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Class      'C,5


Book C38 L:


state College
of 33ashington library
lullman, WBashingtan
Source
Accession No.


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I:I.i








MINISTERING CHILDREN:
A TALE
BY
MARIA LOUISA CHARLESWORTH,
AUTHOR OF "ENGLAND'S YEOMAN," 'OLIVER OF THE MILL" AND
'DOROTHY COPE


IcQoallyfif      in  Ont    V-01.
1~; 
I        1    I  I
I.       
t, I.      1.
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I..,,
NEW YORK:
CARTER & BROTHERS,
No. 530 BROADWAY.


ROBERT




a
lb




MINISTERING CHILDREN:
VOL. II.




* "AhD THEY SAY UN-TO HIM, HEAREST THcu WH9AT THESE SAYP
AND JESUS SAITHI UNTO THEN, YEA; HAVE YE NEVER READ, OUT
OF THE MOUTH OF BABES A.ND SUCELINGs THOU HAST PERFECTED
PRAisE?"-MAr.- XXL 3C.




CONTENTS
OF' VOL. II.
PAOU
I.-LEARNHNG TO RKNT...............................        6
II.-'- SE IS GONE!"................................      20
III.-SNowFLAKE...........................     3
IV.-PATIENCE AT SERVICE.........................   52
V.-DARNESS AND LIGHT............................  70
VI.-THE FARMER'S SACRIFICE........................        84
VII.-LITTLE JANE ' CARPET........................... 11
VIII.-THE LITTLE     OMFORTER.........................  132
IX.-T'HE YOUNG SQUIRE'S RET.URN.................... 165
X.-THE OLD COBBLER....................       185
XI.-BLACK BEAUTY..................................199
XII.-JEM's    WEDDING DAY..........................    230
XIII.- -CONCLUSION.................................
(ii)




I




MINISTERING CHILDREN.
j..
learning     to Bnift
The words tnat 1 spear unto you, they are spirit, and they are life."John vi. 63.
WHILE Patience in the workhouse was gathering other children round her, and teaching them
the blessed words that had so long lain silently in
her own heart, little Jane, led by her mother's
thoughtful care, had a ministry of love to the
aged. In the town where Mr. Mansfield lived,
there stood in a narrow street, a row of old almshouses; the walls were of white plaster; the one
single shutter to each lower lattice-window, and
the doors were black; and the old chimneys rose
thick above the red tiled roof. In the spring of
the year an old man and woman passed under the
almshouse door-way, and up the white deal stairs,
to end their days in one of the almshouse-rooms,
which the friendly compassion of some people in
the town had obtained for them. They had come
from a large farm-house, where much had been
under their care; but the old man had failed in
business, and now all was gone-except one fourVOL. II.-1-*        (6)




6     MINISTERING CHILDREN.


post bedstead with its white dirity hangings,
their two ar-n-chairs, a chest of drawers, a small
round table before the fire, and a square one in
the window, and such few other articles as were
necessary to the furniture of one room. The old
woman spread a white cover on the little table in
the window, and hung at both small lattices muslin blinds, and to a stranger's eye the room looked
a picture of neatness and comfort, and the old
people were thankful for such a refuige; still they
felt the difference, the old woman most of the two
-and her stirring active manner changed to a look
of silent dejection. They knew not that HOPE that
can shed its brightness no less on poverty than on
wealth, and is the only abiding light of either.
Mrs. Mansfield had known something of them
in their better days, and now she hastened to visit
them in their affliction; she saw their silent dejection, and the thought occurred to her mind,
that very probably it was as much owing to the
loss of all active interest in life as it was to any
sense of present poverty; and that to provide the
old woman a little employment might prove a
groat help in cheering their spirits. She knew
also that Mrs. Blake was a good knitter; so after
sitting with them in sympathy a short time, she
said, " I have a little plan to propose to you, Mrs.
Blake; I know you are a superior knitter, I want
my eldest little giJ 1 to learn, and if you would not




LEARNING TO KNIT.


object to take a little pupil, I would send her to
you three times a week for an hour, and then send
for her again. I should willingly pay a shilling a
week for her instruction, till she can manage it
well enough to go on by herself."
" I am sure I should be thankful," replied Mrs.
Blake, " it would seem a little company, and cheer
us up every way!" So the next day was fixed for
a beginning.
"Jane," said Mrs. Mansfield, that afternoon,
"I am going to send you to-morrow to take your
first lesson in knitting; you are going to a kind
old woman who is willing to teach you. I am
sure you will be very attentive, and try not to
give her any trouble."
" Is she very old, mamma?"
" I dare say you would think her very old, so
you must be careful not to tire her by making her
tell you the same thing over a great many times.
You know you have often wished you could knit
like me, and now you will learn."
Jane took the first opportunity of getting off
to the nursery, being always anxious to tell all
that concerned herself to her nurse.
"Nurse, I am going to learn to knit like mamma; there is a very old woman who is going to
teach me; mamma says I shall think her a VERY
old woman! Do you think, nurse, I can do any.
thing for her?"




8    MINISTERING CHILDREN.


"Yes, to be sure; I never saw the old woman
yet that a child could not be a comfort to, if there
was the mind to try!"
" What do you think I can do, nurse?"
"How should I know? that's for you to find
out when you are there!"
Little Jane had no love for suspense, and she
thought it would be much pleasanter to know at
once just what she could do for this very old
woman, and though it was her nurse who had
taught her to reverence old age, still her mother
was always her final appeal, so she did not stay
long in the nursery, but made her way back again
to her mother's side.
"( Mamma, nurse says I can do something for
the old woman. What can I do?"
" I hope you will be her little comforter, Jane,
and that will be doing the best thing for her, for
she is very sorrowful."
" How can I be her comforter, mamma?"
" Only by loving her, and trying to make her
happy, as you try to make me when I am sad."
" I read to you out of the Bible to comfort you,
mamma, will that comfort the old woman?"
" Yes, I hope it will. You will find an old man
also, the old woman's husband, and when you have
knitted three-quarters of an hour, you can tell
them that you read to me to make me happy, and
that if they will let you, you will read to them."




LEARNING TO KNIT.


9


" How shall I know when it is three-quarters
of an hour, mamma?"
" Mr. Blake, the old man, has a watch, and he
will tell you if you ask him."
Now little Jane was perfectly satisfied, and with
her path before her, clear and bright as the shining light, she waited for her next day's lesson.
Her nurse led her to the almshouse, up the white
deal staircase, knocked at the black door where
the No. 3 was painted in large white letters, and
left Jane seated on a stool by Mrs. Blake's side.
Jane was a timid child, and she felt a little strange
when left alone with the old people; but she remembered that she was to try and be a comfort
to them, and any sense of power soon dispels the
slavery of fear. Jane tried to do her best, but the
knitting-pins were strangers to her little fingers,
and she longed to get to the pages of the Bible to
which those same little fingers had long been used.
"Is it three-quarters of an hour yet, do you
think?" asked Jane of IMrs. Blake.
" No, my dear, not more than one quarter as
yet, I should say."
Jane knitted on in patience, but the time seemed
very long, while she grasped as tight as possible
the pins, which as yet she knew not the skill of
holding with easier pressure. "Do you think it
is nearly three-quarters now?"  At length she
asked again. Then the old man's pity awoke, and




10   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


taking out his watch, he laid it on the table by
the child, and said, "There, dear, now you can
see for yourself!"
" I don't know what's o'clock when I look!"
said little Jane.
"Come, wife," said Mr. Blake, "you have had
time enough for your teachings; I will give mine
now. Come here, dear, and I will shew you all
about it!"  So Jane stood at the old man's knee,
and he taught her to find out what was o'clock,
and spun out his lesson till the three-quarters
were fairly over.
" Is it quite three-quarters?" asked Jane.
" Yes, dear; do you want to be going?"
"No, I don't want to go, but mamma said,
would you like me to read in the Bible to you
when it was three quarters of an hour?"
"Yes, to be sure!" said the old man. " Wife,
where's our Bible?"
"It's here where it always is," said Mrs. Blake,
going to the chest of drawers, " but it's too big for
a child!"
" I can stand at the table," said little Jane, "I
can find the place where I read to mamma this
morning-I can find places in the Bible now all
by myself!-shall I read what I read to mamma
about the sheep and the goats?"
"Yes, dear, that's just what I should like!"
said the old farmer.




-z   K~~~~~/ ---~ 


/


M. C.








LEARNING TO KNIT.


11


So the child stood up between the two old people, and her young voice bore on its feeble breath
the seed of eternal life-herself unconscious of
the enduring influence of the words that "are
spirit and life," thinking only of its present power
to comfort.
When Jane had done, the old man said, " Ah,
dear, those are cutting words!" but Mrs. Blake
only praised little Jane's reading. Jane looked at
her, surprised and disappointed-she had expected
a far higher result than any thought of her reading, and she said, gravely, "It makes mamma
happy when I read her the Bible!"
"Ah, dear, that's as it should be!" said the old
man.
"Does it make you happy?" asked little Jane,
turning to him.
"God grant it may! God grant it may!" he replied, and little Jane, satisfied with his words, shut
up the great Bible. Mrs. Blake saw that she had
commented warong, and that the child had expect.
ed what was read to have some effect on her; she
said no more then, but she determined next time
to listen, that she might see whether she could
find anything in the words themselves. Then
rising up, Mrs. Blake went to her closet and
brought out her wheaten loaf and slice of butter,
and cutting some bread and butter for Jane, she
offered it to her. She had been used to bring out




12   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


her home-made cake and wine to her guests; and
now, though bread and butter was all her store,
she would still offer that. Little Jane received
the offer of the poor old woman as she would
have received the same kind care from the rich;
and then, her nurse arriving, she returned to her
home, to give to her mother her simple account
of all that had passed. And on through the summer weeks little Jane knitted her three quarters
of an hour, then told the time fromr the old man's
watch, and read her chapter out of the great
Bible-And thus the child became a ministering
guide to Heaven!
Before we leave the town we will pay a farewell visit to the shoemaker's family.  We saw
them before, on the Christmas-eve; and it was
still the winter-time, when, if you could have
looked in of an evening after the day's work was
done, and when the mother's candle was lighted,
and she was sitting by the round table at work,
you would have seen on the table a pile of loose
pages, and Agnes and Ephraim seated side by
side, sorting and arranging them; they were
pages of the New Testament, which Miss Wilson
had found in one of the school-closets-a heap of
old and torn copies of the Holy Testament; so she
sent them to the shoemaker's bookbinding son, to
see what he could do with them. I-He set his little
brother and sister to work, and every evening, at




LEARNING TO KNIT.


13


their mother's side, they sorted the sacred pages,
till they had some Testaments complete, and some
separate Gospels complete, and some Epistles complete; then the bookbinding boy carried them off,
and in his spare time, with the pieces his master
allowed him to use, he put them all into neat dark
covers, and then he gave them to Miss Wilson,
saying, " I have not money, but I have a little time
to give, and I want it to be my offering to those
that have need!" IIe brought eight volumesTestaments and parts of Testaments, refusing any
payment, leaving the words that are "spirit and
life," again ready for the use of the poor and
nee(ly. So it was that the shoemaker's children
ministered to others " according to their ability."
While little Patience gathered health and
strength in the warm summer-time beneath the
workhouse matron's care, the life of the young
sweet lady of the Hall was passing from the Earth.
Every one around her watched her gently fading
from their sight; her parents knew that she was
dying, and looked upon her day by day-as if
each look might be their last upon her living
form; the servants watched her whenever in their
sight, and thought of all that devoted service
could do-as if they felt each act might be the
last that loving reverence could offer her; the
villagers looked from their labour when the carriage passed-and if she were in it, they turned
VOL. II.-2




14   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


and watched it out of sight; the cottage women
looked from door or window, then sighing turned
again to their work within; the very children of
the village knew that their lady was departing,
and looked into her face with silent questioning,
w-hich there was none to answer-for their young
hearts spoke by looks alone; all knew that she
had well-nigh reached Heaven's gate, all but her
own young brother-lie looked on her, but her
smile, unchanged, still threw its veil of beaut yoveI
weakness and pain, he looked no deeper than that
smile, and thought that however her strength might
change, that smile would be always beside him;
and lest he should find that others thought differently, he never asked of any what they thought,
and so hle knew it not, but still believed that with
the greatest care, she might recover again, as she
had done before. It was now some weeks since
he had been to old Willy's; for the last time lie
went, and expressed his hope that his sister would
soon be well again, old Willy had shaken his head;
Herbert saw and felt that shake of the old man's
head; he said nothing, but he kept away from the
cottage after that, afraid to venture again.
It was the close of June, the air breathed fragrance of the new-mown grass over the hills, the
song of the birds was hushed at mid-day, and the
heavy foliage h ing its soft shade between the
earth and sky.   Miss Clifford came down in




LEARNING TO KNIT.             15
her shawl and bonnet, and Herbert, ever on the
watch, soon had her leaning on his arm, crossing
the unsheltered lawn. "You will not go this
way, Mary, you will want the shade of the trees,"
he said-without arresting by a pause the frail
steps he supported.
" No, I want to go this way to-day," she replied;
" and as I cannot talk while walking, we will sit
down on this seat, and I will tell you why."
Herbert sat down beside his sister, and she
said, " There is a poor old woman who lives not
far from the Lime-avenue Lodge, she is very ill, I
fear they think her dying, and I want to go today and visit her."
Indeed, Mary, you must not go! you know
mamma never lets you go and sit in sick rooms;
and now, when you cannot take a little walk without being tired, I am sure you must not go!"
" Yes, dear Herbert, nmamma does not mind today, she knows I am going, and you will go with
me. I fear the poor woman is dying without a
hope beyond the grave, and there is no one to tell
her 'of the precious blood that cleanseth fiom all
sin.' 
Herbert was silent; he thought,-could he go
and tell the dying woman of the precious blood
of Jesus, that could cleanse her from her sins?
No, he thought he could not; he feared he should
not know what to say to her; he had never seen




16   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


sickness and death, and he was afraid to venture;
so he let his sister take his arm, and he led her
gently on: they were silent till they reached the
cottage. The dying woman was lying on a bed
put up for her in the lower room; she looked
towards Miss Clifford, but did not speak. Herbert stayed by the open casement, and his sister
went to the bed-side. " I am sorry to see you so
ill," said Miss Clifford.
" 0, dear, yes, and I am as bad in mind as I
am in body!" the dying woman replied.
" What is it that troubles you?" Miss Clifford
asked.
" What is it! why it's everything, even to the
look of peace on my husband's face-for to my
belief the peace he has is as much above my reach
as the Heaven itself!"
" It is the peace of God your husband has, the
peace of one who has found the Saviour; none
ever reached that peace of themselves; but God,
who gave it to him, can give it also to you."
"Yes, I know that I ought to repent; I know
there is no mercy without that; but I don't feel
it! so it's no use to say I do."
"IYou cannot get repentance any more than
peace, of yourself, they are both the gift of God,
but it is written in the Bible, ' Ask, and it shall
be given you."'
"Yes, I dare say it's all to be had by those




LEARNING     TO KNIT.           17
who have not set themselves against it all t:eir
life-long as I have done; but there's none cal tell
how I have turned against it-therefore there's
none can say that it's for me!"
"Shall I tell you what God, who knows all
things, says in -His Word?"
"Yes, I don't mind hearing now!"
"He says, ' 0 Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself, but in Me is thy help found!'"
The dying woman looked up, those words,
"Thou hast destroyed thyself," reached the depth
of her sense of misery, they included it all, and
made her feel that if over those " dcltroyed"
there was hope, then might there be a hope for
her! Clasping her hands together, and fixing her
dying eyes upon the young speaker, she exclaimed,
"Oh how you comfort me!" then, closing her
eyes, she listened while again the same words,
which had proved so instantly "spirit and life"
to her, ere repeated. After telling her of Jesus
-mighty to save, on whom that help for the sinful has been laid, and whose precious blood can
cleanse from all sin, Miss Clifford left the dying
woman to the hope she had set before her in the
Gospel. That one declaration of Divine truth,
which, admitting all her sin and misery, turned
her eye, not on herself for repentance, but on
Jesus for help, had touched her heart; the seed
of hope was planted, and in the last great day it
VOL. II.-2*




18   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


may be seen to have brought forth fruit to life
eternal.
Herbert led his sister gently home; he la;d her
on the couch to rest-wearied with her effort she
did not speak, but putting her hand upon his head,
she smiled upon him-one long sweet smile that
met his anxious and inquiring look: then Herbert
turned away thoughtfully to his room, he had a
purpose in going there-it was to take his Bible
in his hand, to hold again, himself, in his own
hand the wondrous Book, whose words, fiomn his
sister's lips, he had but just seen change the face
of restless dull despair to the earnest gaze of
sudden hApe. He held his Bible, he looked upon
its pages, he saw the words so thickly traced, and
thought again upon the living, the creative power
he had but now seen them possessed of, and he
resolved that the highest object of his life should
be to make them his own by hiding them within
his heart - that he might both live himself by
their help, and use them in aid of others. He
held the sacred volume as the young soldier grasps
his sword-for personal and relative defence; but
Herbert's was " the sword of the Spirit, the word
of God "-which wounds but to heal; which destroys-not man, but sin, man's enemy; a sword
given to be used —not to defend one human being
against another, but to defend all against the
powers of evil, ti rescue all from Satan's dreadful




LEARNING     TO KNIT.          19
dominion. Happy the child who goe forth early
in this blessed warfare-who, taking the Word of
God, first proves its power in his own heart and
life, then tries to use it for the good of others;
he " shall stand in the evil day, and having done
all, shall stand;" and those beside him, whom
God will give him to be his glory and j6y in the
day of Christ's appearing.




II.


"O, I stand trembling
Where foot of mortal ne'er hath been;
Wrapped in the radiance of that sinless land
Which eye hath never seen.
"Bright visions come and go;
Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
From angel-lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song."
IT was the summer night.      The cloudless heavens were gleaming with their host of countless
stars; the village slept in the calm   hush of midnight's hour, it slept and knew not that its best
and dearest treasure was passing from its sight
for ever.   Horse-hoofs trod swiftly through the
village street, but they roused not the labourer
whose healthful sleep is sweet to him after the long
day's toil; then all was silent, till after an hour's
space, carriage-wheels rolled rapidly by; it sounded
like the doctor's carriage, and affection's wakeful
ear and heart were roused, many a villager listened,
some looked anxiously out; but the distant sound
had died away, and all was silent again. With
the dawn the village rose.     "Man goeth forth to
(20)




"SHE IS GONE!"


his work and to his labour till the evening."  Far
over the bright pastures, the grass had withlered,
the flower faded, beneatl i tLhe mower's scythe; and
one, the sweetest flower that ever grew witlin
the village bound, one that every village hland
would have beei raiised to shield and to retain, had
fallen too beneath the scythe of Death —the young
sweet lady of the Hall lay dead; that niglit her
spirit had departed, and the place that had known
her knew her no more. The villagers soon learned
the tidings, and one told another, till every cottage
knew and mourned its loss. Yet they said not,
" She is DEAD;" but only, " She is GON-E!" They
thought not of death, but of Heaven as her portion; so they said one to another, "She is gone!"
and the labourer raised his arm, from turning the
new-made hay, and wiped away the tear that
dimmed his eye; and the widow wept alone
within her cottage-door; and the village mother,
silent and sad, prepared the morning meal; and
the children cried beside their untasted food-the
village mourned; for the fiiend, the loved of all
was gone!
The windows of the Hall were curtained-and
silence dwelt around it; guarding the still repose
of that lovely form in death, which it had sheltered through life. The grief of the home was
calmed by the near approach to Heaven's gate
with the bright spirit who had, manifestly to all,




22   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


entered iil; and for a time the glory that received
ner struggled with the sadness her departure had
left behind —even as the sun's parting rays cast
their lighlt back on the grey shades of advancing
twilight. Poor Herbert alone had been surprised
as by a sudden shock, he knew not that she was
going, till, lo, she was gone! Grief held him il
its heavy fetters, he could think of and feel nothing
but the first overpowering sense of death and
desolation; he knew too little yet of what it is to
rise in heart and live in Heaven, to be able to feel
communion of spirit still, with her whom he had
lost fiom Earth.
The day of the funeral came, and the whole
village gathered to the grave-there came the old
and feeble, whom her hands had clothed and fed,
her lips had taught and comforted; there came
the dark transgressor whose chains of sin had
melted under her fervent utterance of Heavenly
truth and love; there came the strong-built la,
bourer, whose dull mind had gathered light under
her gentle teaching, whose hand of iron strength
had followed her frail finger, tracing out the
sacred lesson of holy writ; there came the village
children, the lambs of the Chief Shepherd's fold,
whom she had fed with the living Word of the
Lord of Life - all came to see the form they
nad loved laid to its rest, till the resurrection of
the just. Respect brought some but it was love




"SHE IS GONE1"


23


unftigned that led the many there; they filled
tile churchyard, lined the wooded lane that led
down the hill-side, reached to the park-gate and
stood beneath the trees that grew beside it. Old
Willy had climbed the hill, and leaning on his
staff, stood beneath the churchyard Yew. Then
the long procession came in sight, the servants
of her home would suffer no hired hand to
bear her honoured form, and lay it to its rest;
slowly they came, the snow-white border of the
sable pall gleaming between the old trees of the
park;-telling of purity and light that encompasseth the blessed, hidden from earthly sight by
the dark shade of death. Herbert was led by his
father, and the long train of mourners followed.,
There stood the mourning village, and the mourners from many a village round. The great men
of the Earth have a name through its generations,
and then-if their greatness has been of Earth
only, their very name must pass away and be lost
for ever; but the childlike spirit, who lives to
minister to other's good, to ease the burden of the
weary-hearted, to sweeten and bless life's bitter
cup, to win the lost to the Saviour's feet; luring
on, by words of truth, and bright example of
Heavenly Love, from Earth to Ieaven, from darkness into light, from death to life; has a record
written on human hearts-hearts whose records
are eternal! A suppressed sob heaved the breasts




24   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


of the villagers as she-who had ever come among
them in life to bless-was borne into the midst of
them sleeping in death. The village children had
filled their pinafores with the summer flowers,
they had been wont to gather them to win her
smile, and now they cast them down before the
feet of those who bore her to her rest;-she who
most endeared the flowers to them had passed
away from Earth for ever!
The clergyman of the village, an old man, had
served that village-church for thirty years; but
not a single voice had blessed him, for lie knew
not the power of that love by which the minister
of Christ unlocks the sinner's heart. He had now
stepped from his garden to the vestry on the other
side of the church, and it was not till called to
meet the departed, that he saw the assembled village. As the sight from the church-porch first
broke upon him, he stood for a moment overcome,
such a company of mourning people-children
whose sobs answered to the silent tears of strongbuilt men and helpless age, was grief too real not
to raise the instant question within him, " What
woke this burst of love?" and he stood silent and
awestruck at the church's porch. Mleanwhile the
bearers waited; they had reached the churchyard
gate, and would not enter without the words of
holiest greeting for the beloved form they bore I
then, in that moment's solemn pause, old Willy,




OI,) WI11.Y IN TflI CHURCtlYARD.
Ministering Children.


