's words, ushered her in. 
 t?r <^\ f W Johnnie was sitting on the floor beside the stove, 
 1 wliich threw out scarcely any warmth, the little re- 
 
 maining store of fuel being husbanded for the evening, 
 when father and Will would come from work so cold 
 and tired. In his arms, the pale, thin, little child 
 held a gray kitten, that from its struggles evidently 
 considered the embraces too endearing, and gladly 
 made its escape when Johnnie, at the unusual sight of 
 a strange face, ran to his sister, and clung to her skirts 
 in unaffected shyness. 
 
 " I suppose your brother told you I was coming to 
 see you % " said Helen, a little at a loss how to ingra- 
 tiate herself into the favour of the little maiden who 
 stood so respectfully dignified and reserved. 
 
 " He said as you promised to come," was all 
 Maggie's reply, as she sat down and took Johnnie 
 on her knee. 
 
 "And this is Johnnie, I suppose*?" said Helen, at 
 
 r 
 
 '""^ ' length, looking kindly on the frail little form; "poor 
 
 ' i^jT^ ^ little fellow ! Has he been sick % " 
 
 
 Helen had found the way to Maggie's heart ; a 
 sympathismg, kmd word when "wee Johnnie" was 
 the subject would work wonders with his quiet sister. 
 
 L 
 
 r 
 
'*>f^.F-n<J^re^ 
 
 POOH OR RICH? 
 
 fH 
 
 Maggie looked up at Miss Raymond with a bright yet 
 half-tearful smile, as she pressed the little one still j 
 closer in her arms. 
 
 " No, ma'am, he 's not been worse than usual; but 
 Johnnie 's always been kind of weakly, and he can't 
 stand no cold, nor nothing like that, ma'am j he's 
 always worse in winter-time." 
 
 " A nd your mot her is dead. Maggie % " ^£,f€^f^ 
 
 A* Yes, ma'am jlshe died some two or three months PoZtT'fON 
 
 afterlToEnnie was born." tCw r* 
 
 " Poor little fellow ! Then you have everything to 
 do — take care of Johnnie and the house, and get the 
 meals ready all yourself?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; and I suppose the house u jes look 
 kind of dirty ; but it 's hard work to keep things clean 
 in this poor place," returned Maggie, half-apologetic- 
 ally; and f or the first tim e in her life she felt ashamed cAc*' 
 of her comfortless home. It was noJ' tEatTIeren Tiad i_ JI-- 
 
 spoken to her about it; she had rather expressed, pitj ,\1^jq^y' 
 on account of her many duties and cares.^ fA^lt-T— JTiH'^ 
 
 Tefhaps l>Iiss Raymond jmderstood the thoughts ^|M4 
 then filling Maggie's mind, and deemed it better to let 
 them work their own way unaided by further word of 
 hers, so she changed the subject by saying — 
 
 " I was asking Will if he would come to Sunday- 
 school : do you think he will 1 " 
 
 **I think father would like to have him go; he 
 
 17 CJ 
 
POOR OR RICH? 
 
 thinks it would be better for him than running about 
 
 '7 with the boys on the hill," c ontinued Ma ggie /Crowing 
 
 ^ .'(( quite confidential with her new friend.; * "Not that 
 
 ^ Will 's abad boy, but being home all aay Sunday, he 
 
 ufjipi*(\r[^ does not know what to do with himself like; so I 
 
 think father '11 get him to go, though Will feels shy 
 
 like, never havin' been to school." 
 
 " Does he not know how to read 1 " inquired Helen, 
 a little dismayed at the thought of the utter ignorance 
 she would have to deal with. 
 
 1^* Oh, yes, ma'am ; ! father has taught him of even- 
 ings, and Will is very fond of his book ; father says 
 he 's quite a scholar, hut he 's most tired of reading 
 the books we have ; " and Maggie glanced up to a 
 little wooden shelf containing a Bible, evidently but 
 little used, an old annual, and a work on gardening, — 
 a relic of days when roses and hollyhocks bloomed 
 before the Lintons' door. 
 
 " He would get nice books to read if he comes to 
 school," said Helen, her eye involuntarily following 
 Maggie's. 
 
 " Would he though ? That would be fine ; he could 
 read aloud evenings. Father and me is tired of hear- 
 ing the stories in the old green book," pointing to 
 the annual; "we've heard them twenty times and 
 more." 
 
 " Can you reiid yourself, Maggie ? " 
 
 i8 
 
 
POOR OR RICH? 
 
 " Only little words, and not all of tliem ; I 've just 
 picked up a little now and again. You see, when the 
 work's done, there 'ti father's and Will's dothes to 
 mend, and I'm tired," and Maggie heaved a heavy 
 sigh. 
 
 " I suppose you could not come to Sunday-school ? " 
 said Helen, as she rose to go. - 
 
 " I don't think so, as father 's home ; but never 
 mind, if "Will can go, it '11 be good for him.'* 
 
 " But I want him to come to school for other rea- 
 sons than to learn more or get nice books. I want 
 him to come that he may learn about Jesus Christ, who 
 loved us all and died for us. You know abQut.UiRi, 
 M^giel" "' " ^" ' / 
 
 " 'rtiere 's a picture of Him in the Bible hanging on \ 
 the cross. I_look at it sometimes, but father don't J 
 care for reading that book." 
 
 \l Doesn't he ! I 'm sorry ; it is God's own W2S^» 
 and we should love it more than any other book." 
 
 Maggie looked a little bewildered, and Helen sighed 
 as she turned to leave the room. 
 
 " Well, then. Will will come at half -past two on 
 Sunday. I will watch for him, and come to the door 
 when I see him ; little Johnnie is too sick, I suppose^ 
 but if he could come, I would take good care of him." 
 
 " Thank you, ma'am, but Johnnie 's too weakly now ; 
 but when summer comes round, ma'am, maybe he 
 
 19 
 
 HV 
 
 .^^MafeuiauikudM 
 
 MMJSiMMII(Ma«^<MlBaBliaitiiJM«liiliii^^ ■ ■>■ " I'll » li ■ ■ tm . l''."''*'^ ' . 
 
FOOR OR RICH? 
 
 
 VY 
 
 
 could go with Will — eh, Joliimie ? " And Maggie took 
 the little fellow up in her arms, while he, with delighted 
 face, was holding fast with both hands a bright picture- 
 card Miss Raymond had given him. 
 • " Thank you, ma'am ; and perhaps you will come 
 again some day, ma'amT**^ '- \ ' 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I will come very soon." 
 
 As Helen walked along, she felt that there had been 
 much in her visit which should cause her to thank 
 God and take courage. Should Will come to Sunday- 
 school it would be keeping him from dangerous com- 
 panions, and in a measure from breaking God's com- 
 mandments in desecrating His holy day ; he would be 
 provided with books, the reading of which might prove 
 beneficial, not only to himself, but to others. PerhapiL% 
 too, the father could be induced to attend church ; and 
 thus Helen's musings grew brighter, and she scarce 
 heeded the biting wind or the thick flakes, not now 
 descending slowly and undecidedly, but thick and fast, 
 as if determined to cover so much ground ere night 
 Bet in. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "I am the Good Shepherd." 
 " Ke shall gather the lambs in His arm." 
 
 ND so the young lady did come! and 
 what did you think of her,^ Meg 1 " in- 
 quired Linton that evening, as the little 
 family once more gathered round the supper- 
 table. 
 
 " She 's well enough," answered Maggie, not 
 willing at once to acknowledge her change of 
 feeling towards Will's friend. 
 
 " Isn't she real nice ? " asked Will, not heed- 
 ing his sister's reply. " I think she 's as nice 
 as can be." 
 
 " She 's not like Mrs Gordon, anyhow," 
 returned Maggie, yielding a little j "she didn't 
 
 '^ 21 ■ 
 
 
 -///' 
 
 
 im 
 
 mSm 
 
 tssmmaamm 
 
CHANGES IN MAGGIE'S HOME, 
 
 ^^^^ ^ tell me I ought to be ashamed of myself for having such 
 
 Q^g^ a dir ty house, and she needn'tj for I felt it bad enougb, 
 
 p , ^ maA_J'''1 can tell you ; it 's not a fit place for the likes of her 
 
 to come into, it isu't." 
 
 r" Well, I can't help it, child," returned her father, 
 
 ^//VT^TJi sadly. *'I feel it more than you do, Meg, but I can'$ 
 
 "Now I didn't mean to vex you, father," said 
 Maggie, quickly, grieved at her careless vrords. **I 
 know you can't help it j I was blaming myself, not 
 you." 
 
 "You've no cause to blame yourself, child j^jou_ 
 do thejbest_yc^u can." % 
 
 " I don't know as I doj" and Maggie threw a half- 
 despairing look around the wretched room. " But the 
 jW/ young lady was kind, anyhow ; and spoke so kind-like 
 to Johnnie, she did \ and gave him a fine picture : you 
 must show it to father, Johnnie." 
 
 Will was now all anxiety to know what she had said 
 about him. "She wants you at school by half-past 
 two on Sunday, and she '11 meet you and take you to 
 her class," said Maggie, in reply to Weill's hurried 
 questions. " And, oh, father ! she says Will will get 
 nice books to read — won't that be fine ; you'll read them 
 
 
 
 to father and me, won't you. Will ? " 
 , "Maybe so,'*' replied Will, feeling proud of the 
 1 honours to be conferred, and needing little urging from 
 
 2^ 
 
 b 
 
 ■™— — 
 
CHANGES IN MAGGIE'S HOME, 
 
 his father to rucake him willing and glad to accept Miss 
 Eaymond's offer. 
 
 Sometimes his shyness would make him feel awkward 
 at the thought of going among so many strangers, but 
 Miss Raymond would be there, and then — the boo ks. 
 Will could not withstand such a temptation, whatever 
 might be the consequences. But then what about his 
 clothes ? Careful little Maggie had long ago thought 
 about that difficulty, and late into the night the busy 
 fingers plied the shining needle, that an air of decency 
 at least might be given to Will's worn, shabby clothes. 
 All the next day, too, Maggie was busy for Will, wash- 
 ing and ironing, cutting and mending ; for though to 
 appear with clean, whole garments was a rare thing 
 for one of the Lintons, still Maggie would not let her 
 brother go to Miss Raymond's class clad in dirty or un- 
 tidy clothes. On the evening of the visit there was a 
 
 scene never before witnessed in that wretched abode. 
 EThton took UttTe'trohiihTe oh his knee, and read from 
 the card Miss Raymond had given him, with the picture 
 of the Shepherd and His flock, the words — 
 
 " I was a wandering sheep, 
 I did not love the fold ; 
 I did not love my Saviour's voice, ^ 
 I would not be controll'd. 
 
 >v 
 
 " Jesus has sought the lost, 
 
 Has found the wandering, sheep ; 
 \ 23 
 
 nnin 
 
v>v 
 
 / 
 
 And 
 
 CHANGES IN MAGGIE'S HOME, 
 
 'Twas He that brought me to the fold, 
 'Tis He that still doth keep. 
 
 ** I was a vandering sheep, 
 I would not be controU'd ; 
 But now I love the Shepherd's voice, 
 \ I love, I love the fold." 
 
 aste read these words to his motherless boy, 
 
 [^/^^^o^y^ JoEnJLinton felt a consciousness of how far he himself 
 t AC X- had strayed from the fold of the Good Shepherd, and 
 ■— how little charm there was to him in his Saviour's 
 
 voice. 
 
 It was a great event in Will's life, when, clean and 
 neat, thanks to Maggie's care, he set off for the school- 
 house on Sunday afternoon. He stood for a time at 
 the door, afraid to open it and expose himself to the 
 gaze of the many eyes which the hum of voices told 
 that the room contained. At length Will gained 
 courage, turned the handle, and stepped into the room, 
 looking anxiously for Miss Raymond. He soon espied 
 ' \\k^ her talking to the tall, kind-looking minister that Will 
 ffJrt^^^ f ftfl'had so often s een in the village streefs, or wending his 
 jU^^^"^ way to visit the hill people. Very soon Miss Raymond 
 lAJ^*^ '^^^saw her new scholar, and hastening forward, with a 
 0$"T •rj smile of welcome showed him her class, where half a 
 d»jzen boys were already seated. Wjll felt very shy at 
 first, and ashamed that he did not know some verses 
 like the other boys. But before the kindly smile of 
 OY fiisleacher his bashfulness by degrees wore oft^ andlao 
 
 \ 
 
CHANGES IN MAGGIE 'S HOME. 
 
 cliikl in the scliool felt liapjiicr than did he, when Miss 
 Raymond praised his reading and sent him off with a 
 card containing the verses he was to learn for the next 
 Sunday. 
 
 Who can tell but that Will was thinking of the joys 
 of that better land Miss Raymond had told him about, 
 as he trudged home singing the words of the hymn 
 they had sung, and which, in some way unaccountable 
 to himself, seemed to ring in his ears ? — 
 
 " Come to that happy laud, 
 Come, come away," 
 
 How would Helen's heart have rejoiced could she 
 have looked into the winolow of th:it cheerless cottage 
 on the hill, and seen Will standing by his father, who, 
 with that Bible, untouched for years, on the table before 
 him, was trying to find out for his son where the verses 
 were. It was a sight that angels might rejoice to look 
 down upon from their glorious home above, where for 
 ever they sing the praises of our God and King. 
 
 i^Mii^ilMl^^^iifiiiiiiiSil 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 " We are like little flowers in bud ; 
 We know not evil yet from good ; 
 Nor c.in we reason if we would, 
 On that which is not understood : 
 
 Q hf mo^li 9rs, be our teac hers ! 
 Show us^he wrong^^ teach us the right ; 
 Ife iiiito us as God s own TigTif 1 
 VeTove lis — love lis — and "ye might 
 '^e our divinest preachers." 
 
 UST outside the village, and beyond the 
 modest but picturesque church, from 
 
 which it was separated by a beaver-meadow 
 
 and a swift-running stream, stood *' The Cedars,'* 
 
 the residence of Mrs Gordon, sheltered on two 
 
 sides by groves of grand old cedars intermingled 
 
 with the silvery birch and maple, and rich in 
 
 all the treasures of wild-flowers in which onr 
 
 Canadian forests abound. The earliest hepa- 
 
 ticas were found in " The Cedars " bush, as 
 
 26 
 
THE CEDARS, 
 
 it was familiarly called in the village ; lobelias, tril- 
 liums, wild violets, the beautiful pitcLer-plant, and 
 feathery fern, were in great luxuriance ; whilst the 
 approach to the house from the road lay through 
 an avenue of chestnuts, growing out from the green 
 sward on either side, and gracefully varied with ever- 
 greens and groups of the flowering almond, ma- 
 honia, barberry, japonica, and other sweet-scented 
 shrubs which adorn our lawns. Sweet and melodious 
 were the songs of the birds as they resounded through 
 tie deep woods ; very pleasing their warbling and 
 trilling as they flitted from bush to tree. Every 
 thicket poured forth its harmony, and the blue 
 jay added his accompaniment, as, with well-feigned 
 alarm, he screamed at the top of his voice as Helen 
 drew near. The golden oriole, the scarlet tanager, and 
 the lovely, gentle blue-bird, seemed to vie with each 
 other, incessantly crossing and recrossing th^> avenue, 
 as if challenging attention to their beautiful plumage, 
 but especially to the care of Him without whose knoTv- 
 ledgc not a sparrow can fall to the ground. 
 
 THE BLUE-BIRD. 
 
 " When first the lone butterfly flits on the wiing, 
 
 When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing; 
 Oh, then comes the Blue-bird, the herald of spring, 
 And hails with his warblings the charms of the season. 
 