Vol. II, p. 24.




_1I                                  -.




"SHE IS GONE!"


25


standing beneath the Yew, raised his voice, and
calmly and distinctly exclaimed, " Welcome, the
holy dead!" At the sound of those firm tones of
age, the Minister recovered speech; he camne forward with the words of Life, and the bearers followed him into the church. The service went
c:almly on; but when the white coffin was borne
within the tomb, overcome by the hopelessness
with which they hid his sister from his sight for
ever upon Earth, Hlerbert fainted and fell. The
servants came forward, but meanwhile Jem had
darted through them, and kneeling on one knee
at Herbert's side, looked up at the father's face
for permission to raise the boy; the servants
would have put him aside, but the father moved
his hand to them  to retire, and lifting Herbert
from the ground, placed him in the arms of the
faithful Jem, sending a servant hastily forward to
prevent needless alarm to Mrs. Clifford.  The
throng separated for Jem to pass, bearing his precious burden-the child of fortune, the only hope
of his fathier's house, trusted to one of themselves,
borne by the village lad to his home. Jem made
his way down the hill-side, then stopped a moment
to raise the boy's arm which had fallen from its
posture of rest, and as he laid the small soft hand
on the breast of the boy, lie thought of the day
when he had taught it first to use the tools sc
large and heavy for its strength, in labour for the
VOL. II.-3




26   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


pool' and needy! and the tear of past an.d present
feelimng gathered in the eyes of the faiithfuil Jem.
Jem was met on his way to the IHall, and accompanied by some of the maid-servants to the
house. IMrs. Clifford waited anxiously within the
door.
" It's only a fainting, ma'am," said Jem, " it was
all over too much for my young Inaster, but he
will come to, quick enough now!"
Mrs. Clifford bent a moment over the fainting
boy, almost as pale herself-her vision almost as
dim. " Bring him in hlere and lay hllim down,"
she said; and she opened the nearest door, while
the maids gathered to the hall, bearing various
remedies and helps. Mrs. Clifford preceded Jem
into the dining-room —the very room where Jem
had stood alone with the young Squire to receive
his mother's scarlet cloak.
" Come in and lay him here," said Mrs. Clifford,
and she' placed the damask cushion for the boy's
unconscious head. Jem had felt no hesitation in
raising the heir of that stately mansion in hlis arms
to bear him to his home; but now that by daylight lie saw thle rich calrpet that lay before his feet,
he held back -wNith his precious burden, hlesitatiina
in his rough slioes to tread upon a thing so costly!
even so it is that the poorest can rise in a nimoment
to feel and act upon the universal tie of natulre's
one brothlerhood, but they pause at the threshold




"SHE   IS GONEI"              27
of wealth's display; and own, as if by illstinct, that
the separating line lies there!
" Bring him in," repeanted thle housekeeper; and
firiends within the house were gathering, and
maid-servants were waiting round, and so Jern
bore the child of the mansion across the rich carpeted floor, laid him gently down with his pale
cheek on the crimson ciushion, and then as lie stepped back, whilte HIerbert's mother knelt beside the
coluch, and fiiends drew near and servants waited,
Jem  bo~wing, asked, "Will you please that I
should fetchl tle doctor?" but the houlsekleeper
shook her hlead anld whispered, "No;" then Jem,
with anothler bow of thle lowliest reverence, and a
look of anxious love toi-wards the fainting boy,
w-ithdrew. Ile saw the long train of mourners
descendiing the hbill, and mnade his way straight to
the Iahrm, there to solace himinself among his sheep.
'rhle evening shadows fell and closed that sunmmeI day; thle foldled flowers, the folded flocks, the
birds awith folded wingl —all sought repose; while
softly calm tlle moon rose over all in the blue
heavens. Old Willy had vainly tried to comfort
his troubled hleart —his eyes were dim, so that he
could not see the words of the Book! he sat awhile
withlin doors, then stepp)ed into his gardenl, then
back again within the cottage in w-earied restlessness, wanting some hurnan voice to fall on his
aching heart with tones of comfort! but all that




28   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


summer day were mourners, and no earthly cor
forter drew near. When the hush of evening shed
its soothing silence round, and sleep seemed far
away fiom old Willy's tear-dinmmed eyes, he took
his staff, and set forth to climb once more tlat day
the steep hill-side; and look upon tle tomb wlhere
they had laid his blessed guide to Heaven. All were
gone from the hill-side; and the Hall, with its farstretching slopes, lay silent and beautiful in the
summer evening twilight. Old Willy looked round
once fiomn the hill-top on his lady's lhome on
Earth, then turned to the churchyard gate, and
leaning upon it, rested there a little whlile before
he ventured further, for the place where they had
laid her seemed to the old man holy ground-too
sacred almost for his feet. to enter. So he leaned
upon the gate, looking on into the distant azure of
the sky, looking almost without siglht or thought,
his senses lost in one deep feeling-they hlad laid
his blessed teacher in the grave, they liad left her
there alone, the night was darkening over her, and
he alone kept watch above the form so loved of
all!  How long he stood he did not know; but
suddenly he saw in those blue heavens before his
eyes a shining star; full on his sight its radiance
beamed; the only star in heaven, risen there in
view, and looking down to comfort, imr it seemed! ",Ah! sure I see it," the old man said in a
low tone; "sure, I see it's no use looking down




"SHE IS GONE!"


29


ill the dark grave for her that's up above the stars
in glory there! I see it!" again he murmured
low, as with a lingering gaze on that bright star
he turned to depart; but then again he looked
towards the tomb, and thought he would stand
beside it once before the night came on; and so
he climbed the stile beside the now-locked gate,
and reached the silent grave; then stopping short,
gazed in surprise, for at its foot a child lay sleeping, her head reclined against the lady's tomb, her
lap full of fi'esh-gathered flowers. "Poor dear!"
said the old man, " she has fallen off asleep; whly,
'tis little Mercy Jones! Mercy, child! I say,
wake up there!" And the child sprang up from
sleep like a startled fawn, and her flowers dropped fiom her pinafore; but when she saw it was
old Willy, she stood still, looking down on the
fallen flowers.
" Why, Mercy, child, you must not stay sleeping here, it's no place for you!"
"Yes, but it is," said the child, without looking
up, "it's the best place in all the world-to be
near to my lady! I have not been so near to her
since that last day she came and stood among us
all in school; she smiled at me then! but I can't
see her now. Oh, if I could but see her!" And
the child sat down again at the tomb's foot, beside
her fallen flowers, and hid her face and wept.
The tears again dimmed old Willy's eyes; but
VOL. u.-3*




30   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


still lie saw that beauteous star shining so brightly
down fiom the blue heaven-looking fill upon
botl him and the young child, as they watched
tlere beside the tomb within the churchyard
dreary, and lie answerll quickly, " Why, child,
your blessed lady is not here! look there, she's
shining brighlt in IHeaven!" The child looked up
with sudden start, as if expecting that angel face
to beam upon her firom above, or to get some distant glimpse of her lady's white-robed form in
glory; she looked -where tlhe old man pointed, and
her eye too rested on the star —on those calm blue
heavens above her, and that beaming star so full
of softened glory-she looked, then said, " I only
see a star!"
" Well, child, what more would yon see? Is
not that star enough? isn't it just come, shining
down fiom heaven, to tell you that the blessed
lady is up above it far away in glory? For what
did God send it in the sky, if not to put you in
mind that there's a world of glory up above, all
shining bright like that same star, and that lie
took the blessed lady straight up to it to dwell
with Him for ever?"
" Yes, I know it," said little Mercy, "and I
wish I was with her there!"
"Then, child, you must be walking the path
she went!''
" What path was that?" asked Mercy, looking
up to the old man's face.




*SHE IS GONE!"


31


" Wy, the blessed path of love, chlild! love
to God and man; her mind was always oil her
Saviour, and trying to brinog others to the love of
Ilim. Oh, child! it's written in the Book thalt
"GoD IS Lov E," and there's none but a path of
love that can lead up to Hlirt!"
Little Merey was silent; she had tried to tread
the path of lov-e, in which her lady had taught her
to mwalk, she lhad tried to please God her Heavenly
F'ather, and Jesus her Saviour, and to be a ministering child to others; and now she knew not
what more to do; all looked dull and dyeary
around her, and she was silent.
" Come now, child," theil old Willy said, "it's
best to begin at once! You know right well
your poor grandmother is fietting at home for
that blessed lady that's gone; now, do you go
back, mid be cheerfulf, and comfort her up!"
" Yes," said little lercy, "I came here because
I could not bear it,-Gr.lnny cried, and said, ' the
summlner-time seelne(d golne from the Earth!' a:tnd
though I had set the supper all ready, uncle Jenm
turned away and never eat a bit! so I went and
gathered those flowers and came here."
" Well, ch6ild, you know you have seen that.star; there it is, look at it, see hlow it shines right
down u1ipon us liere ---'a lbit of glory as it is! Now,
you go and be like that, you g-o and try! I-He
who sent that star to light us up with comfort




82     MINISTERING     CHILDREN.
here, sent you to your good grandmother to be a
bit of light to her in this lonesome world-you
mind that, and go and try, till the day comes when
you will go, as the blessed lady's gone, to Heaven!"
So little Mercy rose, and took her bonnet from
the ground, and the old man laid his hand upon
her head, and blessed her, and she left her fallen
flowers at the foot of the tomb, and back she
went with many a look upon the star in the blue
sky; from whatever point she turned to look, the
star still beamed upon her,-seemed to watch her
still; so she went back with light in her eyes and
fresh life in her young heart, gathered fiom the
old man's words, and the bright star in Heaven.
Old Willy, too, went home, and fiom his cottagedoor beheld the same bright star; then lai I him
down to rest-to sleej and dream cf glory.




III.


ti    b f lI a ht,
" The memory of the just is blessed."-Prov. x. T.
"Being dead, yet speakctth." —leb. xi. 4.
THE old clergyman could not forget the scene
he had witnessed, but the love and the sorrow
were both incomprehensible to him; he felt their
reality, but could not understand their cause. At
length it occurred to him, how often, in driving
out, he had seen Miss Clifford's ponies at the
cottage-doors; he concluded that it must be the
notice she had taken of the Poor that had
endeared her to them; and thinking it would be
pleasant to win the same feeling for himself;
pleasant to have the love of all his people in life,
and their tears above his grave, he determined to
visit, himself, fronm house to house with this
object. He thought also that it would be pleasant
to be kind to those who showed so much feeling,
such warm return of gratitude! so he set forth.
He went through the village street, calling at
every house, leaving his gift of money, and saying
a few words to all, but he returned dissatisfied;
(88)




34   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


he had met no smile of welcome, seen no tear
dinmned eye growV bright; heard no blessing.
What made the difference? Why had he no
pover, and she-the departed, so young in years!
why had she so much? IHe could not tell; he
did not know that a difference, as real as that of
Earth and IIeaven, lay between his visits, and the
visits of her the village mourned. He had gone
in his own name, his words were of Earth, his
gifts the dole of the richer to the poorer; his
object was to please, and to win affection and
gratitude to himself; but she they mourned had
gone to none but in the namle of JEsus; her
words breathed to all the love and truth of -Ieaven; her gifts were ever the expression of her
thoughtful sympathy-warm with compassion's
tenderness, and bright with the glad power of
ministering aid; such was her way of giving, that
her gift ever elevated, instead of seeming to degrade or lower the receiver; her highest object
was, not to win feeling towNards herself, but to
win the whole heart and life of those she visited
to her Saviour and their Saviour, that they might
be happy in Him, and Ile glorified in them;
therefore an overflowing recompense was poured
out for her —for "L with wlat measure ye mete, it
shall be measured to you again."  But the aged
clergyman knew not that the difference between
his Earthly kindness, and her Heavenly love, was




SNOWFLAKE.


35


wide as the east is from the west. He was disap.
pointed, and resolved to give up tlle vain attempt,
and go on as before. But then a recollection of
that old man who had stood within the churchyard gate, and uttered those words of blessing on
the departed crossed his mind, and he resolved to
go and call on him, and see lwhat he would say.
Old Willy saw his minister coming up his cottage-garden, and stood at his door to receive him:
old Willy had learned to behave himself lowly
and reverently to those whom God had placed
above him in station, and courteously to all. There
is no such teacher of true conrtesy as pure Religion-if we would only learn of her!
"Sit down, my good fiiend, sit down," said the
clergyman. ' Wliat a nice house you have here!
I think I remember this quite a tumble-down
building?"
"Very like you may, sir; for that was the
fashion of it many a long day!"
"I think I saw you at Miss Clifford's funeral
the other day?" observed the clergyman.
Old Willy sobbed out, "Yes, sir!" overcome at
the sudden mention of the subject.
" Never mind, my good friend, I am sorry to
distress you! I suppose MIiss Clifford was very
good to the poor?"
" Ah, yes, sir! if I might have given my old life
for hers, there's hundreds would have blessed me!"




36   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


"  iss Clifford came to see you, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir, sure enough she did, but it was Him
she brought with her that made her wholly a blessing!"
" Who was that?" asked the minister.
"Why our Saviour, sir! she never went anywhere to my belief without Him, and you never
saw her but you seemed to get a fiesh sight of
Him."
The clergyman was silent; at length he said,
"< Well, my good fiiend, you come very regular to
church, I wish I could see a tew more of your
neighbours there."
" Yes, sir, but then you see we want teaching!
and there's some of them that can walk after that."
" To be sure they want teaching! and have not
1 preached two sermons every Sunday for thirty
years? Why don't they come to hear them?"
"That's true enough, sir, there's none can say
to the contrary of that; no doubt there's teaching enough in your sermons to do anybody good;
only poor dark creatures as we are, can't get hold
of it because the Light isn't set up in the midst
of it!"
"What light do you mean?"
"Why, sir, I mean Hin that is the Light of
the world, without whom 'tis groping in the dark
-I mean our Saviour, sir! why, when one gets a
sight of Him, then one can see and get a hold of




SN OW FLAKE.


37


all the good that lies round; but when tl.ere's no
getting a sight of HIim, why, it seems all thle salnme
as leading a poor creature out when the sun is riot
in the sky —there's no getting a right understizanding of anything!"
The aced minister was silent again; old WTilly
waited, but when the silence laste(, lie laid lhis
hand upon the Bible at his side, sayinig, " I never
look in here for teaching, but I see Him-i  before
me! HIe is just the very light of my old heart,
that was as dark as death before. I first got a
sicht of Him. out of this Book, and now I never
so muIch as look into it but I see Ilim,and I find it
hodAs but dark where there's no setting upl of Him!"
"XWell, my good fiiend, I will think of your
words," said the old clergyman, and so saying
withdrew,
The summer sun had three times risen and set
since Herbert sank beside his sister's grave: he
was lying on his mother's couch, his check almost
as pale as then; his Bible lay beside him, he lhad
ceased to reald, and on his face rested a look of
sad and earnest thought; his mother -wNatched him
anxiously, but feared to question him, lest sie
should but wake her own deep grief and his into
expression.
"M 1amma," at last he said, " you see it is harder
for me than for any one!"
VOL. u.-4




r_   M1INISTERING CHILDREN.


"1What is harder?" asked MArs. Clifford.
" Tro lose MNary, niamniia."
X Why is it hiarder for you, dear H-erbert?"
B 3ecauise you anmd papa ar-e so -good! but I wa~s
alwvays g~etting wvrongr, amid never should have got
rigt agrain if' it had not been for- Mlary's smnile."
Mrs. Clifford was silent, she could not question
more on such a subject. H-erbert soon -went on
to say,
"1You see, mamma, when I got into trouble,
you arid papa of course wer-e displeased; and you
looked so gr~ave, and then I lost all hope in a ifiCmerit, and it was so dreadful to feel as if' onc, could.
never be righit ag-aini! And I never felt no- if JI
could, or seeme(1 to know how; but wNhen I weit
to Mary, she always smiled at me still, ~~ s-iid
she knew I was sorry, and wanted to JVr~~+
again-and so I aia sure I did, thoundh I E-if1 mnc'
always know it till she told mae; and thcr. sir El
used to say it would soon be all bright aga-In; 1an-Jd
wNNhen I looked at her, and lieaix2? her, say- so, I believed it, and then I tried, and she used to toll meyw
what to do, andI help me; and. then I was sur-e W'.
get righlt againi; omily you and papa- did ntj kLc
how!Bmit nOW I domi't see any hopc; for nic-, Ii
don't know what will become of ne#~P
"Do you know who grave you your sweet sistei
to help you on- your way?
" Yes, mamnma, of course it was God."




S NOW FL AKE.      3


39


"And Ins God, your Heavenly Father, given
vou no l)etter gift-one that still remains, one that
de ah cain nev er tak-,e away?
YXes, i'unina, I knfow- that God has given uts
Jesus C hrist, and that lie helps me when I pr~ay
to Him I I know that., miamma; but then I can-not
see him11 01 hear IHim speak to me, as I could
M11ary!"
" You have not seen IHim yet perhaps, dear
Herbert, hut you may see H1im! H-e can and Ilie
does show H-imiself as clearly to the eye of the
spirits of his children sometimes, as earthly objects are seen by the eye of the body; and Ile
speak~s as distinctly to their hearts as earthly
voices to the ear."5
"lBut would Jesus smile on me, mamma, when
I gret wrongr, and am in trouble for it, as Mlary
used to do '?"
"0, yes, Ilie would! whatever may have been
your fault, if you only turn to Him you. will 4ind
His tenderness the samne; His love, my child, is
more thunr a mnother's; and what His tenderness
leadis you to hope, His power can enable vont to
aceomphish —H~e can wvork in you both to will and
to (lo accordingc to His own good pleasure."
Herbert lay silent, thinking on his mother's
words; and she had glaiher-ed strength f'uoru
speaking, of Him who is the Li-fe, to speak of her
whom death had taken; and went on to say to




40   MINISTERING CHILDREI.


her listening child, "It was so with Mary; she
lived always in the presence of God her Saviour,
and in the sense of His love; it was her greatest
joy to try in all she did to please Him, by doing
His holy will-this made her life so happy and so
blessed!"
Then Herbert said, " I will try, mamma, and do
as Mary did! Shall I read you a chapter from
the Bible now?"
"Yes, dear Herbert, that will help us both to
do that of which we have been speaking-even to
walk in the light of God's countenance."  So Herbert xead to his mother; and the words of Heavenly Truth and Love lightened the sadness of
their hearts, as the rising sun illumines the mist
that hides the heavens fiom our earthly view.
Days passed away, and Herbert returned to his
studies; but the paleness did not pass from his
cheeks, nor the sadness fiom his brow; he had
not mounted Araby, nor taken a single walk by
himself since the day that saw him bereft of his
sister. Ile was sitting one morning in the window of his father's study with a lesson-book before
him; but his eyes were fiar away on the park's
green slopes, where the deer w.-ere feeding. I-is
father came in, and, going up to hilm, laid his hand
upon the boy's dark clustering curls; but silently,
as if he feared to wake into expression the saddened thought so plainly written on his ftce. Her




SNOW F LAKE.


41


bert looked up; then, after a minute's silence, said,
"Papa, shall I tell you of what I was thinking?"
"Yes, my boy, what was it?"
"I was thinking that I wished Snowflake might
be unshod and turned into the Park, to live always there, and no one ever ride her again; she
would look so beautiful under the green trees! I
am sure she has done good enough to rest all her
life now, and I could not bear to see her led up
for any one else to mount."
" No, perhaps none of us could bear that; but
how would it be if I had a new pony-carriage for
your mamma, and you drove Snowflake and the
groom's pony in it? and then we could keep
David on, and have a seat behind the little carriage for him, to save your mother's fears?"
"0 yes, papa, I should like that! I had not
been into the stables till to-day, and David took
the cloth off Snowflake, she looked as beautiful
as possible, and turned her bright eye round on
me, only she looked so sad; I am sure she knows,
papa: any one who saw her would think so too!
David said that at first he felt as if he could not
bear the place, but now he feels as if he could do
anything to stay. May I tell him what you mean
to do, papa? I know he will be so glad!"
" Yes, if your mother does not object. Jenks
can try Snowflake alone in the pony-chair. I know
he broke her in first to that."
VOL. n. —4*




42   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


" Yes, papa, and then I can drive mamma out
first with Snowflake alone, till the new carriage
comes!" And Herbert rose up with more of purpose and enlergy than he had felt since the day
that the stroke of bereavement had first fallen on
him. Mrs. Clifford made no oljection; any personal fear being overcome by the sense of the new
interest for her child. David met the proposal
btill to stay as groom very gratefully; and Jenks
said, " You could not put the creature to the thing
she would not do if she had the power!"  So it
was finally settled, that after one or two days' trial
by Jenks, Herbert should drive his mother with
Snowflake in the pony-chair, till the new carriage
could be bought.
The day arrived when Herbert was, for the first
time, to drive his mother out. Old Jenks led up
the pony-chair with Snowflake harnessed in it;
she did not stand with arching neck and pawing
step, but sorrowfully with head hung down; as if
she knew that the hand and voice she loved would
not be now awaiting her. Ierbert felt all the responsibility of his new privilege; and some unexpressed anxiety that all should be prosperous in
this his first attempt to drive his mother, helped
to check his feeling at sight of Snowflake. Mrs.
clifford also was not free fiom nervous apprehensions, never really considering herself safe except
when old Jenks was her charioteer-she had only




SN OW FLAKE;


43


yielded to the proposal for the sake of the interest
to Herbert; and now her feeling also at sight of
the snow-white creature was lessened by a sense
of personal lapprehension; she took her seat, and
IIerbert his, by her side, and Snowflake gently
trotted from the door. Thlere were only three
roads by which to leave the Hall for a drive; one
was the direct way to the town, and led past old
Willy's cottage; HIerbert had not yet summoned
courage to see old WVilly, though the old man had
been rmany times up to the IHall to inquire for him,
since the day he had seen "the blessed child," as
he called him, fall beside the grave; therefore
Herbert would not go tllat way, because of passing his cottage. Anothler road led up the steep
hill-side to the church, past the churchyard gate,
and then round by flrmer Smith's, a longer way
to the town; tlhat could not be ventured on; so
Herbert droNve out by the gamekeeper's lodge, and
took a long winding shady lane that led round by
the back of thle park. Snowflake trotted swriftly
and smnoothly along; but gentle as the creature
was known to be, IMrs. Clifford was still on the
watch for fear of some mischance. On they wellt
beneath the sheltering trees, when, drawing near
a lonely cottage, Snowflake suddenly quickened
her pace and drew up at the door.
" What is the matter!" exclaimed Mrs. Clifford.
Herbert touched Snowflake with the whip; bli




44   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


all the advance gained was a few steps to a little
window of one pane, rather high lup ill thle wall —
a window that opened Nwith a push from Awitllin or
w\itliout, directly undernelth which Snoowflal;e
took a determined stand. Herbert 5gave lelr a
harder stroke; she shook her sil-er manae at the
unwonlted indignity, but did not move a step.
IIerbert's coloiur mounted to his cheeks, and 3IMs.
Clifford exclaimed, " 'Talke care, Herbert, something will certainly happen!" At that instant the
door opened, and out came a neatly-dressed
woman, curtseying, as if to expected guests.
"Do go to the creature's head while wve get
out!" said Mris. Clifford.  The woman obeyed,
and Herbert sprang down and handed out his
mother.
" Something is wrong!" said Mrs. Clifford, as
she stood on the door-step, "the creature will not
move!"
"0 dear me, no, ma'am, the pretty dear is. al
ways used to stop here; I don't know I have ever
seen it pass by without!"
"What for?" asked Mrs. Clifford.
"Why, you see, ma'am, my poor old mother is
blind and bed-ridden, and that sweet lady that's
gone was the very light of her life, and I never
saw her so much as pass by once! She used to
get off at this door-step, and the pretty creature
knew it as well, and would never ha;ve wanted the




SNOWFLAKE.


45


telling; and if she was all in a hurry for time, as
she would be sometimes, why then she just\rode
up to that little window-it goes open with a
shove, and it's just above my old mother's bed,
and there she would speak a cheery word to her
and then be off again; and, dear me, how that word
would lift up my poor mother's spirits! She used
to say, the very sound of her voice was like Heaven's music to her, sent to comfort her up in her
darkness! So that is all the meaning of the pretty
creature's holding to it so!"
The sudden alarm Mrs. Clifford had taken, and
now the sudden disclosure of the cause, were too
much for her; she stepped into the cottage, and
sitting down, leaned her face upon her hand, and
wept. Ierbert threw his arms round Snowflake,
partly to hide his tears, and partly to atone for
the stroke of the whip he had made her feel. The
poor woman waited beside Mrs. Clifford in distress
to know what to do, then hasted and brought her
water in a glass. Mrs. Clifford soon recovered
self-possession, and turning to the poor woman,
said, " I will see your mother."  The woman hastened into the inner room, and smoothing the bedclothes, whispered, "IHere's Madam herself fiom
the Hall! the pretty creature would not stir a
step, and Madam is wholly overcome!"   Then,
hastening back again, she took Mrs. Clifford in.
Mrs. Clifford went to the bed, took the old woman's




46   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


hand in hers, and sat down, but vain were all at.
tempts to speak; the poor old woman felt her
silent grief, but while the big tears fiom her sightless eyes rolled down her cheeks, she said, " Oh!
my lady, this world is the place for weeping, but
the blessed dear has gone to Iim who wipes all
tears away! Don't I see her with my sightless
eyes, shining as bright as the norning's ray up
above in the holy H-eaven? and don't it lighten
me up, as the sound of her tongue did here! I
never thotght to hear her horse's feet ring down
the lane again; and now that you sliould come!
'tis a wonderful condescension and lifts me up —
that it does!"
'. I will come and see you often!" replied Mrs.
Clifford, and she rose, strengthened by the old
woman's vision of faith, but unable to say more,
pressed her hand, and left the cottage.
It was the first visit Mrs. Clifford had ever paid
to the poor and needy. lThe deep feeling and
touching expression, the unassuming attention, the
bright faith beholding what her own faith had not
realized-all these surprised her with their charm;
that brief visit had planted in her heart the seeds
of a personal interest in the poor; she felt too the
peace of having shed comfort on another, and she
stepped from the cottage-door, unwilling so soon
to leave the spot, yet feeling unable then to stay.
The fear too of safety with Snowflake seemed lost




SN O WFLAKE.                47
in the deeper impressions now awakened, and a
creature who could so follow the track of its departed mistress's steps of love was surely worthy
of confidence; so Mrs. Clifford took her sent by
Herbert's side, and ceased to look out for occasions
of mischance.
On through the summer lanes they drove, and
the sweet air relieved tile oppression of feeling.
The drive was a lonely one, farm-houses and cottages among the fields, but none by the road-side,
till at thle foot of a hill, sideways from the winding lane, stood a cottage; a little boy was standing beside the wicket-(gate, clad in a coarse round
pinafore, his little cap crushed up in his hand, left
his fair oxirls uncovered, and his smiling eyes of
blue looked down the winding lane as if with listening expectation.
The boy was Rose's little friend, Johnnie Lambert, the ' idow Lambert's only child. Quick as
thouglt, the listening boy at sight of Snowflake
darted into the cottage, calling "Mother! the
lady's coming!" then back lie ran to the wicketgate, while the mother looked from the door.
" Stop and let us speak to that child," said Mrs.
Clifford, for she saw the white pony was well
known to tlhe boy.
The child.nmade his deliberate and never-forgotten bow, then raised his bright face as if to meet
the look of some loved familiar friend; but in.




48   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


stantly the blank of disappointed hope chased his
glad smile away, and running to the pony's head,
he sheltered himself there.
Seeing the pony stopping at the gate, the mother
stepped out and curtsied low.
"Your little boy knows the pony?" said Mrs.
Clifford.
"Yes, ma'am,-Johnnie, come here and make
your bow to the lady!" but Johnnie was gising
his tears to Snowflake. " He takes on, ma'alm, so
about the dear young lady that's better off, he is
always watching for her, and I can't make him
sensible that she is gone! he ran in just now, for he
thought it was her when he got sight of the pony."
"Was she often here?" asked Mrs. Clifford.
"0 yes, that she was! All the time my poor
husband kept about, she used to come and read
to him-for he could not read a word, and I never
saw a man so changed! he suffered a wonderful
deal, for his complaint lay in the head; and nothing could ease it, and he lost all his spirits, and
was always fretting to live and get well; but
when she had showed him the way to Heavenall plain for him to walk in, and showed him how
his Saviour called him to come unto Him! he
seemed to think of nothing else, it was wholly a
pleasure instead of a misery to see him!"
" Has he been long dead?" asked Mrs. Clifford.
"Over two years, ma'am; but to me it seems




SNOWFLAKE.


49


afl as fresh as yesterday! He lay six weeks in his
bed; and all that time lie never saw the dear
young lady, only she used to send and inquire for
him; but he seemed past the want of her then,
though before when he was about lie would sit all
day long and watch for her coming by; but when
he took to his bed, and she could not come, he
seemed to be hanging only on his Sayviour. I have
heard him say when I sat by his bed, '0 i, I see
Him! I see Iim!' and then he would let me leave
hin:lnd get my lighllt's rest-thoulgh he could not
sleep a wink for pain, but it seemed as itf Heaven
had opened above lim. Oil, it was a wonderful
change! he said the dear young lady's words had
been life from the dead to him!"
Herbert had slipped out of the carriage unperceived by his mother, and now standing with the
reins in his hand, was trying to comfort the child;
but he could not get him to speak, only to take a
shy look at him now and then.
" Poor dear!" said the mother, looking round,
"it puts me so in mind of his father to see how
he listens for the creature's feet;-the dear young
lady took wonderful notice of him! he can say
many a tiling she taught him, only he's shy. When
I ask him where his poor father is, he will point
up to the sky, and say, ' With God!' but I can't
make him sensible that the dear young lady won't
be coming down the lane again!"
VOL. n.-5




50   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


"Tell him that we will come again!" said MrA.
Clifford-with an effort to retain composure; and
Herbert hearing this assurance, took his seat, and
they drove on-watched out of sight by the widow
and her orphan boy.
But now it was necessary to decide which way
to return-either back through the lanes, and so
risk another halt at the blind widow's door; or
past the churchyard gate! or by old Willy's cottage. Herbert preferred the last-as best of the
three, and before they reached the old man's
dwelling, they saw him in the distance, advancing
slowly on the road towards them.
" There is old Willy himself!" said Herbert.
"Do not pass him by," replied MIrs. Clifford,
"stop and speak to him."
The old man stood some minutes beside the
little carriage, his white head uncovered-the very
picture of beautiful old age! Mrs. Clifford talked
to him, and with true refinement the old man
made no reference to the one of whom each heart
was full, his feeling only struggled through in
silent tears; he had changed away his week-day
garment for an old coat of black, and in this, and
a band of crape about his hat, wore the signs of
mourning for her who had been more than child
to him. At parting, Mrs. Clifford said, "I shall
comue and see you with my son."
(' 4 thousand thanks!" replied old Willy, as he




SNOWFLAKE.                 51
bowed low to the lady, but his look of love turned
full and rested on Herbert.
"Yes, I shall soon conll., Willy, very soon, and
mamma too'!" added Ierbert, greatly relieved at
the thought of the first sight of his aged friend
being over.
And so they returned to the Hall; both had
passed through much to try them in that morning drive, but not less to soothe and elevate. The
mother and the son felt as if they had that day
entered on their sweet Mary's path of love and
service, and they longed to follow her steps in all.
I-erbert now often drove his mother out; all fear
of Snowflake was gone; the creature was allowed
to stop at pleaslure; and when a visit could not
be made, some kindly word was spoken, till in
every dwelling where her child had shed the light
of hope, and the peace of comfort, or the aid of
knowledge, Mrs. Clifford followed her; gathering
the blessed recompense that even the most aching
heart must find in keeping God's commandments
-watered herself with heavenly consolation in
watering others. While in Herbert's young heart
-so trained and disciplined, Earth daily gathered
more of Heaven; and a depth of feeling and a
power of thought and action beyond his years,
enriched his life with personal and relative happiDess.




Iv.
atiunue at $Jrbirt.
"Beal ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.'Galatians, vi. 2.
THE summer months left Patience in the work.
house restored to health. And now another place
of service must he found for her; the workhouse
made the choice, and we shall find what it was.
Patience took leave of her workhouse home with
a sorrowful heart; and a heavy dread came over
her as she drew near the place to which she was
now engaged. It was a small house, a short distance out of the town; and from the number of
children crowded together in one room, it might
have been taken for an infant-school! But no, it
was a family of ten children; the youngest a baby
of some few weeks, the next just able to step
alone, the third a helpless little cripple, the fourth
a rosy-faced girl of about five years of age,-then
twin-boys of seven, with the four elder boys and
girls, went to a day-school.
This was now to be the place of service Patience
was to fill; maid of all work in the family of the
(532)




PATIENCE AT SERVICE.


53


foreman in Mr. Mansfield's shop; ten children,
and all the washing done at home! It sounds like
heavy work, but we must not, like old nurse
Brame, be led by sound alone; and we may
always remember that work proving hard or pleasant depends far more upon the minds of those
who rule and those who serve, than upon the
amount of labour to be done. Patience arriving
at the house, knocked at the door a low timid
knock. Robert, the eldest boy, opened the door,
and then ran back to his mother to say the new
girl was there. " Bring her in then," said the
mother; so in came Patience, still pale and fearful,
with her small bundle in her hand. " Come in,
come in and see us all at once!" said the mother
and mistress, without so much as making a moment's stop in her washing. Then, looking hard
at Patience in the fire-light, she added, " What's
that all the show you have to make of strength!
Well, if you are killed with hard work, that will
lie at your master's door, for it was he hired you,
not I, remember that! Here's plenty of workand plenty of play too, so don't be frightened!
There, Betsy, you go and show the girl where to
put her bonnet and shawl and her bundle, and
then don't lose a minute, but come and be after
tea." Betsy did as she was desired, and quickly
returned with Patience to the kitchen.  The
autumn evening was damp and cold, and when
VOL. I. -5*




54   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


Patience returned to the family party, preparations
for tea wvere beginnillg. The little parlour opened
into the small kitchen, and Robert, the eldest boy,
was kneeling down before tlhe parlour-stove, blowing up the fame he had just lighted. Polly, the
second girl, was setting out the tea-things; and
the moment Betsy returned, she began to take her
lart in fetching out the bread and butter and
cheese, together with a large round cake, whose
only claim to the designation consisted in a few
scattered currants-more thought of because so
far apart that each one became a definite object,
and this so-called plum-cake, with its scanty sweetening of sugar, was much more approved by the
little group of children than slices of bread and
butter. Patience had not been five minutes in
the house, but on no account was she to stand
idle. " What's your name, child?" inquired the
mother, still ringing out the wet clothes, and
depositing them, one by one, in a large white
basket. " Patience!" replied the new little servant.
"Patience! Well, I have heard worse names
than that! You may be sure you will have plenty
of need of patience here, though there is no hard.
ship for all that! I hope you have an apron?"
"Yes, in my bundle," replied Patience.
" Have it on then, as fast as you can!" And
up stairs ran Patience with a liglit, quick step;
there was something so animating in the universai




PATIENCE AT SERVICE.


55


stir below stairs, that she longed to be one among
8hem all again, and in two minutes time she stood
aproned before her mistress.
" Now take that wide shovel and gather up all
those cinders by the grate here, and put them
every one on the parlour fire."  So Patience gathered up the cinders, and laid them on thle top of
the nobs of coal, among which the cheerful blaze
began to ascend. "Now take the kettle and fill
it at the tap there, and set it on this fire to boil,"
said her mistress. Meanwhile Robert had been
out and shut the shutter; Betsy lhad drawn the
chintz curtain within; Polly hadl lighted one solitary candle and set it in the middle of the teatable; the mother hlad wrung out the last little
garment-anrd the whole collection lay piled in
the large white basket; the water was poured fiom
the washing-tub, the tub set up, the stool on which
it stood put aside, the whole kitchen then looked
in perfect order, the mother drew down her sleeves,
changed her coarse blue apron for a white one,
and in they went all to tea. The baby sleeping
in its cradle had woke up some minutes before;
but Betsy had lifted it out and rocked it in her
arms, till the mother, seated in the low black
chair beside the parlour-fire, received it. The
children dragged out their stools and chairs;
little Esther, tile child of live years-not having
yet learned the division of labour, pulled hard at




56   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


a parlour-chair for herself with one hand, and at
the poor little cripple's high chair with the other.
Patience caught sight, amidst the active group,
of little Esther's attempt, and, running up to her,
reached over her head, and laying hold of botb
chairs, pulled gently also, when, to the child's perfect satisfaction, both chairs moved slowly and
steadily to the table. Esther vwould by no means
leave her hold till the chairs were drawn quite
close, so Patience slipped behind them and pushed,
till the little Esther, stooping half under the table,
peeped up with a grave look, and suffered Patience
to lift her into the parlour-chair, gravely observing,
"I did pull two cllairs!"  Ad through the heart
of Patience passed a warm feeling for the child;
and a sense of active life, with its native charm
of cheerful energy, rose still more fieshly within
her at this first successful aid rendered to the
child. And now Betsy placed the little cripple in
his chair, and Esther looked up at Betsy, repeating, "I did pull two chairs!" and Betsy said,
" Good Esther!" and hastened away to fix -ip
the next baby of eighteen months old. Now
there was one small blue plate set down between
Esther and the little cripple; Esther put her hand
upon it by way of claim, but did not take it nearer,
then the little cripple reached out his hand and
said, "Me! me!"  Esther shook her head-for it
was hard to give up the plate that was the earnest




PATIENCE AT SERVICE.