 27 
 
THE CEDARS. 
 
 " He flies ihrougli the orchard, he visits each tree, 
 
 The red flo'voring peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms; 
 He snaps up destroyers wherever they be. 
 
 And seizes the caitiff's that lurk in their bosoms j 
 He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours, 
 
 The worms from their webs, where they riot and welter : 
 His song and his services freely are ours. 
 
 And all that he asks is — in summer a shelter. 
 
 " When all the gay scenes of the summer are o'er, 
 
 And autum.n slow enter*' '■o silent and sallow; 
 And millions cf warblers, tiiat charm'd us before, 
 
 Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow ; 
 The Blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home, 
 
 Still lingers, and looks for a milder to-morrow ; 
 Till forced by the horrors of winter to roam, 
 
 He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow. 
 
 " While spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm. 
 
 The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven, 
 Or love's native music have influence to charm. 
 
 Or sympathy's glow to our feelings are given, 
 Still dear to each bosom the Blue-bird shall be ; 
 
 His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure; 
 For through bleakest storms, if a calm he but see, 
 
 He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure ! " 
 
 " The Cedars" was a substantial stone building, of 
 some pretension to taste, with its French windows, 
 balcony, and handsome porch, around which the Vir- 
 ginia and trumpet creeper hung in rich festoons. 
 
 The heart of Helen Raymond, taught by her blessed 
 "VY Master to" consider the lilies of the field," rejoiced in 
 
 the beautiful scene which lay before her, when, some 
 
 " 28 ■ ^ 
 
 Jij,i^Atii 
 
 ■Ml^LMk 
 
 ilUiik^.. 
 
THE CEDARS. 
 
 little time before our story opens, she walked up the 
 winding avenue for the first time ; but the ties which 
 bound her to the bright, cheerful, Christian home she 
 had just left were not to be too rudely sundered, and for 
 a moment a shade of sadness overshadowed her better 
 thoughts as she drew near to the house. Nor was the 
 heart of the lonely girl lightened by Mrs Gordon^s 
 reception ; her patronising manner and cold greeting y^^ Syt^ClS" 
 were so different from what Helen, had teen accustonafid. v5<ito A^r 
 to, that sad indeed the orphan felt when left alone in 
 tEelsmall apartment assigned to her use.. But most of 
 all -was she disappointed when introduced to her future 
 pupils, three in number — Grace, who numbered fourteen 
 summers, Horace twelve, and Laura ten. At first Helen 
 tried in vain to assure herself that there must be some- _jyy 
 tiling good and lovable about her pupils; but their care- 
 lessness and impertinence seemed at once to repel her love <^'ty 
 and defy her authority. It was only too evident that, "^^ ' " 
 whatever control Mrs Gordon had over her children, it 
 was not the gentle, all-powerful influence of love, but 
 was enforced in harshness, and consented to not will- 
 ingly, but through fear. _Helen soon perceived that in 
 that house, or at least among her pupils, religion^ in- t/|C^, «• 
 stead, of being looked upon as a holy, blessed thing, 
 was hated and despised as something which enjoined 
 unwelcome duties and exacted unwilling sacrifices. 
 
 When Helen had been an inmate of Mrs Gord(;a*s 
 
 29 
 
 
 % 
 

 ^ 
 
 THE CEDARS. 
 
 house some three months, she began to feel that there 
 was more in her lot for which to be thankful than 
 she had realised on the day of her arrival at The 
 Cedars. Increased acquaintance with her pupils served 
 to show her that, under all the seeming indifference, 
 pride, and selfishness they displayed, there was much 
 of what was good, true, and noble; that in spite of 
 Horace's obstinate selfishness, he had an honesty f^itl^" 
 ful heart, and if his dispositions and propensities were 
 Only turned in the right direction, and kept in check 
 by that love which never faileth, he might yet become 
 a true Christian man. Ever stea dfast and s taunch in 
 the way of right she felt he would be, if once led into 
 1har~narf6w path. And Laura, too, passionate and 
 wilfuIT^was often affectionate and winning ; and Hele© 
 
 f"' i 
 
 ho£edthatj^r.eg4j.8JieJia^,^^a^^ inflxience..over 
 
 ll^fLtiW^ the neglected child. But of Grace, Helen could not feel 
 thus ; she repelled every attempt of hers to win her love, 
 and frequently was the occasion of creating rebellion 
 in the other children. Sometimes the ponr young 
 governess could scarcely restrain the indignant, angry 
 
 ^^^'^i ' wyf^-^^^^^^*^^^^ which would rise to her lips at Grac^'^ 
 impertinent, irritating remarks. It would have been 
 worse than useless to apply to the mother, and so she 
 laboured patiently on, hoping that at last love would 
 break down the hard wall of obstinacy and pride within 
 which Grace seemed to enclose herself, and give her 
 
 30 
 
 fK€Pfil'^-'^t 
 
THE CEDARS. 
 
 entrance to that heart of liers which could hardly be so 
 unfeeling as it seemed. 
 
 The first Sunday Helen spent at The Cedars she had 
 asked Grace what time they went to school. 
 
 ** Oh, we don't go to Sunday-school," said Laura ; 
 " only mamma goes, to teach the poor children of the 
 village." 
 
 *'And why don't you go, too?" asked Helen, in 
 
 •surprise. ^.....^,^...~ ^ .^,„»,^>-~. 
 
 " Only poor children go to Sunday-school," returned im/ 
 Grace, scornfully ; " I wonder you ask such a question^ 
 Miss Kaymond." 
 
 " I always used to like going to Sunday-school very 
 much," said Helen, with a sigh, as she thought of the 
 old home, and of her father and mother. 
 
 " I think I should like to go," said Laura. 
 
 " It would be better than staying at home," added 
 Horace ; " Sunday afternoons are always so stupid." 
 
 " How can you talk such nonsense ? Mamma would 
 not think of letting us go. Besides, how would \ 
 you like to sit close to a lot of dirty children ?_". and -f/y . 
 Grace shrugged her shoulders with disdain at tjie 
 thought. 
 
 " Oh, you are so proud, Grace ! The children that^o 
 to Sunday-school are nearly all neat and clean ; for the 
 very poor don't go,** returned Horace ; and then, con- 
 scious of lot having silenced his sister's objections in 
 
 31 
 
THE CEDARS. 
 
 y1/ 
 
 
 t 
 
 M 
 
 >V 
 
 the ?east, he walked to the window, and began whistling 
 to himself. 
 
 " Which do you think God would look upon with 
 the most pleasure, Grace — the child whose heart was 
 full of love to Him, who tried to please Him, and was 
 poorly dressed; or the child who was well dressed, 
 and was disobedient, careless, unthankful?" asked 
 Helen, quietly. Grace's cheek flushed angrily, as she 
 replied, tossing her head — 
 
 " 1 am sure I don't know ; I never thought about 
 it. That was not what I was talking about at 
 all." 
 
 " It was in reality," said Horace; " and after all, what 
 are fine clothes % — what good do they do if a man is 
 dishonest, mean, and bad 1 " 
 
 Helen felt, as she had done before, that Horace's real 
 danger would be in trusting in his o^vn righteousness, 
 in priding himself upon his own superiority, and 
 sighed. A silence of some minutes ensued, when 
 Horace spoke again — 
 
 " I never could see why mamma would not let us go 
 to Sunday-school ; she is so queer. "I 've half a mind 
 to go into your class. Miss Raymond." 
 
 " Not if your mother thinks it better for you not to 
 
 go ; going to school would not do you much good if 
 
 you were disobeying her ; but if she does not object, I 
 
 would like you to come very much," 
 
 32 
 
 14^- 
 
THE CEDARS. 
 
 Horace again turned away, Helen fully expecting 
 him to say, "'* Pshaw ! who cares for her ? " or some 
 such remark, which were not unfrequent expression? * 
 his, but no such words came. 
 
 " And how would you like to go, if mamma says 
 yes % " said Helen, turning to Laura. 
 
 " I think I 'd like it, if Horace went." 
 
 " Well, you may please yourselves, but I shan't go," 
 exclaimed Grace. 
 
 "Wait till you're asked," returned her brother, 
 impertinently. 
 
 " Well, you '11 see mamma won't let you go ; 
 I'm sure she won't," said Grace, as she left the 
 room. 
 
 " I will tell you what," said Helen, when she was 
 gone, " if your mamma objects, I could be home by 
 half-past three, and there would be time before tea for 
 us to have a Sunday-school at home : how would you 
 like that?" 
 
 " I think it would be nice," Laura replied ; " don't 
 you, Horace?'* 
 
 " Not so good as going to school j there would be 
 nothing but girls here," returned Horace, in his blunt 
 way. He had never learnt to regard the feelings of 
 others, or perhaps he would have seen the shadow on 
 his governess's face, and have regretted his thoughtless 
 remark. 
 
 33 B 
 
THE CEDARS, 
 
 
 i^ 
 
 Helen remarked sadly, " Well, Laura, will it only be 
 you and 1 1 " 
 
 " Oh, perhaps I will come too," said Horace. " But 
 there 's the bell — come along." And hurrying out of 
 the schoolroom first, he left the other two to follow 
 together, never thinking that some politeness was due 
 from a little gentleman, as he believed himself to be, 
 even to a governess. 
 
 Children, you who have a kind governess who works 
 and toils for you, do you ever think how sad her life 
 must^be working her weary way among strangers, per- 
 haps far from those nearest and dearest to her ? Do 
 you ever think how a kind, sympathising word, even 
 from you, might cheer her when she is sad, comfort 
 her when she is lonely, with the thought that, even far 
 from those dearest to her, she finds some one to love 
 her? Do you ever think how, by your coldness, your 
 indifference, and'^disobesdiela ce,' y6u~g^ aii J wouiicl 
 her; wEiIe, By your thouglitfulness, your attention to her 
 wishes, by many a little act of kindness, you may lighten 
 I her often heavy load, and brighten her path of care ? 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ^Ionian mxit ^unhtnmB, 
 
 " One by one thy duties wait thee, 
 Let thy whole strength go to each ; 
 Let no future dreams elate thee, 
 Learn thou first what these can teach. 
 
 " One by one thy griefs shall meet thee ; 
 Do not fear an armfed band ; 
 One will fade as others greet thee, 
 Shadows passing through the land." 
 
 ELEN was a little surprised when, one 
 day during the following week, Mrs 
 Gordon introduced the Sunday-school 
 subject, and, from her words and manner, be- 
 trayed that Grace had been duly informing her 
 of all that had been said in the schoolroom on 
 a\^ Sunday afternoon. 
 
 "I cannot see what business you have to 
 interfere with my children in such matters, 
 Miss Raymond," added Mrs Gordon, after 
 having delivered herself on the subject. 
 
 ** I can assure you," returned Helen, " that 
 35 
 
 \l 
 
■■ 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNBEAMS, 
 
 what I said was not meant as interference. I had no 
 idea that you objected to the children going to Sun- 
 day-school. I am su ;e I always found it the greatest 
 pleasure, when I was a child." 
 
 " Ah ! I daresay." This was all Mrs Gordon saidy 
 
 but what she meant was, " It might do for you ; but 
 
 my children, with their delicate health and refined 
 
 „^^f/Teelings, must not associate with the children who 
 
 attend the school here." 
 
 Helen understood what she meant, and was silenced. 
 Perhaps a feeling of regret for her words crossed Mrs 
 Gordon's mind, for, in spite of her foolish pride and mis- 
 taken ideas, she was not an unfeeling woman ; so, after 
 a moment's pause, she turned again to Helen, saying — 
 
 ** However, Miss Raymond, if you choose to read 
 with the children when you return from school, you 
 may. I daresay it would do them good, for I am 
 sure you keep them in better order than I can. But I 
 am afraid you will never get Grace to join you, — she is 
 such a high-spirited girl, so impatient of control ; " and 
 as if it was a fact greatly to be rejoiced over, Mrs Gor- 
 don shook her glossy curls and settled herself in her 
 luxurious chair with a satisfied air. 
 
 But Helen was too happy to notice her. She had not 
 expected such ready acquiescence in her wishes, and she 
 longed for the next_^ugiaj^,Jb hat her wor kjitioae 
 
 '*'w might begin. 
 
 ' ■ --« 36 
 
CLOUDS AND SUNBEAMS, 
 
 The Sabbath came at last, and she hurried home 
 from school full of happy thoughts ; but these/pleasant 
 flowers of the mind were sadly crushed by the sight 
 of Horace fast asleep on a sofa up-stairs in the hall, 
 and Laura curled up in a chair reading a story-book. 
 However, when, having removed her hat and cloak, she 
 returned to them, Horace was sitting up rubbing his 
 eyes, and Laura yawning over her book. 
 
 " Will you come and have Sunday-school 1 " she said, 
 stopping in the hall with her Bible in her hand. 
 
 " Oh, stay here," drawled out Horace j ** it 's jolly on 
 this sofa." 
 
 "Oh, no, that would never do; we will go to the 
 schoolroom." 
 
 Laura jumped down, and putting her hand into 
 Helen's, went with her, a little to her governess's sur- 
 prise, and much to her delight. They had hardly 
 gained the schoolroom when Horace joined them, and 
 lazily threw himself into a chair. 
 
 " Eemember we are in school," said Helen, re- 
 provingly. 
 
 " Oh, pshaw j " returned the boy. " Have we to 
 sit up just as we do in school ? " 
 
 " If we are careful to behave properly, and be atten- 
 tive when learning only about some famous man, or the 
 geography of some country, should we not be much 
 more so when studying in God's Word about Jesua 
 
 37 
 
 '\. 
 
CLOUDS AND SUNBEAMS. 
 
 Christ and the happy heaven above 1 But now, Laura 
 before we commence, go and tell Grace that we will be 
 glad if she will join us." 
 
 Laura went a little reluctantly, while Horace lifted 
 down their school Bibles from the shelf on the wall. 
 Laura speedily returned, saying Grace would not come. 
 Helen looked up sadly, and said, *'Iam very sorry, 
 but perhaps she will come some day ; and now we will 
 begin our school with prayer." 
 
 It was short and simple, and when they arose Helen 
 said they would next sing a hymn. Both the children 
 had good voices, and being fond of singing, readily 
 joined in as Helen sang — 
 
 ** We sing of the realms of the blest, 
 Of that country so bright and so fair, 
 And oft are its glories confess'd ; 
 But what must it be to be there ? 
 
 " We speak of its pathways of gold, 
 
 Of its walls deck'd with jewels so rare, 
 Its wonders and pleasures untold ; 
 But what must it be to be there ? 
 
 " We speak of its freedom from sin. 
 From sorrow, temptation, and care, 
 From trials without and within ; 
 But what must it be to be there ? 
 
 •* We speak of its service of love, 
 
 The robes which the glorified wear, 
 The Church of the First-born above ; 
 But what must it be to be there ? 
 38 
 
 * 
 
 Mtfiiiiiik 
 
CLOUDS AND SUNBEAMS. 
 
 " Do Thon, Lord, 'midst pleasure or woe, 
 Still for heaven our spirits prepare. 
 And shortly we also shall know 
 And feel what it is to be there." 
 
 " Don't you think mamma would let us have the 
 melodeon in here on Sunday afternoons 1" asked 
 Laura, when the hymn was ended. " It would be so 
 nice. 
 
 " I think she would," said Helen ; " and you are 
 getting on so nicely with your, music that soon you 
 could play the tunes yourself." 
 