57


to her of food; but Patience, whose attention vas
all alive, caught sight of the difficulty, and put
another blue plate close before Esther, who then
pushed the other gently to her little brother, and,
looking up at Patience, said, " I did give it him!"
All the little ones being seated, Betsy cut the
bread and butter, Robert a piece of cake for each,
Polly filled the mugs half full of water, and poured
water into the tea-pot for the tea, wlhile all the
little ones looked on. This divided labour was
quickly accomplished, after \which the mother
stood up with the babe in her arms, the elder
children stood also, and Robert asked the blessing
-for at meals, when the father was away, this
was always Robert's office. Patience had a corner at the table, and made as hearty a meal as any
of them: the good mother seeing her hesitate at
first, took care to say, "Come, Patience, girl,
make haste, you have earned your tea, though
you may not think it!"  There was no riot at the
meal; the children, trained in good order, found
no pleasure in confusion; and having had no food
since their early frugal dinner, tleir best amusement was to eat. All the play had come before
tea, and now the moment it was over, and Robert
had given thanks while every little one was silent
with clasped hands, Betsy and Polly took off the
baby of eighteen months and the little cripple each
irn their arms to bed, and the mother bid Patience




58   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


follow with Esther, who looked very grave, but
quite willing to go with her helper of the teatable.  Patience found that Esther was to share
her little bed, in a room just large enough to hold
the bed and one chair. The little cripple and the
baby of eighteen months were soon laid to their
sleep, and Betsy went down with Polly to bring
up the twin boys of seven. When Patience returned to the parlour, the tea-table was cleared
of all that had been used,' and what remained
was set in order for the father's return; the boys
having so arranged the table, were already at their
tasks for school the next day, and the mother putting the infant to rest. Patience was set to wash
up the tea-things in the back-kitchen; while Betsy
and Polly sat down to their lessons.
The baby slept in the cradle; and when Patience had finished washing up the tea-things, and
had been shown where to put them away, her
good mistress said, "now for your thimble as
quick as possible!" And Patience had a seat at
the table, and one of the children's socks given
her to darn. But Patience was no darner, she had
never been taught, for there are but few schools
in which any trouble is taken to teach children to
mend; thougli to the children of the poor the skill
to nmend well is hardly less needful than to make.
Poor Patience felt her spirits sink; she could not
do the work, and now she thought her troubles




PATIENCE AT SERVICE.


59


would begin, and the timid child, only so lately
warmed with the glow of kindness, dreaded a
sharp word more than anything.    But sharp
words were not given in this her new abode
without a needs-be. The good mistress saw the
colour rise to the pale face of Patience over the
sock; so calling her to her, she said, " I can see
you are no match for your task; well, never mind,
bring your stool here, and sit down and learn,
there will be no time lost in the end by good
learning in the beginnin!"  So Patience took
her seat by her mistress, and learned to darn, as
little Jane had learned by her mother's side, only
that Patience, being much older, learned to darn a
great deal quicker, and did not want so much attention as Jane had done. While Patience darned,
the four children who were sitting round the table
repeated their lessons to their mother. They had
had tea at five o'clock, and all their lessons were
learned and repeated by eight, except those of the
youngest boy. The moment the clock struck
eight, the books were all put away, and the boy
whose lessons were not learned, with a sorrowful
face wished his mother " Good night," and went
up to bed in the dark. This was done without a
word being said, for it was the constant rule of
the house; if the school lessons were not learned
from six tc eight, no more time was given, as the
lessons were not hard or long, and were learned in




60   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


Iess time whenever the children were diligent;
and the mother's principle was, neither in - ork nor
lessons to allow time to be wasted. Then the
girls sat down to their work of mending or making, and Robert to knitting-the boys never being
idle when the girls were busy. Presently home
carrle the father to their glad welcome; he sat
down to his tea and supper both in one, while the
mother and the children worked and talked, and
Patience darned her sock.
As soon as the father's supper was over, Patience cleared all the things into the back-kitchen
as directed; the great Bible was put on the table,
the children brought theirs, Patience was sent to
fetch hers-her own little Bible that Miss Wilson
had taken her in her first place of service; and
then father and mother and children all read a
chapter, verse by verse, and Patience had to read
with them; then the father questioned the children, and he questioned Patience also, and looked
pleased with her answers; and then they all knelt
down, and the father offered up the evening
prayer. After this, Robert and the girls went to
bed. Patience washed-up and put away the things
from her master's supper; and then to her surprise she found her work was done; in fact everybody's work was done, for all the house was in
order, and Patience went up to her closet of a
room wl-qe little Esther Jay sleeping. With wlat,




PATIENCE AT SERVICE.


& thankfll heart did the orphan child offer up her
evening thanksgiving and prayer! and then taking
her treasured half-crown - which she had kept
through all her troubles and changes, she looked
at it, and wished that beautiful Lady could but see
how happy she was now! And she lay down to
sleep-as if suddenly brought in the midst of a
home's bright circle all her own!
The next morning her mistress called her at
six o'clock, and to her mistress's surprise Pa.
tience came out from her closet ready dressed.
She had heard her mistress rising, and risen her.
self.
"W hat, up and dressed!" said her mistress;
"C well, you mind my word, I never knew a bad servant an early riser! Now then, we shall be at
work before the girls to-day!" And the pleasant
stir soon began below. Patience had, as quick as
time itself, to light up the back-kitchen fire; then
to brighten up and lay the parlour-fire, while Betsy
followed to sweep the room and dust the chairs;
and while the chairs were dusting, Polly set tile
breakfast. Robert was out in the little garden
fixing the linen poles; and Thomas, the second
boy, chopping wood and filling the coal-scuttle,
while the good mother fiied bacon for the father's
breakfast, and made the coffee. All as busy as
possible, and all done by seven o'clock when the
father came down; he had been reading his Bible
VOL. I.-6




62   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


in the midst of his six sleeping children, and now
he came down to breakfast with his four eldest
Patience also was called to the table, and so they
sat down to the morning meal. Each child re.
peated a text from the Holy Bible, and the father
asked Patience if she could remember one, and
Patience repeated the words-" I love them tlat
love Me; and those tlhat seek me early shall find
Me."  After breakfast, the father read a Psalm,
then offered up the mornin g Irayer, and hastened
away to be at the shop by eight o'clock. Patience
went up stairs with Betsy and Polly to dress the
clildren-the mother prepared their breakfast;
Robert worked in the little garden, which had its
Autumn as well as its Spring and Summer flowers;
but Thomas had to sit within and get his lessons
perfect. At a quarter to nine, boys and girls were
off to school; the twin-boys were taken to an infant-school by their elder brothers on their way to
their own school: the poor little cripple played
hour after hour on his sofa-bed with a doll; Esther
talked to Patience and stepped about at her side,
while the baby of eighteen months old sometimes
played on the floor and sometimes slept. At
twelve o'clock the children all came home, when,
to the surprise of Patience, the baby of eighteen
months and the little cripple were put into a light
wooden carriage, and all the children went out for
a walk together-Robert and Betsy taking the




PATIENCE AT SERVICE.


63


charge. Patience and her mistress ironed away
till one o'clock, when they all returned. Betsy
and Polly made ready the little ones; RIobert and
Thomas set the dinner-table, and all were seated
with hungry appetite to eat the food provided for
them.
Day after day passed on, till Patience felt more
like an elder child and sister than a servant in the
house. Betsy and Polly confided to her their s;ecret
hopes; Betsy's desire was to learn mantua-making, and be a lady's maid-as her mother had been
before her; and to this end her mother trained
her. Polly meant to be kitchen-maid first, and
then cook, with the hope of being one day a housekeeper, and taking charge of stores-which seemed
to her the most interesting of work; accordingly
every jar and bottle in the house was put under
Polly's keeping; she gave out the daily supply,
wrote the labels, tied down the jars, made some
preserves in the summer time, and took every
opportunity of doing the cooking. Robert had
a hope of being taken into Mr. Mansfield's shop,
where his father was foreman; while Thomas had
as yet no definite desire or prospect in life. Months
passed away in this happy family, till all the paleness was gone from the cheek of Patience, and
her figure, becoming strong and stout, seemed
made for untiring work. She had taught Esther
her own short morning and evening prayers



64   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


learned by her when at school, and the little girl
now never lay down at night or rose in the niorning without offering them up. Ier master was a
subscriber to the Church Missionary Society; the
children would often earn or save some offerilng
for it also; and when Patience received her
monthly wages, she always paid her sixpence to
the same blessed object. A year passed away,
and Patience went to call on Miss Wilson, but
Miss Wilson did not know her-till on talking
with her she found this rosy, strong, active-looking girl full of life and cheerful spirits, was the
pale, thin, silent child, she had known so long at
school! Patience told Miss Wilson of her hlappy
life in her mistress's house-with ten childrenl;
herself maid-of-all-work, with all the washing done
at home; and how the little one who slept with
her, had learned her prayer and said it night and
morning, and how her master subscribed to the
Church Missionary Society-and she subscribed
also. And there, in the midst of life and cheerfulness, we leave Patience for the present; and
return to the village farm.
Rose had done with school, happy at the thought
of living always at home. It was not long lowever before her happiness met her first sorrow in
the loss of Miss Clifford-she had stood between
her father and William at the funeral, and in the
long summer days she and little Mercy had cried to




PATIENCE AT SERVICE.


65


gether. Then the yellow harvest canle; and when
the reaper's work was done, and the last slheaf
carried, ard William had stood aloft on the point
of the high round stack with the last sheaf in his
hand, before he laid it under his feet, and the men
in a circle round him sung the " Harvest Home;"
and the fields were left bare; and the thresher's
flail sounded from the barn; then another sorrow
came for little Rlose-a sorrow for her home and
for the farm; William had a good situation offered
to him in a London shop. Farmer Smith's brother
was a London linen-draper; William ihad always
been a favourite with his mncle, and,now his uncle's
son had left the shop to follow a business he liked
better, and the place of trust which lie had held
was offered to William, and a high salary w'as
offered with it-for his uncle wished much to have
him, and knowing Willian's love for the farmn
work, he was afraid unless he made the otfer very
tempting, that it would be declined. But it was
not money that would have tempted William away
from his father's farm, if it had not been for the
sake of his young brothers. It was some years
since farmer Smith had been able to lay by any
profits: in one bad farming year he had been
obliged to borrow money on some cottages built
by his mother, and left to him by her; he had
been unable to pay the money or the interest upon
it, and now the cottages were no longer his-they
VOL. I. —6*




66   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


had become the property of the man who lent
him the money-they had cleared him from debt,
but he had nothing now beyond the yearly produce of his farm; and one bad farming year night
put him in difficulty again. William wnorked like
a labourer on the farln, and was worth two other
men, because his mind and his heart were in all
he did; but there were four younger boys, and
farmer Smith knew not how he should provide for
them. If William went to London, it was not
unlikely that he might find situations for some of
his brothers there. So farmer Smith decided that
William should go-with a heavy heart he decided
that William should go. William felt as if all the
outward joy of life would be darkened for him —
away from his home and his father's farm, shut up
all day where fields were out of reach; but lie
chose the higher pleasure of doing that which
would be most likely to relieve his father and aid
his younger brothers. The boys thought it was a
fine thing for William, to go to London! Rose
tried to be as cheerful as she could, but Mrs. Smith
never gave so much as one pleasant look, from the
time it was decided for William to go.
Mr. Clifford was sitting alone In his study, when
an impatient knock at his door roused him from
his book. "Come in!" he said, in a tone that
seemed to guess the intruder. Herbert entered,
out of breath with haste.




PATIENCE AT SERVICE.


" Papa, what do you think I have just heard in
the village?-young Smith is going off directly to
a situation in London, to a shop,-only think,
papa! I would not lose such a fellow as he is fiom
the place for anything, and I am sure he would
not go if he could help it! don't you think something could be done to prevent it, papa?"
" We must first know whether his friends and
himself would wish anything to be done to hinder
his going; perhaps they may feel it to be to his
fiture advantage to go, however sorry they may
all be at present to lose him."
"Well then, papa, suppose I just go down to
the farm and hear?"
" I think it would be wise to go and learn a
little more what the facts of the case are, before
you and I decide here what is to be done to prevent it!"
"Well, then, papa, so I will, and I will come
back and tell you!"
And the father suffered the boy to go, unchecked
m his warm impulse, to the farm. Seated in the
farm-kitchen, he gave full expression to his thoughts
and feelings on the subject: Mrs. Smith, for the
first time, heard opposition to the plan equal to
her own; she brought the young Squire her homemade wine and cake, but he was too intent on his
subject to partake of such hospitality. Farmer
Smith talked the subject long over with him, and,




68   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


child as he was, told him the hopes he built on hia
eldest son's departure, as if he had been a longtrusted friend-a due recompense for the boy's
warm feeling! H-erbert returned to his father
more than ever interested for the Smiths, and for
William in particular-but convinced that it would
not be the thing to attempt to hinder the London
plan. Deep in William's heart sank the memory
of the young Squire's unwillingness to lose him
from the place-the warml feeling that had been
expressed soothed the pain lie felt at going; it
cheered his father's heart to think how his son was
valued by those above him; and even Mrs. Smith
seemed more softened into gentleness on the subject, now she knew that her favourite William
was not likely to be forgotten in his native village.
Such the large results that oftentimes might follow
-lasting on enduringly-from the spontaneous
feeling and unchecked expression of childhood's
true appreciation! When the autumn winds
strewed the sere leaves upon the garden-paths at
the farm, there was no neat and careful William
to sweep them away-the great and busy city had
received him.
Herbert's tutor did not find in his pupil the
love of books that he naturally desired in one
whom he had undertaken to prepare for study at
college, and he communicated to Mr. Clifford his
anxiety and regret, that Herbert, engaged by so




PATIENCE AT SERVICE.


69


many objects of interest, did not make the prog.
ress he could wish in his lessons.
Mir. Cliffoid replied, "It is very naturlal and
very right, that you should feel anxiouls onl si;cll a
subject; but we shlall gain nothing by stlaiiingll  a
point; no compulsionl iwill inl)lant the i)ve of
books; and wve have need to renieniber tlat books
are but prepared means for erecting the melntal
structure. A llnere man of books is rlather a ready
made collection of nlaterials, than a livincg infiu.
ence. It is my belief that a circle of hlluman life,
gathered by sympathy's natural tie around a cllild,
exercising every good and self-denying feeling thle
young spirit has, is likely to rear and leave a nloler
character, far more excelling in powerl and influence, than the mere student of books. But I
would not have you discourlaged even as to HIerbert's book-learning. I fiild him an incrieasingly
intelligent companion, awake to every subject 1
bring before him, his mind free and unburldelled
by the weight of mere acquiremlent. Ie is following on in the right order-things Iteavetlly beforl
things Earthly-the heart before the head:; and
though I may not live to see it, I am not without
the hope that he, who as a child has learned to
minister with such self'-devotion to age and pover.
ty, may yet bring down his country's blessing on
his head!" The tutor pressed his patJ'on's hand
and withdrew.




V.


Hahxnass        and!tr.i 
'L SON, REMEMBER!"-Luke, xvi. 25.
WHEN the next summer-time had come, filling
the land with beauty, and fragrance, and plentytelling of Iis rich bounty who " is kind to the
unthankful and to the evil," " and sendeth rain on
the just and the unjust," a messenger arrived at
the Iall, asking to speak with Mr. Herbert Clifford.
" I am come from Mr. Sturgeon, sir," said the
man, " he is very ill-thought to be dying, and
he begs you to pay him a visit as soon as possible."
Herbert went to his father. When Mr. Clifford
heard the request, he said, " Go, by all means."
Ierbert sent word by the messenger that he would
follow immediately, and was soon on his way to
Mr. Sturgeon's residence. Solemn thoughts filled
his mind, he was sent for by a dying man-what
could it be that Mr. Sturgeon wanted to see him
for? Perhaps lie wished before he died to do
something for old Willy; but old Willy had all
be wanted now!
(7t)




DARKNESS AND LIGHT.


71


Herbert arrived at the house, and one of Mr.
Sturgeol's sons took him up at once to his father's
room. The dying man looked at him, and said,
' I thank you, sir, for coming so soon! You are
the only person in all the world I wished to see;
for you, dear young sir, are the only one who ever
came to me with the words of faithful warning.
I don't mean to blame my fellow-men; I have
heard the best of preachers and the best of discourses, but from all these I could-I did shield
myself. Ohl, why did none come to me with the
pointed arrow of truth, and say to me personally
-' you are casting away eternal life!-you are
putting Earth before Heaven!' You did come
to me; you did warn me; and I wish to thank
you for what might have been of eternal use to
me if I had listened to your counsel."
Then IIerbert took, not as before the smooth
stone for his sling, but the balm of healing and
life, from the Epistle of St. James-all of which
he had learned by heart. " It is written in the
Bible," said Ierbert, "' The prayer of faith shall
save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up;
and if he have committed sins they shall be forgiven him!'"
Mr. Sturgeon seemed not to hear, or not to
heed the words of peace. " Oh, it is not the
future, but the past," he went on to say, " that
presses on my soul with its iron yoke-wherever




72   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


I turn I seem to hear a voice, and it says to me,
" SOS, REMIEMBER!"-it says no more, but in those
words there seems destruction. I do nothing, but
lS rEMEIBEr,; and in remembrance there seems des.
pair!"
' "But," said Herbert, " our Saviour said we
were to remember I-Ii-n-and that must be llorP!"
" Yes, I know it-IHe said we were to remember HiM! and if I had rememlbered Him then,
now I miyght have hope; but I have iived to forget Him-I have forgotten I-min in the very church,
where I professed to worship HIim —I have forgotten IHim in secret, wlhere I mnight have found HIim
and made Him my own for ever —I have forgotten
Him in business, lwhere I have taken tlle customs
of man, and not the hleart-searchimig ltaw of Christ
f'or my rule —I have forgotten Hlim in the world,
where I have been more careful to honour myself
than to show forth IIis praise-I halve forgotten
I-Jim in my so-called charities, for I still dared to
give in my own name that which but for the gain
of oppression, might never have been mine. Yes,
I have forgotten hfim; and now l-Ie knows r1me
not!"
The dying man made no mention of old Willy;
he could take a just estimate of sin now; and tlle
sin of forgetting God, of thinkicng more of' himself
than of Him —the Lord of Glory —who died to open
Heaven's gate to sinners, swallowed up the sense




OLD) WILLY'S COTTAG F.
Mfinistering Children.


Vol. II, p. 72.




I
r
i
I...,,..,.___._._,.. _... ____ .__ .. ..._., _ ,..




DARKNESS AND LIGHT.


73


of all beside. IHe had sinned against old Willy;
sinned against man, it was true; but the thought
of this for a time was lost in the overpowering
sense that he had sinned against Heaven and before God. The dying man gave Herbert his hand,
and said, "Dear young sir! I can say no more; I
wished to give you my thanks, and to tell you
fieely that you were right and I was wrong; and
that ' the way of transgressors is lard!' May you
reap the fruit of that truth which you tried in
vain to plant in my heart!"
Herbert rode slowly and mournfully away.
The road home lay past old Willy's cottage;
and there, in that warm summer afternoon, sat the
old man on the bench beside his door, his hands
resting on his staff; his broad-brimmed hat shading his eyes, 'nd his head bowed in slumber;
beside him bloomed the rose and honeysuckle,
while over him hung the large leaves of the vine;
Herbert's hand had planted them-meet emblems
of the Earthly and the Heavenly love by which
the old man's life was blessed! Herbert left his
horse with the groom, and walked up the straight
path to the cottage. Swiftly had he run up that
same path at the head of the gamekeeper's boys,
to rear up a blazing fire on old Willy's hearth: he
had rushed up the same narrow path to shout the
glad tidings to old Willy that the home of all his
life was to be his dwelling still; he had hastened
VOL. u.-7




74


MINISTERING CHILDREN.


with light foot, bearing the old man's coat, his
hather's Christmas gift; but now his step was
slower, for it bore to old Willy's side a heart oppressed with thought and feeling. Herbert felt
as if he wanted to see the old man, to hear him
tell of IHeaven and his own bright hope, to dispel
the gloom that had gathered round his spirit.
Herbert went to old Willy, not now to give, but
to receive. He stopped a little distance from the
bench, unwilling to wake his aged friend; he
stopped and looked at him; his feeble wasted
framie, his white locks on his shloullders his iabourworn hands; and that green life and friag:aat blossoming of nature round him-its bright fr,s'ness
in strong contrast with his withering 'brr. Jterbert felt how he loved that lone an:d frail 'j.d nan;
and as he felt how he loved him, he looko-.;r. the
cottage his love had prepared; there.:ose the firm
white walls, its close-fitting window and dcor, its
warm and sheltering roof; there lay tiL little
garden before it, where plant, and herb,;- tree
seemed to grow rejoicingly out of the grcu.:pleasant to the eye, and good for the food of ltat
old man: and then in the hush of that sumnrler
afternoon, a still small voice spoke within Herbert's heart, and said, " Inasmuch as ye have done
it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye
have done it unto Me!"   Herbert looked up to
the cloudless sky above his head, as if he thought




DARKNESS AND LIGHT.


75


to see Him whose words then spoke within lum;
he looked up, and he felt that old Willy's God and
Saviour-and his God and Saviour-looked down
in love on him; and the gloom and the weight
were gone fiom his heart, and the light and the
love of Heaven were there. Old Willy had slept
in his young master's moment of need; but the
God of all such as old Willy never slumbereth nor
sleepeth, and lIe hath said " If thou draw out thy
soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul,
then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness as the noon-day!"
Now Herbert felt as if le no longer needed to
stay and speak to old Willy, for heavenly peace
had come without; and though lie still felt solemnized and sad-fbr the sorrow lie had witnessed
of one who had lightly esteemed the Rock of our
salvation, yet the chill and the gloom were gone,
and his need supplied. But as he turned to go,
old Willy raised his head, and seeing the young
Squire' turning away, he rose as quickly as he
could, and taking off his hat, said "I beg your
pardon, sir!"
"VWhat for?" asked Herbert, as he turned
again, and sitting down on the lench, laid his
hand on old Willy's arm, making him sit down
by his side.
"Do you know, Willy, that Mr. Sturgeon is
dying?"




76   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


" No, sir; sure! not dying?"
"Yes, they think him dying! and he sent for
me, to tell me that I was right when I pleaded for
you; but oh, Willy, it was dreadful, for he has no
hope, and I could not comfort him!"
"'  ell, master, 'tis better so, than if he had a
false hope!"
"But nothing can be worse than No HOPE,
Willy, and he has NO HOPE!"
"Yes, master, 'tis better to feel it-If the true
[-ope be not there, 'tis better to have lost hold of
every other; for then lmay-be they will feel after
the true I-ope and find it: nmly-be they will look
up to their Saviour fiom the very gate of death
itself, as the dying thief did; Oh chlat a look lie
cast upon the Lord!-And that look found salvation in the Saviour for him, and he went into
Paradise with the Son of God!"
" Then, Willy, you think Mr. Sturgeon may find
hope in our Saviour even now?"
"I pray God he may!" replied old Will', fervently.
" Oh I wish he might!" exclaimed Herbert.
And then giving a smile to old Willy, in which
love and hope struggled with his lingering sadness of expression, he departed.
The dying man passed away fiom earth, and
never could the boy, through life, forget tlie
deatlh-bed where the Saviour was not.




DARKNESS AND LIGHT.


77


The traces of bereavement and sorrow began to
be visibly marked in Mr. Clifford. The mother
and the son had felt their loss no less, but a light
had sprung up for them on every side, in the general service of love to which they had turnedtley had taken their departed MIary's bright ministry, and the hearts that mourned for her, now
looked to them for comfort. To Mrs. Clifford
the personal work was new, and its results charmed
her with the sweet surprise of a power to bless,
comparatively untried before. And then she was
not companionless in the work, her boy - her
precious boy, once so wild and wilful, was her
ardent companion, and shared the new interest to
the full! But the father had lost the one, who,
from life's earliest childhood, had walked and rode
beside him, visited, studied, read with him; he
found but one thing able to soothe the aching void
her absence left-that one thing the Word of
God! that was his solace now, it took his lost
one's place. And it soon became evident how
high the fountain of eternal Truth rises above its
purest streamn; how deep the well-spring of eternal
Love, compared with the most purified of earthly
vessels. Continual converse with the Divine Word
irradiated all his life with Heavenly Light-the
"conversation in Heaven," the constant thought
for others, the tone of deeper feeling, the calmer
firmness even of censure, all bore witness of a
VOL. II.-7 *




78   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


drawing n arer to the Home of perfect Love and
Truth, a rising now in spirit to breathe more of its
pure atmosphere while still on Earth. But failing
health denied him all active effort; and his bowed
form and feeble step told of Earth's decay. Change
of scene and climate were urged as the only hope
of imparting new vigour. Mr. Clifford at first
refused but at last yielded to Mrs. Clifford's anxiety a reluctant consent; and arrangements were
made without delay for going that Autumn to
Italy.
When Mr. Clifford had consented to leave his
home for a foreign land, he sent for the aged Minister of the Parish, and receiving him alone in his
study, addressed him, saying, "I have sent for
you, dear sir, to say to you as a dying man-which
I believe myself to be; what I ought long ago to
have said to you in health. You were appointed
to hold the Lantern of the Word of Life to this
people, but you show them not its Light; you
preach its moral precepts, but that Saviour in
whose light alone any can see the Light of Life,
you show them not; and therefore all your teaching is dark and dead-unable to quicken one soul
unto eternal Life, unable to guide one wanderer
into the narrow way. I beseech you to consider
what I say for your own sake, and the sake of
your people. And let me entreat you to pray
earnestly that the Spirit of Christ-by whom




DARKNESS AND LIGHT.


79


alone He can be revealed, may yet be given you
to enlighten the eyes of your understanding, that
you may yet know the sinner's only true ground
of confidence-' Christ in you the hope of glory.'
Forgive me for speaking plainly; alas! I ought
years ago to have warned you in faithfulness, as I
do now. I have also a request to make. I make
it as the request of your dying patron-that you
will allow me before I go, to provide a curate to
aid you in your ministry here. I will furnish you
with his yearly salary. I will promise that he
shall be one who will walk in all lowliness towards
you and towards all men,-one whom you may
make a stay and comfort in your declining years;
but one also who will teach and preach Jesus
Christ-that Saviour who bore my dying child
through the valley of the shadow of death, causing the dark valley for her to glow with the glory
of His presence-that Saviour, to whom I look in
humble hope of His infinite mercy to bear and
carry me-that Saviour, dear sir, whom you will
need; without whom there is no salvation —and
it will be my earnest prayer that in hearing Him
preached, you may be enabled ' to lay hold on the
hope set before you.' 
The aged Minister did not refuse his Patron's
wish, did not refuse to hearken unto counsel: it
sounded to him as a thrice-repeated warning-first
heard in the sobs:f his people who wept at their




80   MINISTERIN G CH ILDREN.


young teacher's grav e; then in old Willy's siTnple
words; and now from the lips of one who had
always treated him with kindness and consideration.
Before Mr. Clifford left, he assembled all his
tenants and dependants to a dinner provided in
his park. After the repast, the different groups
were gathered in one, and Mr. Clifford came among
them, his hand upon the sho-alder of his boy, on
whom he leaned; then uncovering his head, he
said, in a voice distinctly heard, " My fiiends, I
am going a long journey, and I wished to take
my leave of you. I am not going by my own desire, for I would myself have chosen to abide the
will of God here, whatever that will may be; but
our own feelings must sometimes yield to the judgment of others. I wished before I left to thank
you for the affection you have manifested towards
me and mine. In the earlier days of my residence
among you, some pain might have been spared to
you and to me, if you had better understood my
aims and wishes, and if I perhaps had had more
skill and patience in making them known to you.
But we have now, I believe, lived long enough in
connection to gain mutual confidence. If there
be any among you who have any grievance, past,
or present, to complain of, I ask them, with all
friendliness of feeling, towards them, to come and
state it to me before I go, that, God permitting,
I may leave no thorn behind in any heart without




DARKNESS AND LIGH T.


81


the prayerfill effort to remlove it thence. For all
in -which I have been wanting towards you, I ask
vour forgiveness in the sight of' I-eaven; and
most of all, that I have not done more to teacll
vout the good and tie right vway. I have desired
you should know it, but I have made too little
effort to accolmplish tlhat (e-sire. I pIray you, seek
it for yourselNves more earnestly tllall I have soiught
it for you; for the promise that they shall find the
Lord and Giver of Life, is given to none but those
who seek Him with all thleir lieart. One blessed
child I hlad who lived and (lied anlong you, and
I may safely say to you, ' Be ye followers of her,
as she was of Christ!' I commend my son to
your plrayers, that hle may have grace from above
to commend himself to your affections. And now,
my fiiends, ' I commend you to God, and to the
Word of Ilis grace, which is able to butild you utp,
and to give you an inlleritance among all them
which are sanctified, through faith which is in
Christ Jesus.'"
Thus it was the Squire took his leave. One
thing more he did; and that was to have a white
marble slab raised on the wall within the village
church, where all the poor could see it; and on it
was written his daughter's name, anld age, and
place of residence; and this text, " Rememlber ye
not, that when I was with you, I told yorv these
things?"




82   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


Herbert took leave of old Willy. "Never mind,
dear Willy!" said the boy, with choking utterance, "I shall come back again to take care of
you; I shall never forget you, and you will live
here in quiet, and everybody will be kind to you
when they know I am gone!" And the old man
blessed him, weeping! The family drove fiom
the Hall-the road-side lined with those who
mourned their loss: they left their home for a
foreign land. There, with the same devotion with
which he had watched his dying sister, Herbert
tended his dying parent; and the natural impetu.
osity of his character deepened into quiet strength.
Mr. Clifford lived six months abroad, and then ihe
died. IIe said, " I have not the same radiant sunbeam of faith that lighted my Mary's steps through
the valley of the shadow of death; but I have the
peace of an assured hope that my Saviour hath
loved me, and washed me from my sins in Iis
own blood; and that because He lives, I shall live
also!"
Mrs. Clifford felt unable to return to her home
after this bereavement; she decided to remain
abroad until the time when it would be necessary
for Herbert to return for his studies at college.
Herbert worked diligently with his tutor; but the
Book he loved the best was his father's Greek
Testament-his father's constant companion in the
last years of his life, and his pa 'ting gift to Her.




DARKNESS ANI LIGHT.


83


bert. With this he would wander forth before
his nmther's time of rising, while the early morn
ing glowed in rose and purple on the snowy mountain heights and the overhanging clouds, winding
along through the steep mountain-path; or, when
evening f$l, seated in the Swiss peasant's lowly
chalet, reading of the " Lamb of God who taketh
away the sin of the world."  Then again in some
boat of transport on lake or river, while his mother
yielded herself to the calm influence of Earth and
Sky, as they glided on between the blue water
below and bluer Heaven above, Herbert with the
same Book of Life-the same small Book his hand
could cover, but y~hose span is infinite, and date
eternal-with that wondrous Book, Herbert would
talk to the benighted sailors, or the travelling peasants, or not seldom to some company of Romish
priests, winning the hearts of even those whose
spiritual fetters he could not break, till sometimes
the young priest would take his leave with his
arms encircling the neck of his gentle but dauntless opponent. Thus passed away Herbert's early
youth, while he gazed intently on the 'volume of
Nature's b eauty; the volume of man's recorded
thoughts; and the volume of Divine Inspiration.




VI.
Pure religion, and undefiled before (Gcd anj the Father, is this, To viOt
the fatluerless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world." —Jamles, i. 27.
"Why should vwe fear, yotlh's draught of joy
If' pure, would sparkle less?
Why shouldl the cup the sooner cloy,
Which God liath deigned to bless?"
THE arrival of the curate in the village was a
subject of great interest, and tellded more than
any other event probably could have done, to alle.
viate the   sorrow   felt on  the departure of the
Squire's famnily.   Many there were wrho went to
Church on the first Sunday, in expectation         and
hope; and among these was little Rose; her face
gathered briglbX'ness whc-n the prayers were read
with fervent distinctness; but as the new MIinister
preached, it became beaming with joy; and no
sooner had they passed the Church's door, thlan
Rose exclaimed, "0, father! that is just like our
3Minister at school, that is exactly how he preaches;
0 I am so glad!     Did you not like that, faither?"
"Yes, dear, I could sit all day to hear such
(84)




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VI




THE FARMER'S SACRIFICE.


85


words as those! I thank God he is come in my
time!"
Mrs. Smith had hastened on before with a still
quicker step than usual, and when Rose reached
home with her father, her mother was already
preparing the dinner. If Rose had looked at her
mother's face she would have seen no pleased expression there, but slhe was too full of delight to
question the possibility of any one feeling different;
so she ran in to the family kitchen, and exclaimed
at once, " 0, mother! was not that beautiful
preaching? That was just like our Minister at
school!"
"I am sure I don't know," replied Mrs. Smith;
"it may be beautiful enough for some, but certainly not for me!"
"Did you not li!e it then, mother?"
"Like it, child? 1 don't know who would like
to be told that wiher they have done their best,
and lived respected as I have, and always kept
their church, that for all that they must turn and
seek the same way to Heaven as the worst of
sinners!"
"Oh, mother, that is because our Saviour is
'the way,' as the minister said in his text."
" Well, child, I don't know as to what the way
may be, I only know I have lived a very different
life from many, and I don't choose to be mixed up
with them, as if I were the same as they!"
VOL. I.-8




86   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


"But, mother, it's because our Saviour is the
only way to Heaven, and every one must come to
Him who wants to go to I-eaven; and IIe can
taxe all their sins away! Miss Clifford said she
wanted to come to Jesus our Saviour!"
" Well, child, that might be, for Miss Clifford
never did seem to consider herself above the lowest; for my part, I can't come to that; but I don't
mean to talk about it; there is no need for you to
change your mind, nor I mine!"
Rose said no more, her sudden joy was dashed
as suddenly with disappointment. From this time
Mrs. Smith made a point of never going to church
when she knew the curate would praeach; her
temper became more trying to all around her;
and if it had not been for the colnfort of the Sunday's sermons, Rose and her father would have
found it hard to keep up their spirits through the
week.
What was pain to Mrs. Smith, was not only
comfort to Rose and her father, it was also joy to
old Willy. Twice on the Sabbath-day the old
man climbed the hill supported by his staff, and
the glad sound was always new life to him. The
weekly visits also of the curate were his delight;
but he always questioned him as to whether any
tidings had been heard of his young master; and
he said it was a he'lrt-affecting thing that he, an
old man as he was, should live to see the young




THE FARMER'S SACRIFICE.


87


and good pass clear away like that-one taken up
above, and the other into foreign parts! But
when at last a letter came to the curate, and a
message in it to old Willy, written with Herbert's
own hand all those miles away, joy lighted up the
old man's eye, and he exclaimed, " Who can tell,
but I shall see him yet again before I die!" The
faithful Jemn seemed to consider old Willy now as
his peculiar charge; scarcely a day passed that he
did not look in at the cottage. The little plot of
garden-ground he took under his entire carethere, early and late, was heard his busy spade;
it was Jem who dug up and stowed under ground
the bright red potatoes, to protect them from the
frost; Jem, who managed to buy the old man's
coals at less cost in the town, and brought them
back in a return wagon of farmer Smith's; Jem,
who when the snow had melted, planted in the
early vegetables; tended the flowers as spring
came on; cut the garden hedge; and trained the
vine above the lattice-window; in short, Jem, the
old man said, tended him like a prince. Little
Mercy, too, would often step up to the cottage
and find out work the old man wanted done;
when his sight was dim, she would read to him;
and sometimes she would take her knitting up and
sit and sing to him. Thus was old Willy tended
still and comforted.
A year and six months had passed away since




88   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


William left his home, and he had not been down
once to visit it. His father had written in the
autumn, anl written again at Christmas, to ask
him to come; but William returned for answer
that he could see no prospect yet of doing anything for his brothers, nor therefore of returning
himself to live at home; and that till he did, he
could not trust himself to come, for fear he should
lose his resolution, end not return to his work in
London any more. But he sent his love to his
mother, and he hoped to sow and reap again with
his father for her; his love to Joe and Samson,
and he still hoped to make great men of them;
his love to Ted, and the first good berth he could
find on board ship should be his-if he would
learn well at school; his love to little Tim, and he
would come home some day and teach him to
plough, and till then Tim was to be sure and take
care of Black Beauty; and finally his love to Rose,
and she must come up and see him in London:
and so, wishing a happy Christmas to them all,
ended William's second Christmas letter.
When the spring-time came, tidings arrived in
the village of the death of the Squire, and the
continued residence of his lady and her son abroad.
The loss was much felt, for the Squire was greatly
beloved; and it was all the more felt because his
affairs were left in such perfect order, that no
tenant's sense cf the loss of a friend was turned




THE FARMER'S SACRIFICE.


89


into anxiety as to personal concerns; all felt that
a friend and counsellor was gone, and felt it still
the more, from the tokens of care for their interest
and comfort which the communications received
made evident. Old Willy mourned the loss, and
doubted now that he should never live to see his
own young master any more!
The hay-time was scarcely over, when an invitation came to Rose from her uncle in London to
pay him a visit. Rose was much pleased with
the thought of going to London; but her chief
joy was the prospect of seeing William. Mr.
Smith's brother in London, Mr. Samson Smith,
lived in a country-house, some few miles out of
the great city. William met Rose at the inn
where the coach stopped, and took her down to
her uncle's house. There seemed to Rose no end
of streets or people, but she had few thoughts for
them-her joy at sight of her brother swallowed
up all beside. Her uncle's house was very different from her home; there was a carpet all ovel
the floor, paintings round the room, a pier-glass
over the mantel-piece, and more than one sofa.
Her aunt and cousins were very kind to her, and
her uncle also; yet Rose felt strange, and when
William went away in the evening she could
hardly keep from crying. But in a few days she
was more at home; and her aunt took Rose into
London with her cousins, and showed her some
VOL. II.-8*




0    MINISTERING CHILDREN.


of the sights that make the great city famousRose saw the wild beasts; she also saw the Tower,
where, in days gone by, so many a noble prisoner
heard the key turn that separated between him
and all he loved on Earth-for ever! Rose saw
the river with its forest of masts; she saw the
streets again, and wondered how they could be
all full of people at once; but she saw nothing
like her own sweet woods and fields, no rippling
stream, no shading trees, no free bird warbling
praise; and she began to think about the time
when she should go home again. She saw but
little of William; he could seldom get down,
except on Sundays, and then she could not talk
much to him, before her aunt and cousins.
Had the ministering child nothing to do for
others away from her home? 0, yes! we have
always something to do for others, and something
to learn, wherever we may be. Rose tried to be
useful to her aunt and cousins, but they were all
happy, and did not seem really to want her; her
uncle was very kind to her, but he never seemed
to want her; the servants were attentive to her,
but they looked well satisfied. William  could
seldom come; and Rose thought of her own village far away-she knew that there were many
who wanted her there; some of the poor old people
wanted her, she knew; and her father must miss
her sadly, and little Tim, and her mother also —




~HE FARMER'S SACRIFICE.           91
and Rose felt that she would be rather where she
was really WANTED, than seeing all the fine sights
in tne world. Was there no one then who wanted
lose where she was gone to stay? You will hear.
One day, in her aunt's house, Rose heard a tale
of sorrow. A poor man, a workman in a brewery
near, had fallen into one of the great beer-vats,
and been killed. IHe had left a wife and three
little children, to live on Earth without him, and
the poor woman's heart was almost broken with
her sorrow. A kind lady went round to collect a
little money, that a mangle might be bought, for
the poor widow to earn her bread, and Rose's
aunt gave some money to help. The next day
Rose heard the servants talking about this same
poor woman, so she asked the housemaid about
her, and the housemaid said, "While they are
collecting this money, the poor thing is almost
dying of distress and want!"  " But don't they
go and see her, and take her some of it?" asked
Rose. " No, they are keeping it all to do some.
thing to get her a living with; and she is so
distracted with grief that no one likes to go and
see her!" Rose said no more that day, but she
thought in her heart that the love of Jesus could
comfort any sorrow, and that if no one else would
go, she ought to try and comfort the poor widow.
So she asked the housemaid where the poor woman
lived; and the next time she was out alone, she




92   MINIS1ERING CHIL REN.


had to pass the end of the little path that led up
to her cottage; Rose thought it might be terrible
to see such grief, but it must be worse to bear it
and have no comforter, so she turned up the
varrow pathway that led to the house; she
thought if she could not comfort her she could
give her some money she had, that would buy her
food for a little while; so she went. She knocked
at the door, and some one said, "Come in!"
Rose lifted the latch, and went in. There stood
the poor woman, looking very pale, as if she had
cried for days and nights.
"I am so sorry for you!" said Rose. The
poor woman sat down, and wiped away her tears
with her apron; and Rose sat by her and talked
to her of Jesus, and the poor woman listened to
all Rose had to say, and took what Rose had
brought for her, and was as gentle as the ministering child herself. Then Rose went away, and
she saw there was no need to be afraid of sorrow
when we go to it in the name of JESUS. It was
the poor widow, with none to visit her, who
wanted Rose.
William had to go some distance on business
tor his uncle; he was away several days, and
when he returned, the time had come for Rose to
go back to her home. William came down quite
early one morning to take her into London to the
coach; and as soon as he was alone with Rose in




I:'1   i                   I   q I
Fai


IROSE'S VISIT TO THE WIDOW IN L.OND(ON.
Ministering Children.                             Vol. II,


p 92.