 Laura was charmed with this plan, and could scarcely 
 collect her thoughts sufficiently to attend to the les- 
 son. Helen, opening her Bible, turned to Horace and 
 said — 
 
 " I think we will take the celebrated characters of 
 the Bible as they come in order ; we must therefore 
 begin with Adam. We will read all we can find 
 about each person, both in the Old and New Testa- 
 ment, and try what we can learn from their characters 
 and the different circumstances of their lives — by what 
 we can imitate in their good qualities, and see what 
 lessons we may learn from their sins and follies." 
 
 The children read the principal incidents in the life 
 of Adam and Eve, while Helen endeavoured to show 
 them the great sin of disobedience to God's commands, 
 the punishment it always brings, and to tell them of 
 
 39 
 
CLOUDS AND SUNBEAMS. 
 
 that precious Saviour whose righteousness can alone 
 avail for us — who was prophesied of even in the earliest 
 chapters of the Bible — who, ever so many years before 
 He came to live, and suft'er, and die for us, was the 
 Saviour of all who believed in Him. The children had 
 often heard of this before, but Helen's words seemed to 
 give to " that sweet story of old" new interest, and an 
 hour passed before they were aware, 
 
 "And now," said Helen, as she closed her Bible, 
 "I am going to give you our subject for next Su lay, 
 and before we meet again you are to find out all you 
 can about the person of whom we will read, for doing 
 BO will not only exercise your minds, but will give you 
 a knowledge of God's Word which is only gained by 
 careful study." 
 
 Horace looked interested; anything like research was 
 just what he liked, and when he liked to do a thing, 
 Horace generally did it well, 
 
 " Our subject for next Sunday," continued Helen, as 
 
 she wrote it on a piece of paper for the children, " will 
 
 be, a n? ""lo suffered for righteousness' sake at the 
 
 har " wicked and cruel brother, I don't want to 
 
 h ^ar guesses," she said, with a smile, as Laura was 
 
 about to speak ; " I would rather not kno'7 what you 
 
 think ; and Horace, for the present at least, I would 
 
 like you to help Laura a little ; after a few weeks she 
 
 will be able to get on alone." 
 
 40 
 
 
CLOUDS AND SUNBEAMS, 
 
 ** But when will we find all this out ? " asked Laura ; 
 *' wo have so many lessons to learn during the week." 
 
 "Yes, but you have Saturday; less than an houi 
 would be sufficient time for you to find and learn your 
 verses ; and you might, while I am at Sunday-school, 
 look over your lesson together. And now we will sing 
 
 anr cher hymn." 
 
 /" And so closed Helen's first Sunday-school at home."N ip. ^i^ 
 A happy hour it had been to her; and when she sought / L/iP (^ / • 
 her own room to ask for a blessing on her labours, her \ Of\V^t^ 
 heart glowed with thankfulness for the new privilege 
 granted to her. 
 
 Hele:'i soon found that to that hour on Sunday after- 
 noons she owed much of her increasing influence over 
 her pupils, and it was with tremBIing thankfulness she ' ^/ 
 felt that the entrance of that word which giveth light, fP^fClS^KC 
 was gradually dispelling the clouds of pride and selfish- '^««-— """' 
 ness from the hearts of her scholars. She liv^^jj^^ope 
 thj\t, Grace would yet join them in thei^^lea^^;^^^- i^n - rs 
 ployment. Very soon Laura took her teacher's place 
 ai the melodeon, which Mrs Gordon had willingly 
 allowed them to use, and very proud the little girl felt 
 of her position as musician. Often poor G|:ra.Cg.J£oi;i]d 
 listen at the door, and wish she was with ^em, but tha,t LACK, 
 spirit of pride which was her greatest enemy ever held 
 her back, and with a sigh she would return to the 
 loneliness and solitude of her own room. 
 
 ^ 
 
 i 
 
•Ii 
 
 : : 
 
 LACK 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Sow, and look onward, upward, 
 
 Where the starry light appears, — 
 Where, in spite of the coward's doubting, 
 
 Or your own heart's trembling fears, 
 You shall reap in joy the harvest 
 
 You have sown to-day iu tears." 
 
 AYS and _weeks and months pa ssed on 
 in their never-staying course, bringing 
 very little outward change either to the 
 Lintons in their humble home, or to the in- 
 habitants of Mrs Gordon's stately mansion ; 
 yet in both houses an inward change was 
 'going oiiT^ry slowly, almost imperceptibly, 
 but yet surely, and all through the tiumblein- 
 strumentality of Helen Raymond's often silent 
 influence. W .0 need say that they are too 
 
 poor, too weak, to work for Christ ? 
 
 42 
 
 
 T 
 
 ^j^i^gtmi^tmiimi^Mm 
 
iH 
 
 BUDS OF PROMISE APPEARING. 
 
 " If you are too weak to journey up the mountain steep and high, 
 You can stand within the valley as the multitudes go by, 
 And can chant in happy measure as they slowly pass along ; 
 Though they may forget the singer, they will not forget the 
 song. 
 
 " If you cannot in the harvest gather up the richest sheaves, 
 Many a grain both ripe and golden, which the careless reaper 
 
 leaves, 
 Tou may glean amidst the briars growing rank against the 
 
 wall. 
 And it may be that the shadows hide the heaviest wheat of all. 
 
 " Do not, then, stand idlj waiting for some nobler work to do 
 For'your~Eeayeniy Father's glory ^ver earnest, ever true, 
 Go and toil in any vineyard, work in Eatieafie-a.ttd.m. .m-ayer ; 
 If you want a field of labour, you can find it anywhere." 
 
 Even the little ones can do much for the cause of 
 
 God helow. Little hands can ofttimes do work where 
 larger ones would fail, just as little sparkling drops of 
 dew will make the tender floweret grow which the 
 mighty tempest would destroy. Jesus listened with 
 delight to the lisping praise of infant voices, and who 
 can tell but that the sweet songs of those little ones 
 cheered and comforted Him even in those dark hours 
 of dreadful agony that so soon followed his triumphal 
 entrance into Jerusalem ! _0h^ little children ! come to 
 Him, that He may take you up in His loving armSj^ and 
 bless you. No hand but His can safely guide an d 
 support you in the perilous journey of life that lies 
 
 untrodden and unFuownTBeloreyou Nlolovelbut His 
 
 — ^ ^ 
 
 M 
 
BUDS OF PROMISE APPEARING. 
 
 can comfort you in trouble, or make the sunny days of 
 life really bright and happy ; and when Death comes 
 — and it may come to any of you very soon — it will 
 be no enemy, but a friend, a deliverer to release you the 
 sooner from earth, that you may find eternal rest in 
 
 Jesus's bosom. 
 
 /"llelen Kaymond fondly hoped that Laura Gordon 
 / was trying to love and serve Him whom the young 
 &tiui^ \ governess ever strove to set before her pupils. The 
 t^ ^fOoQ\ outbreaks of temper were less frequent ; impatient, 
 '^0) Bc/r*^ ^ninkind words were seldom used by her in the school- 
 room, and Helen began to feel, with thankful heart, that 
 
 
 ^er work had not been in vain. 
 
 TLtm^^ Sundays came and went, however, without finding 
 Grace joining in the lessons, which were regularly kept 
 up, seemingly with increasing interest, by Horace and 
 Laura, who quite looked forward to Sunday afternoons. 
 Once or twice Helen had asked Grace to join with 
 them, but the girl would scarcely vouchsafe any reply 
 whatever. However, lately she had manifested some 
 interest by making inquiries of Horace as to what they 
 did, and she often declared Sunday afternoon was the 
 most stupid time of the whole week. These and other 
 things made Helen believe that she was not so indif- 
 ferent as she seemed, and that in reality she would be 
 glad to \ix&.Q part in their lessons. Laura, too, was of 
 
 the same opinion, and frequently she and Helen would 
 
 44 
 
 . 
 
 ite 
 
 niaMAMiMlliiiMMiiiaMi 
 
BUDS OF PROMISE APPEARING. 
 
 talk together of how they could induce Grace to meet 
 with them. 
 
 One Sunday, when the bright spring days were really 
 coming, and the snow and ice fast vanishing under the 
 powerful rays of the sun, Helen and Laura were sitting 
 together after their school had been closed, the soft 
 shades of evening stealing quietly in. A sweet peace 
 seemed to come over the heart of the orphan governess 
 while she stroked her pupil's soft hair tenderly, and 
 felt how dear she was growing. The subject of the day 
 had been Joseph's reconciliation with his brethren. So 
 much of instruction and interest does the life of this 
 patriarch afford, that Helen felt that in one lesson they 
 could not take it all in, and made it the subject of 
 several Sundays. But now the story was nearly ended, 
 and she had been speaking ot the beautiful type Joseph 
 ^as of the blessed Saviour, and of all that Jesus had done 
 for His brethren, even though they had treated Him 
 far worse tlian Joseph's brothers had their father's 
 favourite. Both governess and pupil had been silent 
 for some moments, when Laura, lifting her head from 
 Helen's lap, as she sat on a stool at her feet, and placing 
 one of her hands in her friend's, musingly said — 
 
 " How much Jesus did for us ! and yet we find it 
 so hard to give up even a little thing that we like for 
 Him; don't we?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, very often ; but it is in sacrificing self 
 
 45 
 
 ■'■"^ '-''-'• 
 
BUDS OF PROMISE APPEARING. 
 
 H/ 
 
 and our own wishes that we are most like Christ. But 
 what are you thinking of, dear ? " 
 
 Laura did not reply at once, but hid her face in Miss 
 Eaymond's lap. 
 
 " What is the matter, Laura, dear % " asked Helen, 
 stooping down to the child. 
 
 "I thought that perhaps — perhaps, if I let Gracie 
 play the melodeon on Sunday afternoons she would 
 come to school." T e words were very low and broken, 
 and at last Laura could restrain herself no longer, and 
 sobbing out, " But oh ! I liked playing the tunes so 
 much," she gave way to her sorrow. 
 
 Helen waited a little; she well knew the struggle 
 passing in the child's heart, and felt that there must 
 have been a great change there before Laura would 
 have even thought of thus giving up her own pleasure. 
 
 ** Laura, darling ! " she at length said, caressing the 
 
 child, " I know it would be very hard for you to give 
 
 this pleasure up ; I had not thought of it before ; but, 
 
 perhaps, you could induce Grace to join us by thus 
 
 yielding to her your post at the melodeon. PoQf 
 
 child ! " she added, as the little girl's tears fell fast and 
 
 hot, " I feel for you ; but, dear, I am sure you will be 
 
 all th e happier f or this \self-den ial.l How pleasant it 
 
 will be to have Grace with us, and think that, in God's 
 
 hand, you were the instrument of bringing her ! Per- 
 
 haps^e will not come; but even if she will not, you 
 
 46 
 
 m 
 
BUDS OF PROMISE APPEARING. 
 
 will be happier for doing all you can. But here she 
 is ; shall we ask her ?" 
 
 Laura was glad the deepening twilight hid her tear- 
 stained face, so that her sister did not notice that she 
 had been crying. Grace having obtained the book for 
 which she had come, was leaving the room, when Miss 
 Raymond said — 
 
 "Won't you stay, Grace? Laura and I want to 
 talk with you." 
 
 " What do you want % " asked Grace, coldly, stopping 
 however at the door. 
 
 *'0h ! come and sit down with us, Gracie \ it is so 
 nice in here, the moonlight is just beginning to shine 
 in ; do come, Gracie. I '11 fetch you the rocking-chair 
 out of the hall j" and Laura jumped up, and bringing 
 in the chair, set it down close to her own stool, just 
 where the mild rays of the moon were pouring in 
 through the long French windoWj___ ^^ ^ /3^(lV 
 
 iiX.w.asLgfliag.tQ_read,('_said Grace, hesitatingly, yet OJAN'^ 
 
 she laid _ her book dowii| and took the chair Laura had TO • ^^ 
 brought her, who, slipping ; er little hand in that of her 
 sister's, looked lovingly up at her. Grace was touched, 
 she could hardly tell why, and gently pressed the little 
 hand that lay in hers. 
 
 " Oh, Gracie ! " Laura began, her voice trembling, 
 "we want you so much to come with us on 'Sunday 
 afternoon ; do Gracie, won't you ? " 
 
 47 
 
 ■ fV 
 
 t^aimUK^timm^mmmtmm^tl^^^mmmtimltm 
 
*te> 
 
 .te 
 
 X 
 
 BUDS OF PROMISE APPEARING. 
 
 Helen saw the entreaties of the little pleader would 
 avail more than any words of hers, and so remained 
 silent, stroking Laura's hair, while she inwardly prayed 
 that the little one's mission might be blessed. Grace 
 did not speak, but Laura could feel the hand that held 
 hers tremble. 
 
 " And, Grace," the child went on, " if you will only 
 come, you may play the tunes, and that is so nice !" and 
 Laura, at the remembrance of what had been such a 
 pleasure to her, suddenly broke down and hid her face 
 in Helen's lap, lest Grace should see the tears. All 
 was silent for a minute, then Grace bent her head down 
 to Laura % and wMspered — ^^ 
 
 / "I will come. Lorry." "^ 
 
 taura sprang up and threw her arms round her 
 sister's neck, but neither spoke. In a few moments \ 
 Grace rose and left the room, not, however, without | 
 stooping down and giving Helen a kiss, who could only 
 
 jnurmur^ " God bless joUj^dearlJ^^.„.~^ — — 
 
 - ^....^..^-.....-^^^.........ti.akjw^ji^^. 
 
<J> 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 ^ §ag of i^st. . 
 
 " Hail ! sacred day of rest, 
 From toil and trouble free : 
 Hail ! quiet spirit, bringing peace 
 And joy to me. 
 
 " A holy stillness breathing calm 
 On all the world around, 
 Uplifts my soul, O God, to Thee, 
 Where rest is found. " 
 
 T is Saturday night ; little Johnnie and 
 tired Will have both sought their 
 humble bed. Will had been working 
 hard all day splitting wood, while his father 
 sawed. Maggie was busy with her needle, try 
 ing once more to make Will's patched and 
 threadbare coat fit for his appearance at Sunday- 
 school. Her father sat near her, his elbows on 
 the table, his head resting on his hands, but his 
 eyes fixed on his daughter's nimble fingers. 
 
 "You must be tired, lass; come, lay aside 
 your work and rest a while." 
 
 49 a 
 
A DAY OF REST. 
 
 p. "Yes, .''m tired, but I'm 'most done; ard then, 
 you know, to-morrow will be Sunday, and now-a-days 
 I don't do much of Sundays, so that it's most like 
 lf\(j(\ a holiday,— leastways, what I think them li ke, for I 
 
 -K^tORW have not ha\l one for a long, long while." LMaggi^'a 
 tone was not discontented, hardlysady and her father 
 did not sigh^ as Mag gie's words so metimes ma de him 
 do; indeed, (Linton did not sigh so often now,)though, 
 if you had asked him, he could not have told you why, 
 [Wages were low work difficult to get, no comforts hadl 
 \been added to their daily fare or wretched home ; and' 
 jyet there was a difiference, an indefinable, half-imper- 
 jceptible change, in the aspect of the dreariest of thei 
 BiaiiyjiEearyjdwell ings on the hill. _ J 
 
 T* Helen's regular Saturday visits — which had been 
 going on for two n:,onths now — had, almost unknown 
 tcTherself, induced ln'aggie to try and give to their low, 
 bariToom an ail* of d,eanKness and comfort on the days 
 when her visitor was > expected ; and so much happier 
 did she feel in consequence, and so pleased her father 
 seemed when he came Lome from work, that by degrees 
 Maggie grew to trying to keep their home always neat. 
 To-uight the floor had been swept, and even washed ; 
 the stove looked, if not bright, yet neat and clean, and 
 the whole room presented, an appearance very different 
 from that which it bore when our readers first saw it. 
 Linton sat on, watching his daughter, while she 
 
 50 
 
 
 '.i^XStXiSiSLsaasiSiss^sssaaBms:::^ 
 
 ,--=:::=*«_■**(-»-■«■• 
 
A DAY OF REST. 
 
 scarce raised her eye^ from her work ; so intent waa 
 she, that she almost started when her father said, sud- 
 denly — 
 
 " ^ ^go^®> do y ou know IVe h alf a mind to go to 
 church to-morrow j it 's many a long year since I 
 entered a church door, but somehow, Meg, I don't 
 think it 's right to live as we 've been doing. There 's 
 Will was saying to-day that he did not see tfie good in 
 going to church, father didn't go ; now I 'd like Will to 
 be a better man than I Ve been . / 1 believe I '11 go to- 
 morrow, and take Will along." 
 
 " But your coat, father — the sleeve is all torn ; " and 
 the little woman heaved a weary sigh as she laid Will's 
 finished jacket down, and thought of the long rent in 
 the sleeve of her father's coat. Linton saw her dis- 
 heartened look, and said, quickly — 
 
 "But you're not to mend it, Meg; you can put a 
 pin in — it won't show. Go to bed, child, you're 
 tired." 
 
 Maggie did not reply, but sat with her arms folded, 
 not heeding her father's words; at length her face 
 brightened, and she said, quickly — 
 
 "Now, father, if you're going to church to-morrow, 
 you ought to go to bed now ; I 've something to do yet j 
 please go, father." , ' 
 
 Linton rose from his chair with a weary sigh, and 
 Blowly went up the broken, narrow steps that served 
 
 51 
 
 YH 
 
 
 "fW"' 
 
 ?Hs; 
 
A DAY OP REST. 
 
 for stairs, shuddering involuntarily as t he cold air o f 
 
 rwhat was li^^tle more than a barn chilled him^ ^^^k^ 
 
 y^i^] sleep of the labouring man is sweet, aiid_LintQtt_fiQQn 
 
 H 
 
 M "<i'*"'« **»iii^P -- 
 
 forgot cold and weariness in heavy jlumbgr. But a 
 long hour after, Maggie bent over her work, endeavour- 
 ing, with weary and benumbed fingers (the fire had gone 
 out, and the stock of wood was so low she dare not 
 make more), to mend neatly the rents, and to hide the 
 worn, bare places in the thin, old coat. Weary and 
 worn, at last Maggie went to rest. Who shall say that 
 the motherless ^rl was not lea,rning the lesson of self- 
 ? ^Cf" denial which is so hard to learn, and yet the exercise 
 p^fiiffi^ of which brings such true happiness and such real joy 
 'YH ^ those who never give up ease or wealth, who never 
 sacrifice their own inclinations for another's pleasure, 
 cannot even estimate ? 
 
 "ISunday morning dawned bright and clear, the snow 
 sparkled in the sunshine, and each bush and tree 
 glowed as if decked with diamonds. The sky was of 
 that deep, clear blue which we see on bright winter 
 days in this glorious Canada of ours. Not a cloud 
 marred the beauty of the heaven above. Though so 
 bright, aU was hushed in that peculiar calm which we 
 never find excepting on the Sabbath-day. Linton's 
 1 heart seemed to catch an impress of the calmness and 
 
 the brightness as he walked quietly over the crisp snow 
 with Will at his side. 
 
 52 
 
 iasassaBaansaKBi 
 
A DAY OF REST. 
 
 " Won't the minister wonder to see you at chureb, 
 father I" asked Will, as they neared the house of 
 God. 
 
 Linton did not reply, but the words awakened an 
 uncomfortable feeling, and he wished his son had not 
 said them. If they had not been so near the church, 
 and if Will had not been with him, he almost felt as if 
 he would have turned back, but it was too late now ; 
 so silently the two entered the sacred edifice, and seated 
 themselves near the door. Mrs Gordon's pew was at V '^ 
 
 the side, thus commanding a view of the whole church. 
 WnTsaw that Miss Kaymond noticed them coming in, 
 anSTie^ almost fancied she smiled. 
 
 The prayers, tEe Hymns, — all carried John Linton 
 back to the early days of his wedded life, when, with 
 his wife, young and happv, at his side, Sunday after 
 Sunday found him in his place in God's house j but 
 years had fled since Linton had worshipped there, and 
 a strange awe filled his heart as he knelt in prayer, or 
 listened to the sweet songs of praise. Then came the 
 sermon, and as Lmton listened — listened to the voice 
 of the man whom he had roughly turned from his door, 
 he felt the words he uttered were not his own, but 
 those of One far greater, — One whom he had also 
 rejected, — One who had again and again knocked at the 
 door of his heart, and prayed him to open it that Ho 
 might dwell there, who was now imploring him more 
 
 S3 
 
 yW 
 
 '"■■"■'"■-■"■■■""^■■"•-■-■■---■^--■•■-— ■-■^-■-■■■■■'••■■■" ' ' ■■»■"'..., li ' .i ......^ 
 
-M 
 
 A DAY OF REST, 
 
 earnestly than ever by the voice of that earnest minister. 
 " Turn unto me, for why will ye die ? " ** Him that 
 cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out." " Oh, come 
 unto me, for though your sins be as scarlet, they shall 
 be as white as snow; and though they be red like 
 crimson, they shall be as wool." And the strong man 
 bowed his head in his hands, and groaned within him- 
 self, — groaned when he thought of his once blooming, 
 happy wife laid in a drunkard's grave, — groaned when 
 he thought of bis three motherless children whom he 
 had never even spoken to about a God, — groaned when 
 he thought of his guilty soul, of his unopened Bible, of 
 his misspent Sabbaths. //The good seed was being sown, 
 I the Word was surely finding entrance into his heart. 
 
 ^loQ ■'■* *^%^* ^®„^ong ere it bore fruit; thorns might oft 
 SC^O^ try to choke ita-growth; but it would not return 
 void to Him who had planted Jt in John Linton's 
 
 I heart, but would accomplish that whereunto He had 
 
 s ent it.J / 
 
 Linton felt very wretched all that day, and found 
 but little sleep during the long, dark night, until, as day 
 dawned, he was almost ready to wish he had never 
 entered the house of prayer. So miserable did he feel, 
 that, in the morning, as he passed the crimson-cur- 
 tained windows of the great white tavern, he felt for 
 1^ a^^stai^ and drown in the in- 
 
 toxicating cup, which he knew would be so readily 
 
 54 
 
A DAY OF REST. 
 
 offered him, the reproach and remorse which seemed 
 almosWriviiig'hTm wiI3r: but in a moment -he red, 
 bloated face of his poor wife, and her wan, pale features, ^^ 
 as she lay in her coffin, seemed to rise before him^, and 
 John resolved that hejwould not add that crime to the 
 many sins which seemed weighing him down^ ixn^i as 
 he had resolutely passe J the dbdr~'over whose thresh- 
 old so many unwary feet had been tempted to cross, 
 . and once crossing, had found it ever after so hard to 
 pass by unheeding, John met the minister, who looked 
 kindly at him, and seemed inclined to stop, but Lin- 
 ton hurried on, ashamed at the remembrance of his 
 former rudeness, and then he felj sorry he had not re- 
 sponded to the smile, and stopping, half turned roundj 
 but the minister was walking slowly on, his head bent 
 down as iTlii deep tliought. John tuined slowly on 
 his way, wondering if the Lord would leave him thus, 
 and not turn to him when he would fain kneel an 
 humble suppliant at His feet; and as he thought, in 
 his ears rang words he remembered having read, faint 
 voices of the past they seemed, and yet they rang so clear 
 and loud, that he well-nigh started. " Then shaU they 
 call upon me, but I will not answer ; they shall seek me 
 early, but they shall not find me. For that they hated 
 knowledge, and did not choose the fear of the Lord, 
 therefore shall they eat of the fruit of their own way, 
 and be filled with their own devices." And again the 
 
 55 
 
 m 
 
A DAY OF REST. 
 
 wretched man groaned within himself, and half cursed 
 himself for having gone to listen to the words of life. 
 And yet he could not resolve that he would not go 
 again ; rather he wished that Sunday were again on the 
 morrow, that he might perchance find some comfort 
 for his weary, troubled scul 
 
 ' 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I 
 
 " Why wilt thou make bright music 
 Give forth a sound of pain ? 
 Why wilt thou weave fair flowers 
 Into a weary chain ? 
 
 " The voices of happy nature, 
 
 \nd the heavens' sunny gleam, 
 Reprove thy sick heart's fancies. 
 Upbraid thy foolish dream." 
 
 ELEN found Grace's first Sunday lesson 
 with them passed even better than she 
 had hoped. Little Laura's endeavour 
 ^seemed to be to try to make all as pleasant and 
 attractive as possible, and Horace represse^eveiy 
 expression of scorn at Grace's limited knowledge yTfj 
 of Bible history, though often not without an 
 effort, as his coin^ressed^ Jigs showed all too 
 plainly. Helen was thankful the boy did not 
 give more diretM- manifestations of his feeL/ gs, 
 ^"57 ' '" ^"i" 
 
 ^a^cs^t 
 
vw 
 
 MRS GORDON'S TROUBLES. 
 
 and ^miled her approval as Grace bent her head over 
 her Bible ashamed of her ignorance. Not many weeks, 
 however, passed ere she was quite up with her brother 
 and sister, and the Sunday lessons seemed weekly to 
 increase in interest and profit. 
 
 Mrs Go rdon at last began to see ihe change mani- 
 fested in her children, and silently w ondered how it 
 was that one so young and inexperienced as Helen 
 could exercise over a girl like Grace a so much better 
 
 ' and stronger influence than she had ever done. She 
 could not see, either, that her governess neglected the 
 mental culture of her pupils, or even those accomplish- 
 ments which in her eyes were of so much importance. 
 Grace had certainly made great improvement in her 
 drawing, and Laura, who had always shown a decided 
 taste for music, was progessing even beyond her 
 mother's expectations. As for Horace (Mrs Gordon 
 never had professed to understand him), she was 
 amazed that Miss Raymond got on at all with him; 
 for her own part., she never had attempted to cross his 
 will, and yet she had never known him to dipobey his 
 governess, or use a disrespectful word to her. 
 
 As she lay musing on these things one night, Mrs 
 
 i> Gordon resolved, on the first opportunity, to ask Helen 
 ffie secret of her influence over her pupils. She had 
 not long to wait, for on the following morning she 
 found Helen sitting with her work in the bright, 
 
 58 
 
MRS GORDON'S TROUBLES. 
 
 pleasant hall up-stairs. Studies were over for the week, 
 and Helen was very glad, for in spite of all improve- 
 ments in her pupils, she was often sorely tried by 
 Grace's indifference, Horace's persistency, or Laura's 
 carelessness. But there were pleasant anticipations 
 that morning, — the visit to Maggie in the afternoon, 
 which she ever looked forward to with increasing 
 interest, and then the sweet day of rest on the morrow, 
 so refreshing an oasis to the weary traveller Zionwarda 
 through this desert world ; and pleasant, too, was her 
 meeting with her class in Sunday-school, and the hour 
 afterwards with the children at home. All this made 
 Helen feel cheerful and happy, and she was singing 
 gently to herself when Mrs Gordon found her, 
 
 "Is it not a lovely morning?" she said, brightly, 
 looking up from her work as Mrs Gordon neared her. 
 
 Lovely it was indeed. It wass early in June, the air 
 was soft and fresh, and blew softly in at the open 
 balcony-window, gently moving the bright green leaves 
 of the geraniums and fuchsias, which stood on a tall 
 stand just where the life-giving sunbeams poured their 
 golden glories on their heads. The breeze was sweet 
 with the odours of flowers and the fresh, green grass ; 
 and the songs of birds, whose homes were high up in 
 the topmost branches of the tall old cedars, were 
 wafted in every breath of air. The children had all 
 gone to spend the day with some friends, and Mrs 
 
 59 
 
 
MRS GORDON'S TROUBLES. 
 
 Gordon and Helen were alone. Mrs Gordon came 
 in with an account-book in her hand, and her face 
 looked worried, not at all in keeping with the bright- 
 ness and peace surrounding her. Helen could not but 
 see the contrast, and she said, pityingly — 
 
 "What is the matter, Mrs Gordon? Anything I 
 can help you with % " 
 
 " Oh, I am worried to death," sighed Mrs^Gordon, 
 
 throwing herself into an easy-chair. " I am perfectly 
 
 ^.. disgusted with th^ iiigratitude of these^oor people on 
 
 ///6^^""' ^^ the hill. I spend more than half my time working for 
 
 "' .y ' them, and yet I get no thanks for it; they take every- 
 
 i%' 
 
 thing I give as a matter of course, and are even offended 
 if I don't give one- month what I gave the month 
 before; or if Mrs Green's children ^et one- dress more 
 than Mrs Low's, I am told about it at once, with such 
 an injured air, just as if Mrs Low had been deeply in- 
 sulted. I declare I don't know what to do^" And 
 Mrs Gordon sighed more deeply ; yet ctill the birds 
 sang on and the sun shone, and Helen felt what a pity 
 it was that this disciple of Jesus should not also be 
 singing and making melody in her heart unto the Lord, 
 and that smiles should not light up that face which 
 was so gloomy and clouded. 
 
 " I am sure you must often be disheartened and sad, 
 dear Mrs Gordon," she said, gently ; " and I know 
 
 these people are very discouraging; but then all 
 
 60 
 
MRS GORDON'S TROUBLES. 
 
 workers in the Lord's vineyard are tried and often 
 downcast. If there had been no danger of growing 
 weary, I suppose our Lord would not have said that 
 they should reap if they fainted not. How often He 
 must have been sad at the unbelief even of His dis- 
 ciples, who were constantly with Him, before whom 
 His mightiest works were done, and yet who, at His 
 very last, and in His greatest need, forsook Him and 
 fi i." Helen's quiet words calmed Mrs Gordon; she 
 laid her book down, and resting her head in her hands, 
 Bat silently listening. 
 
 " Yes," she replied, in a subdued tone, "but it was 
 different with Him : He knew He was doing His Father's 
 will, but I — I sometimes think I am all wrong ; " and 
 Mrs Gordon buried her face in her hands, then raising 
 it, she went on vehemently, — " There are my own chil- 
 dren, even ! I never had any influence over them j they 
 love me, but they never seemed to care for what I said '^ 
 to them ; and yet a stranger, who has only been with 
 them a few months, can command far more respect f rojji 
 them than I can. Those children have been left almost 
 solely to my care ever since their father died, when 
 Laura was only three months old, and yet I have never 
 been able to control them as you do. I really do not 
 know what to do." 
 
 Helen was deeply pained, and knew not what to 
 
 answer ; her heart inwardly went forth to God, that, as 
 
 6i 
 
MRS GORDON'S TROUBLES, 
 
 with His servant Moses of old, He now would put 
 words of wisdom into her mouth, and strengthen her 
 soul. 
 
 "Oh, don't feel so, dear Mrs Gordon," she said, lay- 
 ing down her work and looking earnestly at her friend. 
 " I am sure the children all love you very much. Both 
 Grace and Horace are very peculiar; they are both 
 very reserved, and not every one can understand them." 
 Helen could not at that time say all that she really 
 {\0 f A w\."P thought — that if their mother had only been more with 
 fil^Qilri^/ them, tried more to win their res£ect,_she too might 
 have understood her children's peculiarities of dispo- 
 sition, and gained that influence over them jwhich a 
 mother,!' above all others, should e xercise ; as it was , 
 she could only be silent. 
 