THE ARMER1S SACRIFICE.  93


the Fly he said, " Rose, I have a secret I will tell
you, if you promise not to tell father, or mother,
or any one, till I write about it." Rcse promised
not to tell, and William talked earnestly to her,
and Rose listened, all anxiety, till the Fly stopped
at the inn. Then William put Rose into the
coach, and as he leaned on the door, he said,
"Oh! I would give all I have earned, to be going
back with you, if it was only myself I had to
think of!"  And then charging Rose once more
to keep the secret, the coach drove off, and Rose
soon lost sight of William at the turning of the
street, while full of joy she looked forward to her
home. It was a long day's journey; but when
the coach stopped at the little village inn nearest
to her home, to change horses, there stood her
father, and the horse in the gig, waiting for her.
Very joyful was the meeting between Rose and
her father. " And what of poor Will?" said her
father, when Rose was seated by his side in the
gig, and they had started for home-" what of
poor Will?"
" Oh! he wished so he could come with me!"
replied Rose, "I could not bear to leave him!"
"Poor boy!" said farmer Smith, "I doubt we
must have him home after all; he will never settle,
so far from the place!"
"No, father, he would not live in London al.
ways, for any mioney! but he would not leave it




94   MINISTERING ( HILDREN.


now, I know, for he says he shall stay till he has
worked out a way for the young ones,-all except
Tim, he says he never could part with Tim, and
he knows that if he can only get back in time
enough to teach Tim farming, that he will take to
it better than anything else, and I am sure Tim is
more like William than any of them."
", Well, I don't know, I am sure," said farmer
Smith, "but these are not times to settle boys out
in a day; and I am sure I would not be the father
to keep a son like him pining away from his home,
seeking after what may never be found."
"O father, Will does not pine! Why he is
grown into such a man as you would never believe-and as busy as anything. I wish you could
see him; and I know a secret, father, only I anm
not to tell you or any one, so you won't say anything, will you, father?"
Farmer Smith looked down anxiously on his
child's bright face, but she did not perceive the
anxiety of the look; she thought if the subjectmatter of a secret were not revealed, the fact of
its existence must be a lawful and interesting communication; so she went on to say, "It's only
good, father; and if it comes to be, then you, and
mother, and all will know it; but I promised Will
not to tell!" And Rose thought she was only
giving hope and pleasure by her intimation of the
existence of a secret-for how should her inex.




THE FARMER'S SACRIFICE.


95


perienced childhood understand a parent's anxious
questioning!
Chesnut in the gig trotted swiftly along, and
11ose soon gave a shout at sight of her home —
with its white vine-covered walls, its sheltering
lblrns and stacks; and then the yard-boy driving
Fillpail, and Cowslip, and Rosebud, and all their
companions back from their milking to their pasture in the valley. And then her brothers caught
sight of the gig, and ran out with their welcome,
and little Tim came trotting after them; and at
the door stood their mother, in her afternoon
gown of red-patterned print, and Rose thought
how nice she looked; and how fresh and sweet
and clean all seemed, after the London suburbs
and the dingy city she had left.
When all were seated at tea, Joe and the little
sprightly Ted began their questioning, and Rose
with no less animation replied. At last Joe said,
" Well, I suppose William begins to find out that
there is something better to be done, than walking
backwards and forwards over a field after a plough
all the days of one's life?"
" 0 no!" exclaimed Rose indignantly, "he says
there is nothing he counts on more than the day
when he shall lace on his plough-boots again on
father's farm!"
" Poor boy! poor boy!" said farmer Smith. "I
am sure there is nothing I count on like having
him back again for good!"




96   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


"Why then did you ever let him go?" asked
Mrs. Smith. '" You know it was all your doing
If I had had my way, he never should have set his
foot in London; by what I hear they have people
enough, and too many, up there as it is, and why
we should be sending our best off to them-I
never did, and I never shall see the reason of!"
"Well, wife," said farmer Smith sorrowfully,
"it seemed as if it might be for the best in the
end; but I am sure I don't know; and if we have
not One above to order for us, I don't know who
is to tell what is for the best! It's certain I
thought I should get over the loss of him better
than I have."
"I don't suppose you thought about how you
would get over it at all!" replied Mrs. Smith, " it
never was your way; when you take a thing up,
you are for doing it-and then let the feeling come
after as it may! I could have told you that you
would never get over the loss of him, only you
would not have minded it if I had!"
Farmer Smith made no further remark during
tea, and as soon as it was over he took his hat and
went out into his farm, to relieve his burdened
spirit with the freshness of the evening air. And
while the boys made haste to help their mother
clear the tea-table, Rose slipped away after her
father, and with her hand in his soon dispersed
the gloom that had gathered on his face.




THE FARMER'S SACRIF.CE.


97


I wish enough," said Joe that evening to
Rose, " that I had not said anything about AWilliam at tea, mother always takes it up so, and then
it vexes father! I only know, I wish I could go to
London, too, for it is as dull as dullness always to
be walking over the same fields, and see no one
but the same ten heavy men all the days of one's
life; I am sure I can't think how father can stand
it, only I suppose he likes it! Did William say
anything about me?"
Rose hesitated a little, Joe' squick eye turned
instantly at her silence, and fixed upon her. " He
said," replied Rose, " that he was sure you would
not like uncle's shop any better than farming."
" No, so I told him," replied Joe. " I don't see
any more spirit in laying up and taking down
bales of goods, and cutting yards of stuffs, than in
putting in turnips and then taking them out again,
and cutting them up for the sheeep-all over and
over year after year! What I should like would
be a merchant's office, where some day I might
travel, and not have only what grows at one's
door to do with all the days of one's life! Did
Will say anything about that?"
" He said," replied Rose, " that he woald never
give up trying after it; for he did not believe that,
so much as you had read and thought about it,
you would ever settle to ainything else."
"What a good fellow he is!" said Joe, "he al
VOL. I.-9




98   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


ways did seem to care as much about what one
felt as what one did oneself-let it be the least
thing in the world even. If ever he makes a merchant of me, he shall see what a memory I have
for things I have heard him say, and what I will
get hold of and do to please him! I wish I was
off, for there's no getting on here, all one tries to
do seems to go for nothing, as to making any real
difference. Just think what it would be to work
one's way up there and buy this farm for father,
instead of every now and then hearing it is likely
to be sold over his head; or pay the rent for him;
or anything to keep off that harass that's always
upon him; but somehow there seems no getting
on, and no spirit in anything here!"
" Oh, Joe, the spirit is not in THINGS, the spirit
is in us! I have heard William say that you may
PUT spirit into anything! And he thinks there's
nothing like farming, for the pleasure of it."
" Well, I am sure father never finds fault with
me, but William said it was hard to settle to work
you cannot get a liking for!"
" So I dare say it is," replied Rose, "but only you
try and be a comfort to father, and see if William
does not soon find you something up in London!"
Joe took the assurance of sympathy and hope,
and went the next morning with fresh spirit to
work.
Rose was often seen looking out from door ox




THE FA IMER'S SACRIFICE.


99


window about the morning hour of ten, and when
she saw the postman climbing the green ascent to
her home, she would run out to receive what he
had brought, but she still always returned with
slower steps-no letter fiom William was there!
At length, one baking morning, when Rose was
busy in the back-kitchen making the harvest-cakes,
farmer Smith called Mrs. Smith and Rose into the
parlor, where he stood with an open letter in his
hand.  The heart of Rose beat quick, for she
guessed that the secret had come at last! Farmer
Smith shut the parlour door, saying, " Here is a letter from Will, and no time to be lost in attending
to it!" so saying, he read as follows:DEAR FATHER,
I hope I have gathered my first sheaf, after
pretty near a two years' waiting for it; but I have
again and again thought how you used to say,
when I wanted to be hasty in housing the crops,
"Waiting time is often the time that pays best
in the end!" Well, father, I told Rose a bit of a
secret, but she promised to keep it, so I may as
well tell you and mother from the beginning. You
know how Joe has always been bent on a merchant's office. I was so certain nothing else would
content him that I always kept thai in my eye, but
I never got so much as the least prospect, or chance
of trying for him. Well, a week before Rose went




100    MINISTERING CHILDREN.
home I had to go a journey on business for my
uncle; there was an elderly gentleman seated by
me outside the coach, and we had not gone far
when a terrible thunder-shower came on. I had an
umbrella, for I had seen a threatening of it; the
old gentleman had none, and he was seated at the
end just where the storm beat, so I said, "If you
will please to change places, sir, I could shelter you
better in the middle here." At that he looked up,
and said, " I am sure you are very good to say so,
but I have no right to expect shelter from you,
and an old man ought to be better provided against
a storm than a young one-don't you consider so?"
" Well, sir," I said, " I don't know but what the
young have quite as much reason to look out as
the old!" By this the old gentleman had changed
his place, but he soon began to call out that I was
getting his share of the storm. "I am no way
afraid of that, sir," said I, "I have been used to
stand a shower all my days." '" How is that?" he
asked. " Well, sir, I was brought up to the farming, and you can't be a farmer and afraid of a
shower! but a soaking is dangerous sometimes,
when you are not used to it." Then the old gentleman put no end of questions to me, and I found lie
knew pretty well about farming himself; he told
me he was born and brought up on a farm, and
certainly he pleased me better than any one I had
met all the time I have been in London-near




THE FARMER'S SACRIFICE. 101


enough now upon two years. In all that time
Iicle Samson has never asked me half so many
questions about you, and the farm, and the:,oys, as
that old gentleman did that day, and all as if he
cared to know! it did me more good than any talk
I had had since I left home. The old gentleman
gave me his card at the end of the journey, and
told me to call on him as soon as I returned to
London, for he was going to return the next day.
I found by his card that he lived not very far fiom
my uncle's, and when I showed it to him, he told
me *at he knew him well by name, and that lhe
was a man of excellent standing, a merchant in London. 0, how I thought of Joe-and what if after
all this should be the making of him! I went down
the very first evening to see him; he seemed to be
living alone by what I could make out, in a beautiful house, and certainly he was one of the pleasantest persons I ever spoke to; he remembered
every word I had told him, and there I sat talking
to him, just as if I had been at home. Well, it so hap.
pened that Joe being so much on my mind, I had
told all about him outside the coach, before ever I
knew what the old gentleman was, and how glad I
was to think I had, for I should not have lii ed to
speak about it then, I could not have done it half
6o well! The old gentlenman never said a word of
what I was so fall of hope about, and when I went
sway I thought all was over, for he only said he
VOL. II.-9*




102  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


should hope to sLe me again some day. Well, two
days ago whaslt should come but a note from him
to invite me to dine with hinm  And then he told
me tlit he had called on my uncle, and satisfied
hillnelf as tar as lie could, that he was not venturing
too much- and that he now offered me a situation
in lhis office for my younger brother, provided he
proved capable;1 trial. " But," said he, " my premium is a hundred pounds; I require two hundred
with the sons of gentlemen, and have never taken
any with less: do you think your father can provide that sum?"  Well, I would not for anthing
put a hindrance in the way, so I said, I hoped that
might not be found to stand in the way of so excellent an offer. Then the old gentleman seemed
satisfied; and I should have been sorry not to give
Joe as good a start as we could, and pay him regularly in: and as I dare say the old gentleman
knows my uncle is rich, it might have looked encroaching on the kindness of his offer, if I had
made any difficulty. So now at last the thing is
settled. But for the money-take my advice,
father, and do not worry to think it over yourself,
for I have thought it all over and over again, and
there is but one way-and that way will soon do it.
First, then, I have thirty pounds all ready at once,
saved out of these two years; then, to meet the
rest, there is but one thing to be done-Black
Beauty must be sold; don't keep vexing about it,




THE FARMER'S SACRIFICE. 103


father; but let it be done, and you will never repent it. I say the more because I know you will
think most about me in selling him; but I have
made up my mind, and it would hurt me a great
deal more to have any difficulty in Joe's way with
such an offer as this. Tell mother not to vex about
the horse. I can rear another such, some day,
when I am your farming-man again: he ought to
fetch seventy pounds to say the least, but if you
cannot get that at hands likely to do well by him,
then you can make up the rest without much difficulty, by selling off what remains of last year's
wheat. Let me decide for you, father, as I think
I best can in this case, because I know the value
of the offer. You must have Joe and the money
ready in a fortnight; and then tell mother when I
have seen Joe settled, I will come home for a holiday. My love to all, and good wishes to Joe.
Your affectionate Son,  WILLIAM SMITH.
P. S.-At first I thought I would make an effort
and ask my uncle to lend me the seventy pounds,
but then I remembered what you have so often said
to me-" Bear anything rather than borrow, Will!"
So I did not ask my uncle, and I dare say he supposes we can easily raise the money, for he never
inquires much as to how farming stands.
" 0, father," exclaimed Rose, "that's the secret!
May I run and tell Joe?"




104  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


" And what do you mean to do?" asked Mrs.
Smith of her husband.
" Well, I suppose we can't do better than take
William's advice; these are no times to bring up
five boys on one small farm, and Joe has no mind
to the work."
" I," said Mrs. Smith, "always found I must
put my mind in my work, and then my work came
to my mind, and I have trained Rose to the same;
but, as I always said, you must rule the boys:
only don't let me see the horse led away-that is
all I have to say!" and Mrs. Smith returned to
the back-kitchen.  Rose stayed by her father's
side-what would he have done but for his little
comforter! " Never mind, father, never mind!"
she said. " It's sure to be right if Will says so,
you know it always is!"
"Then you think it had better be as William
says?" asked the father of his little daughter.
" 0, yes, father; William must know better up
there-among so many people, than we do down
here; only mother never likes things different, but
she will be glad some day! May I go and tell
Joe now?"
' Yes, if you like. Your mother's taking things
so contrary, makes them a heavy burden! I am
sure I am sorry enough for the poor beast; but
it's better than borrowing!"
Farmer Smith took his hat; and Rose ran to




THE FARMER'S SACRIFICE. 105


look for Joe. She found him busy in the fields
among the men; so calling him on one side, she
told him all, except about the horse. Joe rushed
to the house wild with joy. The first person he
met was his mother.
"0 mother! I am to be a merchant after all 
William has found me a place in London!"
" Vell, I can't help it!" said Mrs. Smith.
"No, mother, I don't want it helped! it's the
thing of all others I have most wished for!"
"And what is the use of never being satisfied
in one place, till you are in another, I should like
to know?" asked Mrs. Smith. " There's William
always sighing after his home, and I dare say you
will like London no better!"
" Why, mother, Will never did like it; he
always said it was only for us he went away; but
it's the very thing I have always longed for, so I
am sure to like it!"
" Well, I only hope it may be so!" replied Mrs.
Smith; and Joe went off to look for warmer
sympathy in his father. He did not look in vain;
but after some conversation, farmer Smith said,
"I am sorry for the horse; but it cannot be
helped!"
"What horse, father?"
"Did not Rose tell you? We must sell Black
Beauty, to pay the premium."
"Sell Black B3auty, father! no, that you must




106  MINISTERING CHI1'.LREN.


not; William would never bear the sight of me,
if his horse had been sold to get me up there; T
would sooner not go!" And the lad's voice faltered with struggling feelings.
"Yes, but it is William himself who says so!"
replied his father.
" Does William say so?" asked Joe. " Vrell,
I never thought he could have given up so much
for me!"
Now it happened that the old clergyman had
long taken a great fancy to Black Beauty, as a
fine horse for his hooded carriage; and he had
more than once asked farmer Smith to let him
know if ever he thought of parting with it; so,
acting on his son William's advice, farmer Smith
lost no time in calling on the Rector. The old
clergyman seemed pleased with a prospect of possessing the horse, but said that he had fixed the
price that he would give, namely fifty pounds,
beyond which he would not go. Farmer Smith
stated that the horse was worth more; that he felt
no doubt a dealer would give him more; that it
was only a sudden necessity he could not meet,
compelled him to sell the horse; but that he greatly
desired to secure a good master for him. Now
the old clergyman was rich, and had no children,
but lie made no inquiry as to why the horse had
to be sold; he only said, " I have stated the price
I will give; you must take it or not, as seem.A bTest




THE FARMER S SACRIFICE.          107
to you."  Farmer Smith sat a few minutes ie
harassed thought; he wished his little Rose had
been at his side, to say one way or the other; at last,
feeling for the creature outweighed the hope of a
larger price, and he replied, " Well, sir, I would
sooner let him go for less to a good master, than
strain a point and get a bad one. The horse is
worth full seventy pounds, but as I am driven to
it by necessity, I will take the fifty for him, if you
please, sir."
"Very well," said the old clergyman; "I gave
fifty pounds for the best horse I ever had, and I
never mean to give more, or I may probably get
a worse!" So farmer Smith took the offer, and
the horse was to be fetched away the next day.
It was late in the afternoon when the Rector's
coachman came for the horse. Ted saw him coming, and gave the alarm, then ran off to the stable
to give Black Beauty his last supper. Joe followed slowly, and Rose with him, trying to cheer
him; but he took his stand, pale and silent, within
the stable, half concealed from view. Samson
stood with great composure at the farm-yard gate,
watching the approach of the man; while little
Tim, hearing fiom Molly what was about to happen, came running and crying as he ran, and lisping out in sobs, "No, no, naughty man! Back
Booty not go! Will said, 'Tim, take care of
Back Booty!' "  Ted had filled a measure: the




108   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


brim, and the high and gentle creature stooped
his head to feed; but when little Tim came sobbing in, the creature turned from its food, looked
hard at the child, and then stooped down its fice
to him, as if to caress and soothe.
Farmer Smith and the coachman soon entered.
Farmer Smith looked on the group one moment
in silent feeling almost as strong as his children's,
then stroking down his favourite's silky mane, he
said, "There's the horse; I give him to you in
good condition, and a better horse you cannot
find."
" I am sorry for you, sir!" said the coachman;
and farmer Smith left the stable, unable to stay
and witness the scene.
" You will let him get his supper first?" said
Ted, looking up, and holding the measure afresh
to Black Beauty's head.
"Go, naughty man, go quite away!" said little
Tim, "Will shall be very angry with you!" and
the horse turned from his food again to the child.
" Come now, Tim," said Ted, " you won't let
him have a bit of supper!" and Tim suffered Rose
to compose and comfort him while Black Beauty
eat his food; but the moment it was done and the
halter was in the coachman's hand, Tim's grief
broke 'forth again, while Ted, and Rose, and Joe,
at that sight, no' longer kept from tears. The
man tried to make short work of it, and lead the




THE FARMER'S SACRIFICE. 109


horse at once away, but the creature threw up his
head; his eye that had looked so mildly on the
child, grew fierce, and snorting he seemed to bid
the stranger defiance in his attempt to secure and
lead him away. Then Joe looked up in blank
distress, and said, " It's of no use, he won't go for
you, a stranger never led him!  Give him to me,
it's fit I should have to lead him away, for it's all
for me has to go!" So Joe took the halter, the
creature hung down his head and followed, and
the children followed also-little Tim stamping
with impotent distress. The heavy-laden wagon
coming in at the stack-yard gate stood still, and
the men looked round to watch; and the labourers,
winding up the hill with their rakes upon their
shoulders, turned to see the faithful creature go,
and Molly and the yard-boy stood in view, and
Mrs. Smith within the house kept up a more than
usual stir, and farmer Smith-no one knew where
he was. Rose soon stopped with little Tim; but
Ted ran on by the side of Joe, who led the horse
to his new stable, then the boys threw their arms
around his neck, and left him to his new abode;
and long Black Beauty neighed in vain for the
children's hands to feed him.
" Never mind, my boy!" said farmer Smith, as
Joe turned away from his supper, " You won't
trifle with a situation that has cost us all so
much!"
VOLe n.-10




110  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


" What in the world is this?" asked Mrs. Smith,
as she packed her son Joe's box for London.
"0, never mind, mother, just tuck it in anywhere."
" But what in the world is it for?" asked Mrs.
Smith.
" Well, mother, it's only just the old bit of rope
with which I led Black Beauty away; he would
not let the Rector's man halter him or lead him
out of the stable!"
"And what can be the use of taking that?"
asked Mrs. Smith.
" 0, never mind, mother-only for fear I should
ever forget that day!"
"Well, I am sure," said Mrs. Smith, "it's an
odd fancy-to hold feeling by a bit of old rope!
but so it must be if you will."
Perhaps Mrs. Smith was really more capable of
understanding Joe's feelings than she shewed signs
of being; Black Beauty's old bit of rope was
tucked in the corner of the box; and Joe went to
London, and the merchant was pleased with the
lad, and the money was paid, and William took
Joe to lodge with him; and when he had seen
him comfortably settled, William went down to
spend a fortnight in his home-to the comfort of
all, and not least of little Tim. And Black Beauty
drew the Minister's carriage.