 "Well," said Mrs Gordon, with another deeply- 
 drawn sigh, "I am very glad you have done them 
 some good. I suppose I should be thankful for that, 
 at any rate. I am sure I don't profess to understand 
 them." 
 
 "Perhaps," suggested Helen, very gently, "if you 
 could be more with the children it would be better. 
 You see it is very seldom you are together excepting at 
 meal-time. If you could get them to sit with you in an 
 afternoon or in the evening, and let one of them read 
 aloud while yjni worked, it would bring you together 
 more, and w6tild, J think, be pleasant for you all" 
 
 J 62 
 
 # 
 
 ^1*^ 
 
 .^J 
 
MRS GORDON'S TROUBLES. 
 
 **I don't believe they would do it; and even if they 
 would, I don't see how I have time for it. I have so me/ 
 one to visit every day, a nd then in the evening there 
 are accounts to make up, or work to cut out, and that 
 makes such a noise and confusion that there is no com- ^| ^ [ITisjai" 
 fort or quiet." -^ ", 
 
 " Suppose ^ujet me take a little of your visiting: 
 the walking would be good for me, and you would bo 
 left aloae with the childrexv which would be better than 
 if I were here." 
 
 Mrs Gordon did not immediately reply ; at length she 
 said, " Well, if you will, I am sure you would do better 
 than I can. There you have got that Linton to come 
 to church, and he had not been inside a church door forj 
 years." 
 
 " Why, I never even asked him to come to church," 
 said Helen j "I was very much surprised when I saw 
 him." 
 
 ** That is strange ! I thought you must have been 
 urging him to come." 
 
 *' Perhaps if I had he would not have done so," said ^ 
 Helen. " I rather think the influence is through hi3 
 children.'^ 
 
 '' Weir, it is all the same," returned Mrs Gordon ; 
 
 " you got Will to come to Sunday-school ; and I am 
 
 sure I never saw a g r eater change^ even outwardly, than ^j 
 
 i n the Li ntons' house within the last few months ; they 
 
 63 
 
;. r. 
 
 I 
 
 MRS GORDON'S TROUBLES. 
 
 . have actually got a sort of fence put up, and s ome little 
 ^^ flowers on eacH sideof tHe ffobr."^' 
 
 Helen smiled, but did not say how she had begged 
 a few seeds fromThe gardener, and showed Will how to 
 pianttEem. --»« 
 
 " I wish you wo uld take^somejjff my £eo£leJ.n Jb^d," 
 Mrs Gordon continued, after a minute's pause, "and 
 peHtaplTwHTdo'Ts youL say about" the children :,but I 
 IJ-, must go, for there is Mrs Low cjming for some cold 
 ' meat I pronnsed her." And she hurried off, leaving 
 Helen alone again with the flowers, and the sweet 
 music of the merry little winged songsters to cheer her 
 heart, which had been saddened by poor Mrs Gordon's 
 melancholy and depression. 
 
 r i 
 
u 
 
 T 
 
 CHAPTEH X. 
 
 " There 's a song for little children 
 
 Above the bright blu2 sky, 
 And a harp of sweetest music 
 
 For their hymn of victory. 
 And all above is pleasure, 
 
 And founjl in Christ alone ; 
 Oh come, dear little children, 
 
 That all may be your own ! " 
 
 HE fresh tints of spring had been succeeded 
 by the mellower shades of summer, and 
 in many places the hot July sun had already 
 withered and browned the bright green grass, 
 which had made even the bleak hill-side almost 
 beautiful, when one Saturday afternoon, Helen, 
 as usual, turned her steps in the direction of the 
 Lintons' cottage. The air was sultry and op- 
 pressive, scarce the faintest breeze relieving the 
 closeness of the atmosphere, even on the brow 
 
 6s I 
 
 ^ 
 
 1 
 
 mmm 
 
I f 
 
 JOHNNIE'S FIRST VISll 
 
 of the hill, and Helen felt hot and tired when she 
 reached her destination. The little garden, if such it 
 might be called, had lost much of its spring beauty; 
 the ground looked hard and cracked; the few flowers 
 hung their drooping heads, and longed for the evening 
 sAade and the refreshing dew. From the weeds which 
 had sprung up regardless of heat or drought, Helen 
 guessed that Will must have been unusually busy, for 
 the little housekeeper had not much time to bestow on 
 what, in her strong, practical nature, she half deemed 
 foolish nonsense. Helen's surmises proved correct ; 
 she soon heard from Maggie ihat Linton had obtained 
 steady employment for the summer at the Court-house 
 7'' that was being erected in the town, and that Willjaras 
 busy there too. 
 
 " We don't see much of either of them now," said 
 Maggie, " for when they come home of nights they bo 
 both so tired, that it 's off to bed they are soon after 
 supper, so me and Johnnie are just company for each 
 other ; " and Maggie looked fondly at the little fellow, 
 who sat on the floor playing with some sprigs of yarrow 
 he had brought in from where it almost whitened the 
 hill-side with its luxuriant growth. 
 
 " Come, Johnnie," said Helen, " let me see how you 
 know your letters to-day." 
 
 The child willingly complied, and Maggie handing 
 
 down the highly-coloured spelling-book — which was 
 
 66 
 
 i 
 

 TO THE SUNDA Y-SCIIOOL. 
 
 kept so carefully wrapped up in paper on the shelf 
 — Helen and Johnnie were soon deep in the mysteries 
 of A, B, C's, while Maggie, whose work had all been 
 done long ago, in anticipation of Miss Raymond's 
 visit, sat down near them, listening admiringly to her 
 'trother's repeating letter after letter as Helen pointed 
 them out, and herself learning even more than Helen 
 guessed. 
 
 For some time past Miss Raymond had made her 
 weekly visii to the Lintons a time for teaching little 
 Johnnie, so that soon he might come with Will to 
 Sunday-school ; and now the little fellow had made 
 considerable progress, and could read words of one 
 syllable quite easily. Thoug h Helen had often wishoii 
 it, she had never f elt able to help the Lintons in any 
 way beyond what she coiild do in t,fin.nhinf^ Mf^ggip- 1" Ny^ 
 
 be more careful, or in giving the children an occasional . 
 
 book; and, to do them justice, they had jjeyetiopkednn/'l^ 
 for gifts from her, but regarded her visits as in,tJiem- ^ , 
 
 selves sufficient proofs of her kindness; in deed, they v^''' "^ 
 were p eople who would not stoop to ask help of any 
 one ; and yet, how Mjgg^_gyg8 sparkled as Helen 
 displayed a little linen coat s he had that day brought 
 for Johnni e, "so tha t," as_she s aid, "he might come 
 with Will to Sunday-school to-mo rrow. " 
 
 The delighted faces of both the receiver of the gift 
 and his no less pleased sister, was paymeM eribuglf^^^ 
 - ■■•■ 67 " ■ ■ " — 
 
 ■M 
 
JOHNNIE *S FIRST VISIT 
 
 'J/ Helen, :i reward she wanted beyond the pleasure of 
 mereljr giving. 
 
 "And Johnnie will come, then, to-morrow?" said 
 Helen, turning to the child. 
 
 " If Johnnie may sit with Miss Raymond," he replied, 
 in his childish voice. 
 
 " Oh, yes, Johnnie shall sit with me ; and soon, per- 
 haps, sister Maggie will come too." 
 
 " I could not leave father," returned Maggie, shaking 
 her head. " But I was thinking that by and by, when 
 the days were shorter, I might go to church of evenings. 
 THC /' . \ If it was a little dark it would not matter So much about 
 ^*r^*?/^'^ my"HofEerfTutli6w, you see, the sun is soTbright at 
 CLdrn'*^^ six o'clock;^aii4„ it seisms to show^^joff one' s old clothes 
 ^^f]60^ !?l'l.^^_^„^^Sgie sighed. 
 
 "i wish you would go, Maggie. I should think that 
 now your father has work, he3i£ht^_feiay„ jfiu..;3,j2,nnJt 
 dress. I would show you how to make it, and then 
 you might go to church every Sunday." 
 
 " Perhaps he might, as he hasn't to get Johnnie any- 
 thing now, as I was wanting him to do; and then Will 
 has a good coat now, too," mused the unselfish little 
 woman. *' Yes, I b'lieve I '11 ask him," she concluded, 
 " and I know father would put Johnnie to bed. I 
 j . think it would be nice to go to church ; I do get kind of 
 
 tired sometimes being here all the time ; I never goes 
 
 nowhere, except running to town now and again for 
 
 68 
 
TO THE SUNDA Y-SCHOOL. 
 
 Bometliing I want." What a little woman tliis child of 
 
 twelve was, with her household cares and her motherly 
 
 concerns for father, and Will, and wee Johnnie, and 
 
 her utter ignorance of all childish joys and pleasures ! 
 
 Helen sometimes almost wondered at her womanliness"*^ 
 
 and tenderness, brought up as she was almost with- (/,'t>^fA^^/» 
 
 out female society of any kind, — at her delicacy of feel- • > '^^'5 
 
 ing, and strong sense of right and wrong ; and then 
 
 she thought howjGod himself had fitted the child fqr 
 
 her^ unusual position, and she wondered still more as 
 
 she mused on His goodness and power, and felt how Ho 
 
 ever fitteth the back for the burthen and tempereth the i 
 
 wind^ to the shorn lamb. 
 
 Johnnie's little pale face was turned brightly up to 
 greet her as Helen joined her class the following day : 
 he listened earnestly and quietly, while Helen heard 
 the boys their lessons and they read together; and 
 while she spoke to them on the lesson of the day, 
 which was the raising of the widow's son, so much 
 attention did he pay, and understood it all so well, 
 then when Helen turned to him to explain the chapter 
 in simpler words, she was surprised at the child's know- 
 ledge of the story ; and she wa tched the little fellow's 
 fa ce light up as they began t o sin g the c losing hymn. 
 
 EVENING HYMN. 
 
 " Glory to Thee, my God, this night, 
 For all the blessings of the light. 
 69 
 
 
I 
 
 Yfi 
 
 JOHNNIE'S FIRST VISIT, ETC, 
 
 Keep me, oh, keep me, King of kiuga, 
 Under Thine own almighty wings. 
 
 ** Forgive me, Lord, for Thy dear Son, 
 The ill that I this day have done ; 
 That v\^ith the world, myself, and Thee, 
 I, ere I sleep, at peace may be. 
 
 " Teasch.j3ie. to Uve, that I may dread 
 ^tf The grave as little as my bed : 
 ^ Teach me to die, that so I may 
 Rise glorious at the judgment-day: 
 
 " Oh, may my soul on Thee repose, 
 And with sweet sleep mine eyelids close ; 
 Sleep that may me more vigorous make 
 To serve my God when I awake." 
 
 , Helen could notbiit think that it miglit not be long 
 ere he indeejrjoinedJito-Jingel„t a crown n£on 
 
 that pale forehead, a harp in that little hand, and for 
 ever praised that dear Saviour who, when on earth, 
 took such as he up in His loving arms, and blessed 
 them, declaring that of,j.^qh is the l^ingflnn^ ^f 
 
 THC 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 A 
 
 •' Calm twilight veils the summer sky, 
 
 The shilling clouds are gone ; 
 In vain the merry laughing child 
 
 Still gaily prattles on ; , 
 
 In vain the bright stars, one by one. 
 
 On the blue silence start, — 
 A dreary shadow rests to-night 
 
 Upon the father's heart." 
 
 AGGIE got her print dress ; and, under 
 Miss Eaymond's directions, it was com- 
 fortably and neatly made. Not many 
 weeks elapsed before the child was fouiid 
 regulaiiy in her place in church every Sunday 
 f^yening. Other comforts besides the new drcos 
 were soon added to Maggie's wardrobe, and in 
 a way which Helen little expected. She was 
 much surprised one Saturday when Laura begged 
 leave to accompany her on her visit to the 
 
 71 
 
TWILIGHT TALKS, 
 
 Lintons. Though Mrs Gordon at first opposed her 
 daughter's wishes, declaring she would catch a fever, 
 or something of tha^^^indj^^oi'ng^ s^^ 
 low houses, yet she at last yielded^ and not only so , 
 but did not let her go empty-handed, providing her 
 
 Hi 
 
 with several articles of clothing for Maggie, and even 
 some of Horace's clothes for Will. The littla__girl 
 went off full of glee, and coul d ha rdly ^^jk quietly 
 by the side of _her govern ess^ so anxious was she to 
 dispose of her gifts and see Maggie and little Johnnie, 
 of whom she had often heard Miss Raymond speak ; 
 but when they had at last reached the cottage, she grew 
 timid and shy, and Helen was obliged to explain that 
 Mrs Gordon had sent Maggie some clothes she thought: 
 might be of use, and that Laura had brought them 
 herself that she might know Maggie and Johnnie. At 
 length the child's shyness wore off, and she quite capti- 
 vated Johnnie by singing him " I want to be an angel," 
 and giving him a little booE^ of hymns, which she told 
 him she had had ever since she was a wee, little girl. 
 11*S^> This was but jybie beginning of many j^isits paid by 
 
 M/AJ/jt^' Laura^not oxAj to the Lintons, but to others of the 
 |>4i^ CH'^0 ' hill-families; Mid ,*^^"1l R?^^ pgrly began to enjoy the 
 
 /yv 
 
 ( «<^- 
 
 happiness of a ministering;^child,yand know the greater 
 blessedness of giving than receiving. 
 
 July at last gave place to August, and the heat, which 
 
 had been unusually great all summer, grew to such an 
 
 72 
 
TWILIGHT TALKS, 
 
 intensity, that even the inhabitants of the li t tle towp , \ s^O^C(S 
 who wera well accusto med to the extremes of C anadian I /ft. 5" 
 Heat and cold^ felt it alm ost more than they coul d (("^t^J^^!^ 
 endure. On the hill^ howe ver^ where t^ e air was jurer \ ^^^^ 
 and fresher, no signs of sickness had as yet appearedi 
 and all went on about as usual with our friends the 
 Lintons and the other families among whom Mrs 
 Gordon and Miss Raymond visited. Johnnie was now 
 a regular attendant at Sunday-school ; and among 
 Helen's pupils there was not a more earnest listener 
 than the little pale-faced fellow, who at first was looked 
 upon with contempt by the large ■ oys, but who often 
 put them to shame by his attention and correct answers 
 to their teacher's questions. Maggie and Will went 
 regularly to evening service, and thusJ[ohnnie was left 
 to his father's care, who would sit with him on his 
 knee at the cottage door, and watch the sun settmg in ' y"^. _, (* 
 its crimson glory, sinking like a burnings baU^^ehind )L£t^U 
 the dim horizon, and giving promise that he would rise 
 with renewed strength and power on the morrow. 
 Sometimes the two would sit in silence, Johnnie with 
 one arm round his father's neck, his head resting on 
 his shoulder, and his little face close to his. Some- 
 times Johnnie would, sing, or the two together would 
 talk; and imperceptibly John Linton began to loiil? 
 forward to iSeje jivemoghouis mth^^ born, 
 
 his poor, weakly^ little John nie. He used to feel some- 
 
 I 
 
TWILIGHT TALKS. 
 
 times as if the childish prayer Miss Raymond had 
 taught, and which he lisped at his knee before he was 
 put in Maggie's little bed, did him more good than 
 anything else, and lifted for a moment the cloud of 
 depression and care which seemed hanging dark and 
 heavy over his soul ever since the first Sunday he went 
 to church with Will. 
 
 August was now half over, but the weather did not 
 moderate. The Sunday had been even more close and 
 sultry than the preceding days; and as Linton sat 
 with Johnnie on his knee when the welcome shades of 
 evening were coming on, he looked even more weary and 
 worn than was his wont. Johnnie stroked the furrowed, 
 worn face tenderly as he said, in his childish tones— s- 
 
 " Daddy, what makes you always look so sorrowful ? 
 Do you never feel glad ? Aren't you happy, daddy ? " 
 he went on, nestling closer, and again resting the tired, 
 little head on his father's shoulder. 
 
 " Not often, Johnnie, lad. I have a great deal to 
 make me sorrowful." 
 
 "And hasn't you anything to make you glad, daddy? 
 You has me and Maggie and Will." And the little one 
 again began his caresses. 
 
 Linton pressed the child closer to him, but did not 
 speak, 
 ' " And then we has heaven, daddy. Jesus will come 
 
 'ti to take us up there ; wo isn't good enough to go our- 
 
 74 
 
■"■IF* 
 
 TWILIGHT TALKS. 
 
 selves, but Jesus will come and take us. We will go 
 
 right up yonder, just where the stars are coming out." 
 
 And the little hand pointed up to the heavens, where 
 
 the crimson of sunset had all but faded away, and 
 
 where the stars were beginning to peep out one by one. 
 
 Then Johnnie lay back and was so quiet, that at last , 
 
 Linton looked down to see what was the matter, and 
 
 found that the little fellow was fast asleep. He sat 
 
 with him in his arms for a long time, and then he laid 
 
 him in his little bed, and kneeling down beside him, 
 
 buried his face in his hands and prayed little Johnnie's 
 
 prayer, for he knew the child would be greatly grieved 
 
 when he found he had gone to sleep without saying his 
 
 prayers, and he thought that perhaps he would be com- \ 
 
 forted if he knew his father had said it for him. Long 
 
 after that prayer was ended Linton knelt on, he knew 
 
 not how long, but he felt as if he scarce wanted ever to 
 
 rise again, such a sweet peace as he had never before 
 
 known seemed shed abroad over his heart, and again 
 
 and again he repeated, " Jesus, tender Shepherd ! hear 
 
 me!" 
 
 " Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me ! 
 Bless Thy little lamb to-night ; 
 Through the darkness be Thou near me, 
 Watch my sleep till morning light. 
 
 "All this day Thy hand hath led me, 
 And I thank Thee for Thy care ; 
 Thou hast clothed, and warm'd, and fed me, 
 Listen to my humble prayer. 
 
 75 
 
 , 
 
■y^ 
 
 ot*^ 
 
 ^f 
 
 
 TWILIGHT TALKS, 
 
 " Let my sins be all forgiven, 
 
 Bless the friends I lore so well j 
 Take me, when I die, to heaven, 
 Happy there with Thee to dwell." 
 
 The word "shepherd" seemed to suit him so well, 
 he felt he had been such a wandering sheep, that hj 
 had strayed so far from the fold ; and could it be pos- 
 Bible that the Shepherd himself had sought the wander- 
 in^ one, WM .tenlerjy,„bringing him back agaial-^ 
 /John Linton knelt by his child's lonely bed, there was 
 joy among the angels of heaven over him, and from 
 one to another of those bright beings above passed the 
 joyous words, « Behold, he prayeth ! " 
 
 '■'^^ 
 
as 
 
 m jTVff ind 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ^^abofos <faHiiTg. 
 
 ' CSently, Lord, oh, gently lead us 
 
 Through this gloomy vale of tears ; 
 Through the changes Thou 'st decreed us, 
 Till our last great change appears." 
 
 ORROW was about to visit the Lintons* 
 home, and the peace and happiness that 
 
 had reigned there for the last few months 
 was soon to be broken in upon. Perhaps Lin- 
 ton foresaw it sometimes; perhaps he already 
 saw the first faint outlines of the dark cloud 
 which was soon to overshadow them all ; for his 
 joy in his reconciled Saviour, though deep and 
 all-pervading, was yet subdued and chastened ; 
 and as he sat on the peaceful Sabbath evenings 
 with his little one on his knee, he would strain 
 the fragile form closer and closer to him, and while 
 wee Johnnie would speak of the heaven where good 
 
 77- 
 
 . 
 
SHADOWS FALLING. 
 
 little boys and girls go when they die — of those who 
 stand " around the throne of God in heaven, children 
 whose sins are all forgiven, a holy happy band," the 
 tears would involuntarily start to the father's eyes, and 
 he would long that he might go with little Johnnie to 
 that bright home whither he instinctively felt his boy 
 was fast hastening. Whether Maggie and Will ever 
 thought as he did he knew not, but he could tell from 
 the sister's sad wistful eye, as she watched Johnnie, that 
 her heart was filled with anxiety for her wee brother. 
 And though feeling as he did, Linton's heart gave a 
 bound of bitter pain when, one evening as he returned 
 from work, Maggie met him at the door, saying, in low 
 sad tones, " I 'm afeard Johnnie 's got the fever, father; 
 he's been so sick all day ; I put him to bed a while ago, 
 and he 's asleep now, but I 'm sore afeard he 's got the 
 fever." 
 
 Linton, without making any reply, walked into the 
 house and ' to Johnnie's bed-side, where he stood for 
 some minutes, until his eyes were dim with tears as he 
 thought how dear the little one was to him, and how he 
 would miss the little voice that always said so gladly, 
 " Eh ! Maggie, here 's daddy coming ! " and the little 
 hand that used to be slipped into his so confidingly. 
 
 Never for a moment did Linton doubt that the hand 
 of death was laid on the child. He gazed a moment 
 longer, and then, turning to Maggie, quietly said — 
 
 ;8 
 
ms 
 
 mm^n^mm m 
 
 SHADOWS FALLING. 
 
 " Yc8y Meg^ wee Jo hnnip» 'h got tVip. f^vfir j^ we^will send 5e 'v/O ^2?/^, 
 for Miss Raymond — a nd the minis ter." The last words vyiC v^5'|— 
 were said very slowly, and so low Maggie could scarcely "TT^ , 
 hear them. Then her father sat down to his supper 
 with her and Will, who had just come in and been 
 informed of Johnnie's illness in whispered tones by 
 Maggie, while Linton stood bending over the sleeping 
 child. When the silent meal was ended, Linton rose, 
 and turning to Will, said quietly — 
 
 *' Will, just^ down and ask Miss Raymond to come 
 tip; Johnnie may n't live^ till morning, for he 'a but 
 weakly, poor wee fellow ! and the fever won't take long Vr 
 to do its. work. Johnnie would be so vexed tojgojwijh- 
 out seeing the young lady ; but you needn't mind about 
 the minister to-ni^ht. And now^ Will, be off, for it 
 soon drops dark." 
 
 Will obeyed in silence, while JNIaggie turned away to 
 hide the tears that would flow. Linton seated himself 
 near his son, watching anxiously every movement of the 
 restless little sleeper, whose flushed cheeks and burning 
 brow were too sure proofs that he had fallen a victim to 
 the scourge which that summer had made many homes 
 sad. 
 
 Will was back very soon, but it was only to state 
 that his errand had been unsuccessful; none cf the 
 ladies at the big house were at home, and the servant 
 did not know when they might be back. He had left 
 
 79 
 
ll 
 
 
 SHADOWS FALLING. 
 
 a message for Mis3 Raymond, which the girl promised to 
 deliver as soon as any of them returned. And so there 
 was nothing to be done but watch and hope that Helen 
 might not be too late. It was a long sad night; 
 occasionally Johnnie would awake crying he was "so 
 thirsty ;" and his father, who never left his side, would 
 hold the cup of water to the feverish lips with some en- 
 dearing word, hoping that the expression would meet 
 with some response, but none came, and the tired little 
 head would fall back again on the pillow, and the lids 
 would close over the large bright eyes without a word 
 of recognitior^ to the anxious father. Will went up to 
 his bed, but more than once in the night he stole noise- 
 lessly down the rickety stairs, and taking a look at his 
 brother, would creep back again as silently as he came. 
 Maggie, who had thrown herself at the foot of the bed, 
 scarcely closed her eyes, but not a word passed between 
 the father and daughter. It was with a sad heart that 
 Linton set off to his work the next morning ; he could 
 not stay at home, but he left Will behind, telling him 
 to come instantly for him if Johnnie should wake 
 and seem to know them, for he knew that then his 
 boy would not long be here to know or speak to him. 
 Not long after he had gone. Will, who was watching 
 at the door, announced to Maggie that two of the young 
 ladies from the big white house were coming up the 
 
 hill. 
 
 80 
 
 \t^' 
 
■■I 
 
 wmm 
 
 -:,,as 
 
 SHADOWS FA LUNG. 
 
 ** Oh, is it Miss Raymond ? " exclaimed Maggie, 
 joyfully, as she ran to the window. 
 
 But no, it was not Helen, but Grace and Laura, who 
 were slowly making their way to the cottage door. 
 Grace had never been there before, and as she entered 
 Maggie felt a little awed by her cold, haughty manner ; 
 but she was soon put at her ease by Laura, who, full of 
 sorrow about Johnnie, poured forth a torrent of ques- 
 tions and regicts at ^[iss Raymond's absence. Miss 
 Raymond, Laura said, had stayed all night with a 
 friend with whom they had been visiting the previous 
 day, but she was soon expected homQ. " And now," 
 she added, quite out of breath in her haste, " mamma 
 has sent some things for Johnnie which she thinks will 
 iTf> \\\x(\ ^ooa\and she says she will come to see him, if 
 Miss Raymond doesn't come home to-day. But what 
 is the matter with him ? dear little Johnnie ! " she said, 
 leaning over his bed. 
 
 "Father thinks it just the fever," said the uncon- 
 scious Maggie, and theii, looking at Grace, she saw in a 
 moment what made her turn so hurriedly towards the 
 door. " But you need not be afeard, Miss ; the doctor 
 says as it 's not catching at all." 
 
 " Oh, I 'm not afraid," said Grace, " but it is time we 
 were going. I hope your little brother will be better." 
 
 "Thank you, ma'am; but father 's afeard not," re- 
 turned Maggie, with tears in her eyes. 
 
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f y^s 
 
SHADOWS FALLING. 
 
 As Grace hurried off, she felt what a coward she was; 
 ^ C^ she tried to persuade herself that it was consideration 
 for Laura and her mother that prompted her, but con- 
 science denied the assertion. In her h eart o f Jiearts 
 Grace Gordon envied her governess her peaceful, happy 
 yVV* spirit, heTJoy in life, her hope in death, — -j)erhaps half- 
 envie'iOraggie Linton iB. her humble home. Laura was 
 silent and sad ; she wished Miss Raymond was at home ; 
 she wished Johnnie wasn't sick ; she wondered, if she 
 took the fever, whether she would be afraid to die ; and 
 then, with the impatience of childhood at aught that is 
 melancholy or depressing, she almost tried to banish 
 thoughts of poor little Johnnie herself. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 'gxiih loljwme gots feme. 
 
 " Oh, to join the thrilling voices 
 Of that happy sainted choir ! 
 Each in Jesus Christ rejoices, 
 All their thoughts to Him aspire. 
 In the world is war and strife, 
 Pride and vanity are rife ; 
 But in heaven will ever be 
 Peace, and rest, and purity." 
 
 INTON knew, as soon as he came in sight 
 of his lowly home, that his boy still 
 
 lived, for Will kept his watch by the door, 
 and the anxious fatlier knew he would have 
 hastened to meet him had there been any change 
 since the morning : he hurried on with quick, 
 nervous steps, and was soon at the bed-side of his 
 dying child. Little alteration was visible to the 
 unattentive observer, but the sharp eye of the 
 fiither'saw that wee Johnnic^iad not many hours 
 
 to live. 
 
 S3 
 
 
 ""-y iaWl»W « . W> MLrtM t M W »i i - i Si ifc l iW 
 
LITTLE JOHNNIE GOES HOME. 
 
 ''I'm real sorry Miss Raymond isn't here," said 
 Linton, at length. " Will, my boy^ hadn't you best go 
 and see if she 's come yet ? " 
 
 " Oh, I know she '11 come as soon as ever she gets 
 back, and, father, I don't like to leave," replied Will, 
 with an imploring look. 
 
 " Well; well, my boy, I won't ask you, then, for I 'd 
 like you to be here." 
 
 There was something touching in the silence the 
 father and son preserved on the one thought which 
 filled both minds, — their very silence spoke volumes of 
 suppressed feeling. The supper stood untouched ; and 
 as Maggie glanced from it to her father, she recollected, 
 for the first time, that she had never given him his 
 di-mer to take with him that day. This duty she had 
 performed ever since she could remember, and had never 
 till that day neglected it ; she felt herself reproached 
 as she looked at her father's pale face, and she fancied 
 his hair had never looked so gray as it did then. 
 
 " Oh, father!" she began, in murmured tones, for all 
 voices are hushed in the presence of sickness and death, 
 *• I never gave you your dinner to-day ; do come and 
 take some supper." 
 
 " I never heeded it, lass ; I couldn't eat when wee 
 Johnnie was a-dying; how could I, child? But I'll 
 just take a sup of tea to please you." Linton drank 
 the proffered tea in silence. Maggie noiselessly ro- 
 
 84 
 
LITTLE JOHNNIE GOES HOME. 
 
 moved the cups and saucers, for tliey expected tlie 
 minister, on whom tho father had called on hi^ way 
 from work. Will still kept his post by the door. 
 
 The long summer day rJowly and gradually faded 
 away. The sun set amidst richest hues of purple and 
 crimson, gold and violet, which glowed and burned long 
 after he had gone to rest. The faintest shade of colour 
 at last died away, and soon the deep-blue sky was lit 
 with its myriads of starry lamps. The stillness of 
 evening stole o\er all, and still the sad-hearted father 
 sat by his youngesi born ; one hard, long hand enclosing 
 the little, thin, hot one that lay on the coverlid, the 
 other supporting his own aching head. Silence had 
 long reigned unbrokeix in the small, low room, when 
 "Will crept noiselessly up to the bed, whispering — 
 
 " Father, here 's the minister and Miss Haymond." 
 
 And even as he spoke the. two entered, for the dusk 
 of evening had hid them from the boy's wearied gaze 
 until they had just reached the cottage door. All was 
 so still when Helen entered, that she feared her little 
 pupil was beyond the reach of her voice ; but one glance 
 at the flushed little face told he mi^i^'ht even yet speak 
 to her. 
 
 Linton smiled a sad welcome to the two, but as if 
 by mutual consent, no words were spoken. Helen 
 seated herself close by Maggie, taking one of the 
 
 child's hands lovinglv in hers, while the minister took ^/ 
 
 8s - ~" ^ ' 
 
 
LITTLE JOHNNIE GOES HOME. 
 
 
 a chair near Will and beside the ta\>Ie, on which a dim 
 candle was now burning, and in a low voice began to 
 lA^ read the fourteenth chapter of St tJohn. The words 
 seemed just what they all wanted, and every heart Tvas 
 calmed and even cheered. 
 
 For a full hour the little company sit, the silence 
 only broken by the minister's low, soft voi?:;e repeating 
 \»'ords of heavenly comfort. All at once the ?ong lashes 
 were lifted from the thin cheeks, that, within i he hour, 
 had been growing so pale. The eyes wandered for a 
 moment, then fixed on Linton's face, and the weak little 
 voice murmured — 
 
 *' Daddy, take Johnnie.'* I , ^,^,«.,,^ 
 
 In a moment the quilt was wrapped tenderly round \ 
 \ the frail, little form, and he was in his father's arms. 
 There he lay for some minutes perfectly still, and then 
 the blue eyes opened again. 
 