VII.
xitti~t Hant' CBtarpet.
"Warmed underneath the Comforter's sale wing,
They spread th' endearing warmth around."
Putting on the breast-plate of faith and love."-1 Thess. v..
WHILE these events had been passing in the village, little Jane had followed on her childhood's
path within the town; and the energy of growing
thought, and the courage of deepening feeling,
strengthened within her heart.  Her sympathy
for the Poor grew with her growth-a sympathy
inherited by birth from her parents, and constantly
nourished by the atmosphere of her home; a respectful sympathy; a loving feeling of relationship; a sense of some invisible tie existing between
her and the Poor, which did not exist between
her and the Rich-even that most blessed bond,
the power to aid and comfort!
There was a road which led out of the town, on
the side nearest to Mr. Mansfield's house; the
road led up a long hill, and then crossed a wide
heath; this was a favourite walk with Jane and
her little brothers, and here they used to run, and
(111)




112  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


and play with the snow, in the winter time, to
which we have now come;-while William and
Joe were together in Lolntnr, little Mercy and her
uncle Jem tending old -Willy, Herbert away in a
foreign land, Rose busy in her home, and Black
Beauty drawing the Minister's carriage. There
on the fresh-blowing heath, Jane and her little
brothers grew rosy with their play.  Scattered
cottages and huts stood upon this open heath, and
Jane often stopped in her play and looked at
them, or passed them by with slower step-she
felt that the Poor were there! There was one
hut that stood separated from any other, a mean
abode it was, and with no look of comfort round
it; there was a pile of turf to lengthen out the
smouldering fire, but no little stack of wood, no
black and shining coal, no cheerful blaze within.
No Herbert came and went that way; no faithful
Jem lived near; but little Jane's eye of thoughtful love-so early trained to watch where any
want might rest-her eye of thoughtful love had
marked the mean abode, and again and again she
had looked, wondering who might live there! At
last, one wintry day, just as Jane passed by, the
door opened, and an aged woman came out with
a ragged cloth in her hand, which she hung on a
snowy bramble that grew before the door. The
aged woman wore an old print gown, with a small
black shawl pinned over her shoulders, and an old




LITTLE JANE'S CARPET.


113


black b nnet on her head; her head shook with
the palsy of age, and it was evident at first sight
that she was very old, and very poor.
"Look, nurse," said Jane, "that poor old woman
lives there!"
"Yes, I see," said nurse.
"Do   you  think mamma knows that old
woman?" asked Jane.
"How can I tell," replied nurse, "you don't
suppose your mamma knows every old woman for
miles rolnd the town?"
Nurse was walking at a quick pace with the
little boys, and she called to Jane, who was lingering with her eyes still on the open cottage door,
to come on; so Jane hastened on. As they returned, the aged woman stood outside her door
again, putting out a few more ragged things to
dry on the bushes in the wintry wind. Jane
watched her as she passed, but said no more to
her nurse. As soon as she was alone with her
mother that day, she said, " Mamma, what do you
think! I saw such a very old woman in such a very
old cottage; she looked so cold, and her head
shook, and she was hanging out some ragged
things to dry, and I saw no fire inside! Do you
know her, mamma?"
"Where did you see her?" asked Mrs. Mansfield.
"Out on the heath, mamma; such a very old
VOL. n.-10*




114  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


cottage-alone by itself! I am sure she is very
poor, and she must be very cold."
" I don't think T know anything of her," replied
Mrs. Mansfield; " but if you think she is so very
old and poor, you shall take me to see her, and
then we shall both know her!"
" 0, mamma, will you let me? shall we go this
afternoon?"
" No; you could not walk so far twice in one
day."
"0, yes, I could indeed, mamma, I am not at
all tired!"
" No, we will wait till to-morrow, and then if
the day is very fine I will promise, if possible to
go with you."
"Shall you do anything to make her warm,
mamma?"
" Yes; if you like we will take her a coal-ticket,
and then she will be able to have some coals."
" 0, mamma, I am so glad! I wish I could do
something for her as well!"
" We will observe, when we go, what she seems
most to want, and then perhaps you can take it to
her some day in your walk with nurse."
" Do you mean I may go in, all alone by myself,
mamma?"
"Yes, if she seems a kind old woman, who
would be pleased to have a little visitor."
" Are not all poor people kind, then, mamma?"




LITTLE JANE'S CARPET.


115


" No, dear Jane, not all; an evil heart within
them makes some poor people unkind and wicked,
as it does some rich people. And then the poor
-ften suffer a great deal; and when they have not
the fear and love of God to comfort them, suffering often makes them speak and feel and act as
they would not, if they knew the love of God."
" Cannot they be taught to know it, then,
mamma?"
" Yes, Jane, we must try to help every one to
know the love of God, through Jesus Christ.
God's love can change the hardest and most
wicked heart, and make it gentle and patienteven in suffering. So when we find any one
unkind to us, whether poor or rich, we must try
and show theni what the love of God can teach
and enable us to bear and to do; and if we can
we must tell them of His love, that they may seek
it also."
" If the old woman is unkind, what will you do,
mamma?"
" I do not think she will be; but if she should,
we must speak the more gently and kindly to her,
and perhaps she will soon find that we only want
to be a help and comfort to her, and then she will
be glad to see us; and oar love may lead her to
seek the love of God-and that will make her
happy in her poor cottage here, and then it will
take her to Heaven!"




116  MINISTERING CHILD REN.


Jane was satisfied, and asked no more; she had
learned an added lesson of truth; no suspicion
had been taught her; her mother had only reminded her of the fact-that fiom sin's evil root we
must not be surprised to find its bitter fruit; and
she had bound upon her child " the breast-plate
of faith and love," to shield her fiom the painful
effects of a surprise. The youngest soldier of the
cross needs to be so prepared and guarded, when
venturing on ground untried by others for his
steps; and care is needed-is greatly needed, lest
the older mind teach caution by infusing suspicion
and doubt; instead of giving the simple knowledge of the universal fact that man's heart is evil,
and carefully binding on the child's young spirit
that breast-piate of FAITH and LOVE which can
alone guard it for its safe conflict with the world.
The next day Jane set off with her mother for
the cottage on the heath. It was true she walked
with more silent questionings-as to what they
might meet in the old woman's cottage,-but it
was the questioning that belongs to Earth's uncertainty; and whatever might be found, she was
prepared to meet it now, without being driven
back by a surprise. The cottage-door was shut;
on Mrs. Mansfield's knocking, the old woman
opened it, and Mrs. Mansfield said, "We have
walked up from the town to call on you, may we
come in?"




LITTLE JANE S CARPET.           117
" It's no place to come into," said the aged woman, " but you can if you like!"
Mrs. Mansfield went in, and sat down on a
broken chair; Jane found a seat on the bottom
of the bedstead, and the aged woman sat down
again by her small table, where she was taking
her twelve o'clock dinner of a little tea and a
crust of bread.
"You must feel the cold on this open heath!"
said Mrs. Mansfield.
"Yes, it's enough to perish an old woman like
me; but I could never make up the high rent
down in the town, so I am forced to bear it as I
canl!"
"We thought that you might like a coal-ticket;
they are giving some in the town, do you know
about them?"
" Oh, yes! I knbw about them."
" Would you like to have one?"
" Well, I can have it if you like, but I don't
suppose I can ever get the coals out here; I am
sure I can't carry them!"
"No, you would not carry them yourself; but
I see some other cottages near; perhaps you have
a neighbour who could?"
" No, there's no one who neighbours with me;
I have no one to look to but myself; what I can
do for myself I do, and what I can't I have to
go without."




118  MINISTERING CH  LDREN.


" Could you manage if you had a shilling with
it? Then you could pay the sixpence that is
necessary with the ticket, and give something to a
boy to carry them for you."
"Yes, I suppose I could do that!"
"Shall I write your name on the ticket then?
I have a pen and ink in my basket."
" You cal, if you please."
So Mrs. Mansfield wrote; then turning to the
aged woman, she said, "You feel as if you had
no one to look to; but there is a Friend who is
able and willing to help and comfort you, if you
ask it of Him."
"I suppose you mean there is a God above,"
said the old woman; " I know that!"
" I mean that the God above sent Iis beloved
Son to die for you, that you might find pardon,
and help, and hope in Him-even in Jesus the Son
of God."
" Well, I dare say it may be; but those who
have no learning like me cannot come at the understanding of it."
"Oh, yes, you can, by God's help! It is to
the Poor that the good news is sent. It is all
written in the Bible for you, and if you only get
its words into your heart, they are sure to lead
you to heaven."
" I can't do that then, for I can't read them;
and I am not fit to go to a place of worship."




LITTLE JANE'S CARPET.


119


" Oh yes, you are quite fit for that; there are
many who have worshipped God in worse clothing
than yours! But if you like, my little girl shall
come and read to you sometimes, when she walks
this way?"
" Well, I an for the most part busy."
"Never mind; if you are busy she can run on
with her brothers; but if you are not busy she can
come and read the words of the Bible to youthose blessed words that are written for the
Poor!"
"I am sure you are very good!" said the old
woman, softened at last. And Mrs. Mansfield and
Jane took their leave.
" She was not really unkind, was she, mamma?"
asked Jane, anxious to clear as much as possible
any censure floml her old woman.
"No, dear, she was not at all unki:, only very
poor and very miserable; and when people are
very miserable, they often don't feel able to speak
pleasantly."
"No, mamma: do you think she will like me
to read to her?"
" Yes, I feel sure she will after a little time. I
think she will soon begin to love you, Jane; and
perhaps you may teach her to know the love of
God her Saviour; then she will feel very different,
and look very different."
" Shal. I go to-morrow, mamma?"




120  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


"No, I dare say she will go for her coals tomorrow; you had better wait a day or two, and
perhaps by that time she will begin to look out for
your promised visit."
"I saw something she wanted, mamma; did
you?"
" Yes, poor old woman! I thought she wanted
almost everything!"
"But I mean her tea-pot, mamma; did you see
it was tied together with a string?"
" No, I did not see that."
"It was indeed, mmamma! How much would a
tea-pot cost?"
"You could get a small black tea-pot for six.
pence."
"Six weeks then, mamma, it would take me
before I could buy one!"
" Yes, it would; but you need not wait for that,
because I think I have a tea-pot at home I could
spare; it is a pewter tea-pot, a good deal bent,
but it has no holes in it."
"May I take it then, mamma, when I go?"
"Yes, and if you like, you shall make her a
warm garment, and take it to her as a present from
me." So Jane, with delight, gave her play-time to
work, till in three days the warm garment was
read; then, with the tea-pot packed in a basket,
and a little tea and sugar from her father beside
it, and with her mother's warm present tied up in




LITTLE JANE'S CARPET.


121


a parcel, the happy child set forth with her brothers
and her nurse. 0, how she longed to reach the
cottage! And when at last it came in sight, she
said, "Nurse, may I run on now?" and then
swiftly she crossed the wintry heath, and knocked
at the old woman's door.
"0, it's you!" said the old woman; "I have
looked out for you!"
" Mamma has sent you this!" said Jane, unfolding her mother's present; " will it not keep you
warm? I made it for you all myself, except the
fixing!"
"I never had the like of it before!" said the old
woman with evident surprise.
"And mamma said I might bring yowu this tea,
pcA," said Jane; " and there is some tea and sugar
from our shop!"
" I am sure you are very good to me!" said the
old woman, with feeling in her tone.
" Are you busy to-day?" asked Jane.
" o, I am not busy, I have nothing to be busy
about!"
" Shall I stay a little while?"
" Yes, dear, if you can content yourself."
" 0 yes, I like to stay with you, you must be
so dull here all alone! Do you like me to read to
you? I have brought my own Bible!"
"As you please," replied the old woman.
" I can read to you about Ieaven, in the Reve
VOL. I.- 11




122  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


lation," said Jane; and she read fiom the 7 th
chapter of Revelation, the 9th verse to the end of
the chapter.
" It's very fine, I dare say," said the old woman,
for those who can get hold of it, but I have no understanding."
" Cannot you understand it?" asked Jane with
disappointment.
"No, I never had any learning."
Jane looked down on the sacred words, and
pondered what to say.
"I wish you could understand!" at last said
Jane, looking up earnestly at the old woman's
face; "if you could it would make you happy!
Shall I read it over once again?"
" As you please," replied the old woman, " hut
I have no understanding."
Jane read a few verses again, then stopped, saying " Do you know who ' the Lamb' means?"
"No," answered the old woman.
"It means Jesus, the Son of God, because IIe
died for us!" said Jane. Then Jane read on about
the white robes, and stopped again and said,
"Everybody in Heaven wears a white robe, because Jesul s l washed them all white from their
sins in His blood  I can teach you a prayer
about that-it is a very slort prayer out of the
Bible-'Wash me, and I shall be whiter thar,
snow.' Do say it after me, and then you will
know it!"




LITTLE JANE'S CARPET.


123


The old woman tried; at last she seemed able to
remember it a little:-and when Jane was gone,
she still sat on her broken chair, saying over to
herself, " Wash me whiter than snow! Wash me
whiter than snow!"
It was simple teaching, and simple learning;
but we must estimate the full meaning of the few
words left in the aged woman's heart, before we
can estimate the value of tile lesson given and received. "Wash me!" there lay the assertion of
her need of cleansilng-a need only to be truly
learned from the entrance of that Word that enlighteneth the eyes.  " Whiter than snow!"there lay the assurance that there was a power
that could make clean,-nmake without spot the
heart and life, that needed washing-unable to
cleanse itself. When the Word of God, that gives
at once the knowledge of sin and the only remedy,
is once fixed within the heart, the nail is fastened
in a sure place-though the Master of assemblies deign to work by the infant of days in fixing
it there.
Jane's pence were now saved up by her eager,
joyful hand of love, for her own old woman.
First two lilac print aprons were bought and
made, with a white one for Sundays. Mrs. Mansfield added a large handkerchief to pin outside the
gown over the shoulders, which Jane hemmed:
and when these were about to be taken, Mrs.




124    MINISTERING CHILDREN.
Mansfield said, " Suppose, if I can find a piece of
black silk, I make her a little black bonnet?" Of
course the thought of this was delightful, and
Jane kept back her gifts till the bonnet was ready.
The neatest old woman's bonnet was made; the
silk put plain on a small close shape, and then
Mrs. Mansfield made a plain net cap, with a net
border, while Jane watched her mother's needle
with eager interest. The bonnet and cap were
put in a little blue bandbox; and then Mrs.
Mlansfield found a shawl of her own for the old
woman; and so, richly-laden and overflowing with
gladness, Jane set out, with her nurse and her
brother to help, and the little ones to share the
interest, on the way to her old woman's cottage.
Tears started to the eyes of the poor old womantears of love and grateful feeling; and Jane saw
the old woman at church-in her white apron, and
neck-handkerchief and shawl, and her little black
bonnet and white net cap. The hand of love had
clothed her, the voice of love had warmed and
cheered her; there were tones that make the
heart's music now on Earth for her; and led by
these, she went to hear of the love that these
bore witness to-the love that passeth know.
ledge!"
Before the cold of winter had passed away,
Jane discovered that her own old woman had
stiff limbs f"om rheumatism; she told this, as




4




M. C.




LITTLE JANE'S C RPET.


125


she told everything, to her mother; and on
MIrs8. Mansfield's learning from Jane that the old
woman's floor was damp, and without any covering, Mrs. Mansfield found up a variety of pieces
of carpet, old and new, and showed Jane how to
join them. With a pair of gloves on her hands,
fine twine, and a short carpet-needle Jane sat on
a low stool on the nursery floor and made her
patchwork rug. It was kept a great secret, the old
woman was to know nothing about it till it was
done, and never could work have afforded a child
more pleasure. She was to take the many-coloured
rug, when finished, and lay it down herself; it
would fill up all the space between the bed and
the fire, just where the old woman sat, and light
up with its variety of patterns and colours the
dreary dwelling; the little window had long been
cleaned, by the old woman's own hand, to let in
more light for Jane to read; and Jane had secret
thoughts of asking her mother if she might not
make a little curtain for it; but the carpet-work
fully engaged her spare time for the present; and
sometimes her mother and sometimes her nurse
gave her advice as to how best to arrange her
various-shaped pieces. One day, while Jane was
intent on her work in the middle of the nursery
floor, the daughter of a neighbour and friend of
her mother's knocked at the nursery-door, and on
nurse saying, " Come in," she opened the door,
TVOL. I.-I 1 *




126  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


saying, by way of excuse for her appearance there,
"I found your mamma was out, and I got the
servant jist to let me run up, because I have no
time to stay, and I want you to come to drink tea
with us on Friday. I am to have a party. Mamma
has bought me a new best frock of green silk,
and I shall wear it then! What is your best
fiock?"
"I have no best frock," said Jane, " only one
old stuff and one new stuff; and I wear white on
Sundays in summer, and when I go out with
mamma, if you mean that?"
" No, I wear white sometimes in summer; but
how very odd you should not have a best frock!
Shall you come in your stuff fiock then?"
" I don't think mamma will let me come at all,"
said Jane, " I never go out to tea without mamma,
unless it is with nurse into the country in summertime."
" Well, but you will ask, will you not?"
"Yes, I will ask ilamma," said Jane.
"What are you doing here?" said Jane's young
visitor, looking down on the patchwork carpet,
" sewing bits of carpet, I declare! what terrible
hard work! I never have such work to do!"
" It is not hard," said Jane; "I like it very
much, it's for a poor old woman who has nothing
to lay on her floor, and her floor is damp!"
" 0, well, I don't know any old woman; but it




LITTLE JANEtS CARPET.


127


I did, I think I sltould get my mamma to buy her
a bit of carpet!"
" Mamma says," replied Jane, " that it is much
better to give what we have made; and I know
my old woman will like it a great deal the more
for my having mn-de it! And mamma says it will
be much stronger and warmer than a new piece,
because of all the joins I have made!"
" 0 yes, I dare say it will! but if you come and
see me on Friday, I will show you my work; I
am working a little boy and girl in worsted, sitting on a stool, and they have such rosy faces! I
think I shall give it to mamma when I have fin.
ished it; but I don't know, because mamma says
she is tired of the sight of it; but if I don't give
it to mamma, I shall find some one else to give
it to!"
When her young visitor was gone, Jane said to
her nurse, " Do you think mamma would like it
if I were to work some children sitting on a stool
for her?"
"Nonsense!" said nurse, " your mamma sees
enough of children sitting on stools, without your
wasting your time in showing her. I have no
patience with such folly; you had much better
make carpets all your life for those who have
none!"
"I never made anything for mamma!" said
Jane.




128  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


"Well, you may be sure your mamma is best
pleased when you are working for the Poor; but
if you want to make something for her, I can tel
you what would be a great deal better than children sitting on stools!"
" What, nurse?"
" Why, net her a purse! she uses one of those
wove things, that look old before ever they look
new? you might make her one that would look and
wear well, and there would be some sense in that!"
"But I cannot do netting, nurse."
0, I can soon teach you that! if you save up
your pence for three weeks, you can buy a skein
and begin. I have got a needle and pin."
"But will mamma know?"
"There is no need she should; if you like to be
up these light mornings, you Jnay work an hour
before breakfast, by three weeks' time it may be a
great deal warmer than now; but then you must
save up all your money, because there will be the
rings and the tassels as well as the silk."
The agreement was joyfully made. Now came
the finishing of the patchwork-carpet; and Jane,
with her nurse's help, carried it up to the old
woman, and laid it down before her wondering
eyes, and then looked around with delighted feeling at the change in the cottage, and the change
in the dear old woman, since the day when first
she entered it.




LITTLE JANESS CARPET.