 7 
 
 ( 
 
 1 
 
 *' Daddy, Johnnie thinks he must be going to Jesus: 
 
 Johnnie's so tired. Daddy come too, won't he? 
 
 Johnnie want daddy too." The tired little head 
 
 drooped once more, and the eyes closed for a long 
 
 time. Then for the last time the lids were lifted, and 
 
 the once bright eyes looked from one to the other of 
 
 the faces that bent over him, and an involuntary smile 
 
 played on the child's lips as he nestled again in the 
 
 arms that longed so sorely to keep their light burden 
 
 for ever in their embrace. 
 
 86 
 
 
 1 
 
LITTLE JOHNNIE GOES HOME. 
 
 \ " Daddy " But the dying lips refused to say 
 
 more. A short struggle, and all was over—the weary 
 little form for ever at rest— the ransomed spirit for 
 ever with that Saviour who had said, " For of such is 
 the kingdom of heaven." 
 
 Helen and the minister, without a word, turned and 
 lei't the mourners alone with their dead. 
 

 
 CHAPTER. XIV. 
 
 " When gath'ring clouds around I view, 
 And days are dark, and f i iends are few, 
 On Him I lean, who not in vain 
 Experienced ev'ry human pain ; 
 He sees my wants, allays my fears, 
 And counts and treasures up my tears." 
 
 HERE was no notice of wee Johnnie's 
 Kf^ death in the daily newspaper ; no long 
 mournful funeral procession wound its way 
 from the door of his lowly home, down the 
 steep hill-side, to the quiet little churchyard, to 
 attract the notice of passers-by, or call attention 
 to the fact that a child was dead by the droop- 
 ing white hearse-plumes, or the white ribbon 
 that confined the crape on the mourners' hats. 
 Perchance, one or two of the hill-people or 
 liinton's fellow-labourers carelessly remarked, 
 that ''that sickly bit child of Linton's had died 
 
 of the fever ; " but that was all the notice they 
 
 88 
 
TirS SHADOWS DEEPEN. 
 
 took of it, save a warning to their children not to go 
 near the house. And before the sun had run his seven 
 days' journey, wee Johnnie was forgotten by nearly all. 
 
 But there were a few in whose hearts the remem- 
 brance of the delicate little child still lived fresh and 
 sweet. 
 
 Helen missed the thoughtful, earnest little face 
 
 among the too often careless, troublesome boys of her 
 
 class, — missed the little voice that always welcomed 
 
 her visits to the cottage. How much Maggie missed 
 
 her constant companion, the object of her tenderest care 
 
 and solicitude ever since his babyhood, who can say '{ 
 
 Often was wee Johnnie the subject of her own and 
 
 Will's conversation, and they would mingle their tears 
 
 over the little green mound in the churchyard. But 
 
 around no heart had the child wound himself as round 
 
 that of his father ; none longed so sorely for touch of 
 
 his little hand, or sound of that childish voice that was 
 
 so still. Much as Linton had dreaaed losing his son, 
 
 he had never fancied it would be so hard as it actually 
 
 was. Strong as he knew the ties were which bound 
 
 him to his motherless boy, he had not dreamt that 
 
 the rending of them would be so terrible. He felt 
 
 almost crushed by his grief. Sometimes he would sit 
 
 alone on the calm, still Sunday evening (for they could 
 
 never induce him to go with them to church at night), 
 
 and think of the little form, so still and silent in ita 
 
 89 M 
 
I 
 
 THE SHADOWS DEEPEN'. 
 
 long resting-place, and pray that he might soon lie 
 in the peaceful grave beside his cbild. Yet by de- 
 grees, time, that wondrous soother of the deepest woe, 
 subdued his grief, and in a measure healed his wounded 
 spirit ; and gradually Linton lifted his thoughts from 
 the new-made mound in the quiet churchyard, up to 
 the bright blue sky beyond, which was the home of 
 his ransomed child ; and sometimes he would think it 
 might not be very long before he joined his loved son 
 gone before. 
 
 It is well for us that the future is hidden from our 
 eyes by an impenetrable veil. We could never bear 
 the burdens of to-day, were those of to-morrow added 
 thereto. Sometimes, indeed, not only would they swal- 
 low up present grief, but even overwhelm our very 
 selves in their exceeding weight. 
 
 All unheeding, Maggie Linton's step began again to 
 grow light, and sometimes she would even sing softly 
 to herself some of wee Johnnie's favourite hymns as 
 she went about her daily work. Poor Maggie ! she 
 did not sing long. Summer had scarce faded into 
 autumn, when one evening, as she was cheerily pre- 
 paring her father's supper, a strange sight on the hill- 
 side made her pause to gaze, while her heart — she 
 knew not why — beat with a sickening throb of suspense 
 and fear. Some five or six men were moving slowly 
 
 up the ascent, bearing between them a sort of rough 
 
 90 
 
THE SHADOWS DEEPEN. 
 
 litter on which lay the form of an elderly man, his 
 face wan and pale, his eyes closed — alas ! closed never 
 again to open on earthly scenes. Why was Will 
 there? Maggie asked herself, terror filling her heart. 
 Why did he not come to tell her what was the matter % 
 Poor boy ! he walked slowly behind with bent head and 
 trembling footsteps. Alas ! Mag gie knew_t he truth too 
 soon. Some scaffolding on which her father had been ^"^^ 
 working had given way, precipitating him some fifty 
 feet to the ground, killing him instantly. 
 
 " Oh ! is he quite dead % " moaned Maggie, as they 
 tenderly laid the poor body where only a few short 
 weeks before wee Johnnie had lain a-dying. 
 
 " Dead enough, my poor lass ! We might as well 
 have taken him to the churchyard for all the good ye 
 can do hi m." 
 
 Maggie looked up wonderingly in the face of the 
 speaker, a tall, grujff-looking man she knew well as one 
 of her father's fellow-labourers ; and yet, as she looked, 
 she saw something like a ttar start to his eye, and he 
 turned abruptly away, saying to his companions— 
 
 ** Well, I guess we can't do nothing more for poor 
 John. It 's a better place for our old women than for 
 the likes of us." 
 
 The men moved not away without many murmured 
 words of pity for the poor orphans, and promises thai; 
 they would do well for Will anyhow. 
 
 91 
 
 1 
 
THE SHADOWS DEEPEN. 
 
 Maggie felt that some among tliem at least would 
 be far from good examijles for her brother ; and when 
 they were alono, she clung to him sobbing piteously. 
 Will did not know how to comfort her, and the orphan 
 brother and sister wept together over him who had been 
 both father and mother to them. How much of a guide 
 and support he had been, perhaps they had neither 
 of them realised until now, when they were for ever 
 deprived of his care and counsel. Night at last drew 
 her quiet curtains around them, and a feeling of av/e 
 stole over the two young children as they felt them- 
 selves alone in the presence of death. 
 
 " Hadn't we best pray?" whispered Maggie, at length. 
 
 " But what will we say ? " subbed Will ; " father 's 
 always prayed." And at the remembrance of the 
 chapter and prayer they had had every night and 
 morning, the little ones' tears flowed fast. When they 
 grew calmer, Maggie said again, ** We can say * Our 
 Father,' at any rate." 
 
 And so the two knelt together ; and when the sweet, 
 simple prayer was ended, they fell .isleep by the side of 
 their dead father. 
 
 .=M«* 
 
I 
 
 4* 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 (Dur Jailer's |roUahTg CaK. 
 
 " Who doth the birds supply, 
 Who grass and trees and flowers 
 Doth beautifully clothe through ceaseless hours ; 
 Who hears us ere we cry, 
 Can He my need forget? ^^ 
 
 Nay, though He slay me, I will trust Him yet. 
 
 AGGIE and Will were almost alone in 
 their trouble, for somehow the neighbours 
 
 were not very friendly to the giri who had 
 never sought them in more prosperous days. 
 One or two of them came in until after the 
 "meral was over; but Maggie felt a decided re- 
 lief when they were gone. She would gladly have 
 had Miss Raymond come to see her ; but t^iat 
 was impossible, for Helen was miles away, and 
 knew nothing of her little friend's trouble. 
 And thus poor Maggie had no one to speak to 
 about her trouble, or the anxiety for .he future 
 
 93 
 
 ^ 
 
 mmmmm 
 
 Mr 
 
OUR FATHER'S PROTECTING CARE. 
 
 which weighed on her spirits. There had been a 
 little money in tb*^- house when her father died, and 
 Will had still work to do at the new building, so that 
 present necessities were supplied ; but yet it is not to 
 be wondered at that Maggie Linton's faith often failed 
 her as she thought of the long, cold winter creeping on 
 with slow but sure steps. She was coming home from 
 the town one day, whither she had been to replenish 
 their slight stock of provisions, and as she began slowly 
 to mount the steep hill, she commenced to feel very 
 weary, and her heart sank within her. She felt as if she 
 would gladly sit down on the grass and cry ; but Maggie 
 did not often give way, and she struggled hard to keep 
 down the rising sobs. Suddenly her attention was 
 arrested by the low quick flight of a bird along the 
 ground, that sure sign that some unprotected little 
 home is ne.. Maggie stooped down to look, but she 
 smiled to herself at the thought of any nest being in 
 such a bare, shelterless place. The smile soon grew 
 brighter, for close to the root of a half-grown thistle, 
 whose very top had been rubbed off by a passing cow, 
 lay a tiny nest, and in it two little birds with erected 
 heads and open bills, waiting for the return of tho 
 startled mother, whom, no doubt, they believed had 
 gone to seek them food. Protection there was none 
 to the humble home ; it lay exposed to the careless 
 passer-by, to the rough hoof of the many kine that 
 
 94 
 
OUR FATHER'S PROTECTING CARE. 
 
 wandered about the hill in a vain search for a fresh 
 blade of grass. Maggie gazed in wonder ; it seemed 
 little short of a miracle that the tiny thing had re- 
 mained unmolested for so many weeks, with not 
 even a friendly blade of grass to shield it; and 
 the child lifted up her heart in trust to Him who 
 watches over the birds of the air so tenderly, that 
 not one falleth to the ground without His 'knowledge; 
 and she believed that He who cared for and provided 
 for those two helpless little things, would watch over 
 and keep her and Will in their poor lonely home. 
 With many a long, lingering look at the bare little 
 nest, Maggie turned slowly homewards. Every day 
 she went to look at the little nest on the hill-side. 
 Sometimes she would find the tiny fledgelings alone, 
 sometimes a sharp quick whirr would tell they had 
 just been left ; but very soon the nest was deserted, and 
 when Maggie had gone three days and found it empty, 
 she took it off the ground and carried it home. Then 
 she told Will about it, and the two never looked at the 
 little nest without being reminded that their Father 
 cared for them even more than for the little ground 
 birds that had lived there so long secure in the midst 
 of dangers. 
 
 Will would not go to Sunday-school when Miss 
 Raymond was away, but regularly twice every Sunday 
 the brother and sister went to church together. The 
 
 95 
 
OUR FATHER'S PROTECTING CARE. 
 
 minister more than once stopped to speak to them as 
 they went into the churchyard ; for always when the 
 Sunday was fine, the two would go to visit father's and 
 wee Johnnie's graves, none the less dear to the orphans 
 that no marble slab marked the spot, or told on its 
 smooth surface the name and age of those who lay be- 
 neath. The minister often revolved in his own mind, 
 how he could best help the children, and sometimes 
 felt at a loss what to do, when so many had lost friends 
 that summer — so many that he knew would need help 
 in the coming winter — so he resolved to wait until Miss 
 Raymond came home ; she would probably know best 
 what could be done. 
 
dl 
 
 ^1^ 
 
 5 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 'gmom Cangfet in tfee ^ith-lloom. 
 
 " These trials, Lord, Thou dost employ, 
 
 From this world's snares our hearts to free : 
 And break'st each scheme of earthly joy. 
 That we may find our all in Thee." 
 
 OLIDAY-TIME had now arrived at The 
 Cedars, and, as Horace declared, not 
 
 a daj^ too soon ; for Lis part, he did not 
 see it did a fellow any good to be kept at his 
 lessons in this hot weather; and as for Grace and 
 Laura, he thought they were weaker both in 
 mind and body for the last month— an insinua- 
 tion which was promptly denied by the young 
 ladies— and, continued he, " if I was Miss Ray- 
 mond, I would jolly soon have put these old 
 books away, and have locked up the schoolroom 
 a month ago." Miss Raymond kindly reminded 
 Horace that the heat had been so intense he 
 
 97 N 
 

 
 LESSONS TAUGHT IN THE SICK-ROOM. 
 
 could not have enjoyed his holidays a month ago, and 
 instead of paddling his canoe or fishing, he would have 
 been glad to seek the coolest room in the house. Now 
 they had the prospect of delightful weather, and she 
 was sure they would appreciate his mamma's arrange- 
 ment for postponing the holidays, and enjoy the 
 change. 
 
 Helen Raymond's work was not left behind when 
 she bid adieu for a time to The Cedars and Maggie 
 Linton. A loving ea rnest heart can find work for its 
 Master anywhere ; and indeed, in a measure, Helen 
 w/ took hers with her, for she found that many a lesson 
 might be tar ;ht her pupils, even if it were holiday- 
 time. And tL n they kept up their Sunday work with 
 unflagging interest, and for this the governess felt truly 
 thankful. That short hour on the Lord's-day seemed to 
 keep them together the whole week ; it was the centre 
 ^(AnC H I ixQva. which proceeded Miss Raymond's influence over the 
 -^T^ ..^^# children. Helen found little real satisfaction in Grace. 
 I fikCX- ^^® ^^®' indeed, less trying than formerly, and always 
 manifested considerable interest in the Sunday-lessons ; 
 but often Helen had to chide herself for half-wishing 
 the girl were not with them ; there was not half the 
 freedom between herself and thij other two children 
 when Grace was present ; she seemed always to act as a 
 damper upon their spirits, f> nd to check their confidence 
 in their teacher. But Helen always strove not to show 
 
 98 
 
 
 J 
 
LESSONS TAUGHT IN THE SICK-ROOM. 
 
 tlie slightest partiality; and that she succeeded was 
 evident from the fact that Horace too often complained 
 she always let Grace have her way, whether others 
 wanted it or not. For such remarks he generally received 
 a gentle rebuke from Laura, whose great fear seemed to 
 be lest Grace should leave them again. The unselfish 
 little girl never was weary of doing all she could to try 
 and make everything pleasant for her sister. It often 
 made Helen indignant to see with what apparent indif- 
 ference her sister's many little attentions were received 
 by Grace ; sometimes she could not restrain a reprov- 
 ing word when Laura was not in the room. About 
 Horace, too, Helen felt anxious, for at Christmas he 
 was to leave them for a boarding-school at a distance 
 from home ; and she longed that some lasting impres- 
 sion might be made upon his heart — that he might not 
 go forth into the world without a safeguard against the 
 many temptations to which she knew boys were sub- 
 ject when placed among strangers, far from home and 
 its influences. Many a prayer was offered up for the 
 boy by his governess. 
 
 Their quiet life was unexpectedly broken in upon by 1 
 the sudden, and at first alarming, illness of Grace. She 
 had stayed out too long one evening, when it was par- /^YV 
 ticularly beautiful, and cold had settled on her chest, 
 producing very alarming symptoms — alarming particu- 
 larly to Mrs Gordon, who dreaded lest it should ter- 
 
 99 
 
LESSONS TAUGHT IN THE SICK-ROOM, 
 
 V<// minate in the same insidious disease which had cut 
 
 V down her husband in the prime of life. Mrs Gordon 
 
 was one of those women who, when grief o^ trouble 
 
 tif come, seem Incapable of taking any active part ; and now 
 she appeared overwhelmed with the thought that Giace 
 would die. She firmly believed the child would never 
 recover, aim gave herself up at once to/ithe most unre- 
 strained grief/lfor she loved her children very dearly, 
 particularly the reserved, quiet Grace, whom she always 
 considered "such a superior girl." The poor mother 
 little knew the harm she had done by her ill-concealed 
 admiration of qualities which she should have been far 
 from commending in her daughter. As she was utterly 
 unable to control her feelings, she was almost useless in 
 the sick-room ; indeed, so much did she excite the sick 
 'f' child, that at length she remained away entirely, yielding 
 to Helen the office of nurse. It was then that Helen 
 saw how much there was in Horace's character she had 
 never dreamt of. With noiseless steps he would creep 
 up and down stairs with messages, or sit, almost without 
 moving, for an hour at a time, waiting to be of some 
 use. Helen \;ould wonder sometimes what she would 
 do without him, he was so thoughtful and considerate, 
 seeming almost to anticipate her every want. Laura 
 was in great distress, and begged hard to be allowed 
 to help ; but Helen, seeing that she would not do 
 to be in the sick-room, committed to her the task 
 
 lOO 
 
LESSONS TAUGHT IN THE SICK-ROOM. 
 
 of comforting mamma, which she did her best to pei- 
 form. 
 
 Grace did not die. Very, very slowly she began to 
 recover, until at length she was able to sit up for a few 
 minutes every day. By degrees her mother's spirits 
 returned, and hope revived. She had resolved not to 
 see Grace until she asked for her: but she had not long 
 to want. 
 
 Horace had been reading to the sick girl one morning 
 while Helen sat sewing beside her, when Grace, suddenly 
 lifting those bright eyes of hers, which looked so un- 
 naturally large and brilliant, said — 
 
 " Where 's mamma 1 I would like to see her." 
 
 Helen rose, motioning Horace to follow, for she 
 thought it better to leave the mother and daughter 
 alone. Mrs Gordon gladly hastened to Grace] and. 
 what passed between them Helen never knew, but it */// 
 was but tEe"6eginiiiiig""of many hours spent alone to- 
 gether by the sick girl and her mother. Mrs Gordon 
 had a peculiarly sweet voice, and she would read to 
 Grace for hours at a time. There seemed to spring 
 up between them an affection which before had been 
 hidden under coldness and misunderstanding; and none 
 rejoiced over it more than Helen Raymond. What 
 pleasant evenings they all spent now in Grace's room, 
 working and talking together ! Grace appeared a 
 
 different girl since her illness, so mild and gentle and 
 . ■ lui - ' 
 
 w 
 
LESSONS TAUGHT IN THE SICK-ROOM. 
 
 / * f 
 
 forbearing to all; her very face looked cha nged, th e 
 cold, hauglity expression was quite gone n ow. Some- 
 ' times siie would take Hek.i's hand in hers, and say, 
 l^CX. wiiile the tears filled her eyes— 
 
 O^TXO 
 
 \ 
 
 " Oh, Miss Kcvymond, how much I owe to you ! 
 You have always been so kind and gencle with me. 
 When I used to watch you sitting by my bed-side all 
 the long, long night, I used to hate myself for all my 
 pride and coldness to you; but I hope that I will never 
 again be as I was.'^ 
 
 And Helen would kiss the pale, thin cheek, and 
 think how true it was that His ways are not as our 
 ways, nor His thoughts as our thoughts. 
 
 
I 
 
 T 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. . 
 
 " Help us, Lord ! not these Thy poor ones only, 
 They are with us always, and shall be : 
 Help the blindness of our hearts, and teach us 
 In Thy homeless ones to succour Thee." 
 
 HERE was much that was very happy in 
 
 the return to The Cedars in the quiet 
 
 twilight of the autumn day. The maples 
 
 and oaks were resplendent in most gorgeous 
 
 hues, from rich russet to brilliant crimson. 
 
 " Does it not look beautiful ? " said Grace, as 
 
 they drove slowly along. " Oh ! I am so glad 
 
 to be at home again. I wished so often, when 
 
 I was sick, that we were here." 
 
 No one spoke in reply. Mrs Gordon felt 
 
 rery glad to hear Grace speak as she did, for she 
 
 was generally the first to hail any absence from 
 
 home with delight, and the last to wish to re- 
 
 103 
 
MKS GORDON'S PLEASANT PLANS. 
 
 turn. Laura was wild with excitement, and even 
 Horace exclaimed, " Well, it is jolly to be back again," 
 as he sprang out of the carriage. Helen's pleasure was 
 greatly marred when she heard from one of the servants 
 of Linton's death, and the wlioTc evening her iTidiigEts 
 '^ were full of the poor little orphans. However, she 
 said nothing to the others, as she wished their first 
 evening at home to be as happy as possible. 
 
 Grace, who was tired with the journey, went to her 
 room soon after tea, but the others sat up talking, until 
 they were reminded of the lateness of the hour by find- 
 ing Laura coiled up in an arm-chair fast asleep. 
 
 Helen found it impossible to visit Maggie the follow- 
 
 "^ ing morning, as there was much to do after their long 
 
 / absence. At dinner, however, she told the others of 
 
 the Lin cons' loss, and asked Laura if she would go 
 
 with her to see them. The child willingly assented, 
 
 while Grace said — 
 
 " I wish I could go too, if it was only not so far." 
 
 " Oh, my dear, you could never walk such a distance," 
 said her mother. 
 
 *'No, I am afraid not,". returned Grace, sadly; "but 
 before very long I hope I can go." 
 
 " I hope so," said Helen, stooping to kiss her, as she 
 left the room to prepare for her walk. 
 
 They found Maggie in great trouble, as Will would 
 
 very soon be without work ; and what they were to do 
 
 104 
 
MRS GORDON'S PLEASANT PLANS. 
 
 all through the long, cold winter, sho did not know 
 Helen hardly knew vhat to say, for she herself felt 
 at a loss as to what was to become of the orphans. 
 However, she comforted Maggie as best she conld, 
 assuring her that something would be done for them ; 
 and then she and Laura walked slowly and almost 
 silently home, both full of thoughts about Maggie and 
 Will. 
 
 That evening when the children had gone to bed, 
 and Mrs Gordon and Helen were sitting working 
 together, the former said — 
 
 " Laura has been telling me about these poor Lin- 
 tons. What is to be done about them. Miss Raymond 1" 
 
 " I am sure I doVt know," returned Helen, a little 
 despondingly. . " I was just thinking about tbem." 
 
 " But something must be done before winter sets in." 
 
 " Yes, I know. I was thinking of speaking to Mr 
 Stirling about them. He always took a great interest 
 in the children. About the time Johnnie died, he said 
 to me it was a pity something could not be done for 
 Will, he was such a bright, intelligent boy." 
 
 " Yes, yes," replied Mrs Gordon ; " but Mr Stirling 
 
 himself can't do anything for the boy. We must go 
 
 to some one who can and will help us on. Now I was 
 
 thinking about Mr Morton. We have always been 
 
 good customers of his, and perhaps I could induce him 
 
 to take Will as errand-boy. There would be a chance 
 
 105 o 
 

 h 
 
 MRS GORDON'S PI EASANT PLANS. 
 
 of his getting on in the wori i, and it would be easy 
 work for him, as he does not lo ik very strong." 
 
 " It would be very nice," said Helen, after a pause ; 
 ** but it is a disadvantage to Will that he knows so 
 little. He ought to go to school for a year first." 
 
 " But he can't do that, for he has to work for his 
 living." 
 
 A few minutes' pause ensued, when Mrs Gordon said 
 energetically — 
 
 " I '11 tell you what he can do. There is a night- 
 school here, held down in George Street ; why could he 
 not go to that % I would get him any books he wanted ; 
 and indeed there are several of Horace's which I dare- 
 say would be useful to him." 
 
 ** That is just the thing," exclaimed Miss Raymond. 
 "I am so glad you thought of it. I am suie you are 
 very kind, Mrs Gordon ; but the question is, can you 
 get Mr Morton to take Will % " 
 
 " I think I can," replied Mrs Gordon. " But there 
 
 is something else to consider, and I think I can manage 
 
 that too, for you see I have tak en a great interest in 
 
 rAU-'/*^"^ 'your 'proteges^ | Miss Ray mond/^ she added, with a 
 
 H^ R smile. " The children will want somewhere to live, 
 
 "(s^ '^ ^►'' for of course they can't stay over there : it would be 
 
 ^ ^ too far for Will, if there was no other objection. I 
 
 was thinking there is that poor woman who lost her 
 
 husband by the fever, — you know her. She always 
 
 io6 
 
 ^Tf'-t 
 
I 
 
 MRS GORDON'S PLEASANT PLANS. 
 
 comes to church so regularly ; her name is Brown. I 
 think she has a large house, and would be glad to rent 
 Maggie a room or two. We would go security for the 
 rent," said Mrs Gordon, with another smile ; " and we 
 will find Maggie something to do." 
 
 Helen could not speak at first, her heart was so full 
 of thankfulness. 
 
 " Well," said Mrs Gordon, at length, " we can think 
 over it, and see about it to-morrow." 
 
 " I think you have thought over it already to some 
 purpose," said Helen, with tears in her eyes. " I can- 
 not thank you. I cannot say half I feel." 
 
 " Good night, dear," returned Mrs Gordon ; and for 
 the first time since Helen had come under her roof, 
 she stooped down and kissed her. 
 
 Helen lay awake far into the night, thinking and 
 planning for Maggie and Will, her heart glowing with 
 thankfulness for all her Father had done for her ; and 
 among her happiest thoughts was the remembrance of 
 Mrs Gordon's good-night kiss. It reminded her of 
 other days and her own old home. 
 
CHAPTEK XVIIL 
 
 " Life is only high when it proceedeth 
 Toward a truer, deeper Life above ; 
 Human Love is sweetest when it leadeth 
 To a more divine and perfect Love." 
 
 HEN Mrs Gordon had once devised a 
 
 plan, slie was not long in carrying it 
 
 out, if it was possible. Accordingly, the 
 
 first thing on the following morning, she was oif 
 
 to Mr Morton's, and with him, in his private 
 
 office, she was closeted for an hour, engaged in 
 
 earnest conversation. The result was, that the 
 
 merchant, after some hesitation, agreed to take 
 
 Will as errand-boy, giving Hm also a sniall 
 
 W salary, somewhat less, it is true, than what Mrs' 
 
 i. v^ordon at Irst pxflpisiiriMiVp«*haps in xeality 
 
 A more than she^expecte^. Mrs Gordon's next 
 
 visit was to the • Widow Brown, and with her 
 
 io8 
 
 i 
 
*? AGGIE LINTON ANU HER VISITORS. 
 
 " Miss Raymond quietly and clearly explained all to the astonishid 
 
 gir\."—/'a£e 109. 
 
A FAREWELL TO OUR FRIENDS. 
 
 k 
 
 \ 
 
 also her mission was successful, and two comfortable 
 rooms were secured for the orphans. But Mrs Gordon's 
 work was not yet done. S he had another plan which 
 she had been working in her busy brain since she had 
 lelt tome ; it resulted in Maggie's obtaining a situa- 
 tion as daily nurse with a friend of Mrs Gordon, who ^v^ 
 agreed to let Maggie go Jiome for an hour in the 
 middle of the day to cook Will's dinner, as the Widow 
 Brown's house was but a short distance off. Full of 
 spirits, Mrs Gordon hurried home to report to Helen, 
 who, delighted, could scarcely wait until the after- 
 noon, when, accompanied by the three children, she 
 went to tell Maggie of all that had been done for her. 
 For some little time, the bev, 'Mered Maggie could 
 hardly comprehend the showers of explanations and 
 delighted exclamations that were poured upon her from 
 all four, Laura pressing her hand in hers, and saying 
 every few minutes — 
 
 " Oh, I am 80 glad ! Maggie ! won't it be nice ? " 
 While Maggie scarco knew what it was that would 
 be nice. At length, however, Miss Raymond thought 
 it better to interfere, and quietly and clearly explained 
 all to the astonished girl. Maggie could hardly speak 
 for thankfulness; she clasped her poor little thin 
 Lands, and the tears would come, though she tried hard 
 to choke them back. When her visitors were ^^WQ, 
 
 she took down the empty little nest from its place on 
 
 109 
 
VHf 
 
 A FAREWELL TO OUR FRIENDS. 
 
 the shelf, and, with thiinkful heart, thought of how her 
 Father had provided for them a home, and again came 
 to her mind the sweet words, " Behold the fowls of the 
 air, for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather 
 into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. 
 Are ye not much better than they ? Take, therefore, 
 no thought for the morrow, for your heavenly Father 
 knoweth that ye have need of all these things." 
 
 Before Christmas there w^re many changes. Horace 
 had gone off to school, but not before Helen felt good 
 hopes that he was influenced by that blessed Spirit 
 who alone could preserve his youthful feet from stray- 
 ing, and guide him into that narrow path whose ways 
 are indeed pleasantness — whose end is assuredly peace. 
 Long before that festal season, Maggie and Will were 
 settled in their new home, and busy with their new 
 duties — duties which were rendered light by the thought 
 of the evening together ; and then, as Maggie said, 
 there was always Sunday to look forward to, when they 
 both went to church and Sunday-school — Maggie to 
 Mrs Gordon's class, for she no longer feared or disliked 
 her. She had long since learned to know what a kind, 
 motherly heart lay hid under the somewhat abrupt 
 manner which used to repel when it would attract. 
 
 ^^^ j^2^^"i"^^^» ^^^ glifl^^rl^ \ she had learned man^ 
 lessons during the past year. That happy Christmas- 
 time did no* find many happier homes than The Gfi<4ars, 
 
 ' . no 
 
 ' 
 
A FAREWELL TG OUR FRIENDS. 
 
 nor a happier heart in it than that of Helen Ray- ^^. . 
 mond., ■ ' ^^ 
 
 r'^'TETsTrarrative will have more than accomplished the 
 I purpose for which it was written, if it leads any one 
 who may chance to read it to think se riously on the 
 greatness ^ the influence all exercise^, whether such 
 influence be for g.Qpd or for evil; of how much willing 
 , hands may find to do, let them be ever so feeble or 
 I smallj and that no work on earth is so blessed as that 
 j done for Him whose reward will be, " Well done, good | 
 
 ^^^aaiiai^MHls^^^ the .ioy of th^ luord \ "J 
 
 What joy can be like that, unspeakable and full of 
 glory— that joy waich is at His right hand, and those 
 pleasures which are for evermore ? 
 
 " Be kind to one another ; 
 
 This is a world of care ; 
 And there 's enough of needful woe 
 
 For every one to bear : 
 But if you ease the burden 
 
 That weighs another down, 
 That Avork of Christian charity 
 
 Will lighten half your own. 
 
 Wide o'er the fields of hearts, a nd ric h 
 "The harvest wealth will prove ; 
 
 A Avealth more truly precious"^ ^ 
 
 Than aught beneath the sun, 
 
 Which India's diamonds could not bujr, 
 And yet— how lightly won ! 
 Ill 
 
w 
 
 A FAREWELL TO OUR FRIENDS, 
 
 " Be kind to one another, 
 
 Not to the good alone ; 
 E'en to the cold and selfish heart 
 
 Let deeds of love be shown. 
 So shall ye be His children 
 
 Who rains His gifts on all, 
 And even upon the thankless ones 
 
 Bids His bright sunbeams fall." 
 
 I 
 
 THE END. 
 
 / 
 
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[ / O' 
 
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