129


The purse could not be begun till the first threepence was saved up.
"You don't know why I save up my money
now, mamma!" said Jane to her mother.
" No, indeed, I cannot tell, do you want a few
of my pence to help yours a little, that I may
know the sooner?"
" 0, no, mamma, that would not do at all, it
must be all my own money!"   But while the
child answered " No," she felt the confidence that
would have helped her secret purpose without
even asking to know it.
Jane could not quite forget her young visitor's
remarks, so one day she said to her nurse, " Mamma
never buys me a best frock!"
"' No, nor does not need," replied nurse; "it's
only those who don't look always as they should,
and who want to look sometimes as they should
not, who think about best dresses! Your mamma
always keeps you neat, and fit to be seen according
to your station, and so you have no more need to
think about wanting a best frock than any lady in
the land."
There was something so decided and satisfactory
to Jane in her nurse's reply, that she thought no
more upon the the subject, quite convinced that to
be always neat was the only point of importance.
But she could not so readily forget the worsted
work; and though she was intent on her secret purse




130  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


she still thought would it be very pleasant to do
some work with coloured wools; she did not go to
her young visitor's party, so she had not seen the
work of which she had heard so much. " Mlammna,"
said Jane, one day, "should you think that children sitting on a stool, would look pretty done in
worsted work?"
"I do not know, unless I saw them," replied her
mother, " but I do not generally admire such
pieces of work; they take a great deal of time and
attention, more, I think, than they are worth. Did
you wish to try some worsted work?"
" Yes, mamma, I should like it very much, only
nurse said it was nonsense to work children sitting
ou a stool, and I don't know what else could be
done!"
"A great many things can be done! I think
the best would be, to work your father a pair of
worsted slippers, to put on when he comes in from
the shop; nurse would not think that nonsense."
" 0, yes, I should like that a great deal the best.
May I do that, mamma?"
"Yes, you shall go to a shop with me and
choose them for yourself."
And so the child found full employment now, in
her early work for her mother, and her later work
for her father- all through the spring's bright
weeks; and then the joy of presenting her gifts,
and seeing the lasting pleasure with which they




LITTLE JANE S CARPET.           131
were used-the smile of remembrance that fell on
her glad eyes when the purse was drawn out
sometimes, or the slippers put on. And thus,
within and without hei io)me, every pure and haliowed sympathy was strengthened in her young
life by natural and easv exercise.




VIII.
X At      tiHIth   Clmtortfx.
"The world's a room of sickness, where each heart
Knows it's own anguish and unrest;
The truest wisdom there, and noblest art,
Is his, who skills of comfort best."
IN the following Spring an invitation came for
Rose, from her mother's only brother, a farmer on
a large grass farm in Derbyshire; it was a long
journey for Rose to take, and her father was very
unwilling to lose his little comforter from  his
home; Rose also did not like the thought of
another visit to unknown relations, but her mother
was resolved-Mrs. Smith said that her brother
would have good reason to be offended, as Rose
had been allowed to visit her other uncle, if his
invitation was refused; so the engagement was
made, and Rose was to meet her uncle in London,
to which place he expected to travel up in about
three weeks' time; and as in those days it was not
thought worth while for children to take a long
journey for a short period, it was settled that Rose
was to spend three months beneath her Derbyshire
uncle's roof.
(132)




THE LITTLE C DMhFORTER.


1,2.33


When Molly, the maid at tile fi.rm, founlld th:lt
Rose was to leave for another lon, visit;, licr patient endurance gave way to despair, audl aitler
nine years' faithful service she told her inist:ress
that she must leavxe her place —unable to bear the
prospect of her mistress's trying tellmper without
Riose to soften it. Things were not imiroved in
the house by MIolly's giving warning; Mrs. Smith
really valued her, and was very sorry to lose her;
but the pride of heart which made TMirs. Smith's
temper so trying to all, would not now sulfer her
to express any regret-she only showed resentment at what she called Molly's ingratitude; and
Rose left her home with a sorrowfill heart.
When the time for MIolly's departure arrived,
she camne to take leave of her mistress in tearslittle Tim had run off crying, to hide himself in the
stable-and MIolly gathered courage and said, "I
am sure, mna'am, I never would have left your
place for another, if I might have reckoled onl a
pleasant word sometimes; but I don't think, since
master Joe and the horse went away, you have
given me so much as one —and I'm sure that their
going was none of my doing; and I can't stand it,
ma'am, and I don't see who is to stand it!" There
still were moments when Mrs. Smith's pride llad
almost more 'than enough to do in keeping down
and hiding up the buried feeling of her heart; and
now when her faithful, her really valued servant,
VOL. II.-)12




134  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


stood before her and confessed that her mistress
could have bound her to her service by a pleasant
word; when that servant was really departing,
Mrs. Smith found the only disguise for her feeling
would be silence; she held out Molly's wlges without lookiing at her, and then turned another way;
while poor Molly, quite overcome, left the ftrm
for her mother's distant village, with a feeling of
unreturned affection and heart-breaking distress.
There was one person- and only one — with
whom Mrs. Smith had to do, to whom she had
never spoken a harsh word; it was not Rose, it
was not little Tim, it was not her favourite Wil.
liam; no, it was the orphan child, Mercy Jones.
It was true, the orphan's grandmother, widow
Jones, had always stood as high as possible in
Mrs. Smith's regard; Jem also, Mercy's uncle,
Mrs. Smith considered worth all the other men and
boys on the farm put together, because she said,
" If you make him understand what is to be done,
you may give up the worry yourself!"  But it
was not her grandmother and her uncle's good
qualities that procured such favour for Mercy;
Mrs. Smith was a strict examiner of each individ.
ual with whom she had to do, and nothing but
personal integrity could ever win her regard.
Mercy was a tall, delicate-looking, gentle child,
with. a thoughtful heart, a willing mind, and a
ready skill, that far more than compensated for




TIHE LITTLE COM F D RTER.


135


her lack of strength; and now that for the first
tilme in nine years the farm was left without a
nmalid, widow Jones and Mlercy both came in to
lhelp. It might have been supposed that these
tw o helpers would prove equal to zMolly's former
service, and so they might have been, but for Mrs.
Smith's apprehensions on Mercy's behalf: " I-Iere,
give that to me, girl," she would continually say,
taking thle work friom Mercy's hands, and finishing
it up wvith equal energy aind seven-fold power;
then, adding kindly, "It's not, as I say, because
you have not the notion, but because you have not
the strength!"  While to her husband Mrs. Smith
was constantly declaring, "Slave as I may, I am
sure that girl will be overdone! she is too willing,
and the work's beyond hler, and an orphan as she
is-I wish enough I could meet with some one I
should not always be aftaid to put upon!" Many
girls came and offired themselves, but -Mrs. Smith
declared that there was not so much as one among
them who had any righ4t to the name of a servant;
she could tell that without any need of a trial!
All this time, while vexing over Mercy's toil, overworkillg her own strength, and objecting to every
girl wvllo came before her, Mrs. Smlitlh never named
the absent AIolly; in all the vexatious trouble she
daily made for herself, she cast no fiesh censure,n Molly, and could Mlolly have seen her mistress's
real feeling, the probability would have been her




136  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


instant return to offer her services again; but
pride lay between Mrs. Smith's heart and her lips,
and kent her continually back from the confessions
that would have led to peace in her family, instead
of strife and debate.
All through the years of which we have been
speaking, Patience had lived on in her place of
service with the family of Mr. Mansfield's foreman; but her master and mistress had for some
time felt that the increasing expenses of their
growing family were putting a servant beyond
their means: and a still stronger reason for doing
without one lay in the good sense of these excellent parents, who felt that the best way of teaching their children diligence and method in accomplishing work, would be to bring them up to get
well through all that their own home required.
But how to send Patience away was the painful
part; and month after month, then week after
week, her dismissal was delayed, till at last the
foreman's wife said, " Well, I cannot help it, she
has worked like a child for me, and you must tell
her, for I can't; you hired her, she knows, and so
it will come natural to her!" It was very seldom
ihat the good woman's resolution failed her, but
now it did; and her husband's mild firmness caine
in to the rescue of their home lprinciples. He told
Patience, quietly and decidedly, that he felt the
time had come when his girls must do all the work




THE LITTLE COMFORTER.


137


of the house; that both he and his wife valued
her faithful services, and still more the example
she had set their children; he said she had earned
what was better than any wages-the lasting regard of those sle had served! and he told her to
come to his house, as a home always open to her,
while she maintained the same character she had
earned in his family. The colour left the cheek of
Patience, and she could not speak; her master
added kindly, that they should not think of part.
ing with her till she met with a comfortable place,
therefore she need feel no anxiety on that subject,
and then left her. When Patience returned to
her mistress and the children, her tears broke
forth, her good mistress cried also, and the children cried; but her mistress making an effort said
cheerfuly, " Come, child, its not for you to fret,
you have done your duty here, and your reward
will follow; you are only going to make more
friends, and not to lose those you leave behind;
so cheer up, and be as busy as you can; that's the
best cure for low spirits of most kinds!" So Patience tried, but the spring of her work was gone,
she worked well as before, but it was the work of
habit and principle, not the energy of life; and
often through her heart a faintness passed as she
felt the home was hers no longer; she must wander
out again into the world her childhood found so
rough! and thoughts of her early life, and of her
VOL. II.12*




138  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


first ilace of service, came back with a sinking
weight on her spirit.
Having spoken to Patience, her master now
named the subject to his employer, Mr. Mansfield,
and Mr. Mansfield promised to name it to some of
his best customers; among the first of these, on
the next day, being market-day, was farmer Smith.
" It's no use to ask you, Mr. Smith, whether
you want a servant-girl, for yours knows the value
of her plade, it seems, too well to leave it!"
" Ah, she is gone at last!" replied farmer Smith,
gravely. "Yes, hers was nine years of honest
service; she earned her wages fairly enough, but
she is gone at last!"
" Well, then, I can find you just such another!
my foreman here, like a wise man, is giving up
servant-keeping; and he wants a place, he says,
for one of the best girls who ever called herself a
servant."
At this the foreman came forward and talked
with farmer Smith, and Mr. Mansfield waited on
his other customers.
Now Mrs. Smith had often said that she would
rather by far teach a girl farm-work and farmways from the beginning, than have one who
thought herself clever at everything! So farmer
Smith went home, thinking he had met with the
very girl most likely to satisfy his wife; but Mrs.
Smith was not in a mood to be satisfied with any'




THE LITTLE COMFORrER.


139


thing or anybody, and only replied to farmer
Smith's pleasant description: "And what's the
use of a girl that never stirred from the town, and
knows only town ways, out here in the country?"
"( Why, a good servant is a good servant!" replied Mr. Smith; "and as for our ways, why, she
can learn the country ways I suppose as well as
she learned the town ways-if she has a mind to
them!"
" But it is not in the least likely she would have
a mind to them; girls who have been used to the
town never settle in country places like this; she
had a thousand times better stay where she is!"
said Mrs. Smith.
Farmer Smith found it was hopeless to urge the
point, so he drolpped the subject. On the next
market-day he made one more attempt, asking
Mrs. Smith if she would not like to go in and just
see the girl? but MIrs. Smith replied that she could
judge about it quite as well without having to go
seven miles to come to an opinion! so farmer
Smith took his drive to the town alone. He called
at Mr. Mansfield's shop, and requested the foreman to wait one week longer for his answer, which
he readily consented to do, as he thought the place
must be a good one where the last servant had re.
mained nine years; farmer Smith's character also
stood very high; and Patience was quite willing
to go. "Moreover," the foreman added, "my




140  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


opinion is, that the girl will settle all the better a
little distance fiom my wife and children, of whom
she is wonderfully fond!" So farmer Smith, very
anxious to secure a good girl for his wife and
home, waited for the forlorn hope of Mirs. Smith's
change of feeling by another market-day.
The week passed by: every girl who applied
for the place was pronounced by Mrs. Smith to be
as unfit as could be, and the last person she would
think of engaging with! while slhe still vexed at
having no servant to do the work, and protested
that Mercy would be ill with overdoing-but
farmer Smith heard it all in perfect silence. The
next market-day arrived, but farmer Smith asked
no questions; he prepared as usual for market;
when, just as with hat and whip he was leaving
the house, Mrs. Smith followed him and said,
"There is not the least use in the world in my
going all that way after a girl that is not likely to
come, or to stay if she did come; but if she has
a mind to come after the place herself, why, that's
another thing."
"When would you like her to come then?"
inquired farmer Smith, " supposing she is willing?"
" Why, the sooner the better! I am sure I amr
in a fidget about that child Mercy, every day of
my life; it's a wonder that she is not overset already,
and I also, with the work of such a place as this
I P




THE LITTLE COMFORTER.


141


Farmer Smith stepped quietly into his gig and
drove off. In the evening he returned with Patience seated beside him.
" What have you been after now?" exclaimed
Mrs. Smith, in dismay, calling farmer Smith aside
privately; " that's just the way with you, never
giving one time to turn round, you think a thing
is no sooner said than it can be done! I never
meant the girl to come for good till I had seen
her!"
" Well, wife," replied farmer Smith quietly,
"there is no harm done, the girl could not make
her way out here alone; if you don't fancy her,
Jem can drive her back in the light cart after tea
-or you can keep her a week on trial, both her
mistress and the girl were willing either way."
Hearing this, Mrs. Smith was somewhat pacified,
and she went out to receive Patience who stood
waiting at the door. There stood Patience, a
stout strongly-built young woman, with a fresh
colour and a pleasant face, her dress neatness itself
When she saw her expected mistress, Patience
made a low curtsey, such as she had been used to
make in her school days in the town, and she
stood silently before Mrs. Smith.  Now  Mrs.
Smith was not naturally without kindness of
heart; it was pride and selfishness which she
had suffered to grow within her unrestrained, that
blinded her to the feelings of others; but when




142  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


she saw a stranger girl before her, one of whom
she heard so good a character, her natural kindness rose unimpeded, she received her with a welcome, and said as she had come so far, and had
brought her things with her, she had at all events
better stay the week.
Patience rose the next morning almost at break
of day, she opened her little window and wondered at the fragrance of the air; she looked over
the land, and while she sighed for the sleeping
children far away, and the cheerful call of her
mistress's kind, quick tone that could not reach
her now-while she sighed for these, she felt that
she could love those pleasant fields better far than
the town, and that if she could but bring her
master's family to her, she should never wish for
the town again: but then the feeling of a stranger
in a strange place came over her, and she could
only turn from the window to commit herself in
prayer to Him who is the stranger's God. As
soon as Patience heard her mistress moving, she
left the room, and, greatly to the surprise of Mrs.
Smith, her new maid stood before her at five
o'clock in the morning, in her neat gown of dark
blue with short sleeves, and a stout apron-as fit
for farm-house work as for any other. There was
about Patience a quietness of look and manner
that made a striking contrast with her active
figure and step, quick without haste, and quiet




THE LITTLE COMFORTER.


143


without dulness; it might be that the exterior of
her early sorrow had never been quite effaced, but
left its gentle shade upon her life's after vigour
and brightness. There was also a propriety of
manner about Patience, that could not fail to produce a pleasing impression; and a readiness of
attention, and willingness of movement, that made
it no effort to tell her to do anything-while her
thoughtful care more frequently prevented the
need of her being told. Mrs. Smith's quick eye
soon read these qualifications; and the consequence
was, she instantly made up her mind that Patience
would consider herself too good for the place, and
would be certain not to stay; but still as she felt
her deserving of attention, she put her in the way
of farm-house work, giving her daily instruction
in milking and other peculiarities of the diary.
Patience was very grave, for her heart was still
in her last place, she was always finding herself
back again in thought with those she had left;
and Mrs. Smith failed not to set this down as discontent. c' But, surely," said farmer Smith, " the
girl does everything in as pleasait a way as can
be done, and what would you have more?"
"Oh, that's only by way of keeping up her
character!" replied Mrs. Smith, " you will see she
will never stay a day beyond her week; I am sure
she will never come down to the place, her man.
ners are above it 1"




144  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


Mrs. Smith did not know that she had one be.
neath her roof who had been humbled in sorrow's
bitter school; one whose heart no money could
win, but which affection's power or feeling's claim
could bind to any service; so she made up her
mind that Patience would consider herself above
the place and go; and she said it was very hard
to have nothing before her but teaching the same
things over and over again to a dozen girls one
after another, for she was sure the place would
never suit this girl, and it was not likely she would
find a girl in a hurry that would suit her! Farmer
Smith heard in silence.
The end of the week came; Patience said nothing, so Mrs. Smith expressed her opinion in a few
words.
" Well, girl, you have done full as well as any one
might expect; but of course the place is not one to
suit you, any one can see that; so I can only wish
you a better  We will make out a way to get
you back to your friends." Patience looked up in
surprise, and the colour deepened in her cheeks;
"I have no wish to leave the place, ma'am," she
replied, "if I could suit you; I am not likely to
find a better."
Mrs. Smith was now more surprised than Patience had been, and not altogether pleased at
finding herself mistaken; for Mrs. Smith always
felt a secret satisfaction in seeing her predictions




THE LITTLE COMFORTER.


145


fulfilled, even though she considered the events to
be evil. Happily Patience had said that she did
not think herself likely to find a better place, and
this single expression of feeling from a heart in
which pride had no indulgence, went far to relieve
the involuntary annoyance Mrs. Smith felt at finding her own impression a wrong one. So Patience
stayed.
But fiom the day on which Mrs. Smith looked
upon Patience as really her servant, she began her
usual tone of harsh auth)rity. Patience was
neither slow to learn, nor fiequent in forgetting;
but the dread of her mistress's voice made her
painfizlly anxious about every possible thing that
could be expected of her; and the dull heavy look
of her childhood began to steal over and shadow
the pleasant expression of her face. She would
sometimes watch little Tim in the farm-yard by
the side of his father, or talking with Jem, and she
would think that child seemed the only one that
she could love; but he was seldom within, always
running away as soon as possible from his mother's
harsh voice; he was a favourite with all the labourers, and they would do anything to please
him; but Jem was his chief friend; from the time
that William had left, he had taken to Jem-as if
he considered him to be most like his lost brother,
and no one could so easily wake the clear tones
of his merry laugh as honest Jem: he would ride
VoL. n.-13




146  MIN ISTERI.NG H CHILDREN.


on his shoulders, wander down to find him with
the sheep, share his homely food, and now that
Rose was away, he would get to him whenever he
could. Poor Patience used to watch the child,
and wish that he would turn to her as he did to
Jemn; but Molly was still fresh in the memory of
little Tim, and he scarcely looked at Patience. So
Patience felt more and more desolate, while closer
round her heart pressed the warm memories of the
home she had left.
While things were in this state, Jem, who had
been sent on an errand to the town, came into the
back-kitchen to have some food on his return; it
was evening, and Patience was sitting there alone.
Jem had often observed her disconsolate look, and
it hurt his kind and honest heart to see so little
comfort for her; and now as he sat on the backkitchen bench cutting his bread and meat with his
great pocket-knife, he ventured a remark: " Living
out here in the country, I take it, doesn't suit you
like down there in the town?"
" No, it's very different!" replied Patience; and
there was silence again.
"You seem hard done up in your thoughts,"
again observed Jem; "I hope you haven't happened with any misfortune!"
" No, not exactly that," Patience slowly replied;
and then, encouraged by Jemn's friendly tone, and
not less by the expression of his honest face, which




TIHE LITTLE COMFORTER.


147


she had seen most days since she had been at the
farm, she went on to say, "I was thinking how
little wages I could do with! I think I could do
with less than my last mistress would have liked
to offer me; only then I remembered there's the
food-and one must eat if one's to live!"
Jem had no skill in arithmetic, and could not
render much aid in such a calculation; but he had
a far quicker estimate, perhaps, than many an
arithmetician, of the heart's joys and sorrows, and
he came in with his friendly aid at the root of the
matter. "Are you after a change then?" he
asked.
"Well," replied Patience, " I was thinking if I
could get back anyhow where I came from; I
would rather live there on dry bread, than here,
where nobody has a care for one, on any wages!"
"But," answered Jem, "they said you could
not hold the place, because the family gave up
servant-keeping?"
" So they did," said Patience, " and I'm afraid
they would not take me back if I could go without wages; only I can't help thinking about it!"
" Vell, now," said Jem, " take my advice; you
will never do yourself or others a straw's worth
of good, thinking on what cannot be; and don't
be downhearted here; mistress is hasty I know,
but I have served her from a child, and if once you
get right with her, you will never have a trouble




148  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


from her again. She is always for thinking every
one will go wrong till she finds they go no way
but right; once let her get persuaded of that, and
she would not believe the whole world if they
stood out against you! I know it's hard in the
coming, and she has been put out of late more
than common one way or another; and the last
maid could not put up with it, nor wait for things
to work round again, so she left; but only you keep
right on as you have begun, and you will be sure
to find things mend in good time!"
This conversation was the first encouragement
poor Patience had had; it eased her spirit also to
have been able to speak on the subject, and for a
time she went more cheerfully on. But the same
harsh tone, the same cold short manner, met her
every effort, and after a while she lost heart again,
and began to think she must give up, and try to
find some other place. But where could she turn?
She had no opportunity, so far fiom the town, of
making inquiry; and she was ashamed to write to
her mistress, and say she could not stay in the
place she had been so glad to secure for her. She
was sitting at her needle on the low chair in the
back-kitchen, and as she thought on these things
her tears fell on her work. Little Tim had come,
unperceived by her, to the back-door, and as he
stood there looking in, he saw Patience crying.
The sight touched his heart, for little Tim was no




PATIENCE AND LITTIE TIM.


Ministering Children.              Vol. II, p. 148.
i
i
-.-.... -.  -.. —.-   ^-.,. J~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~








THE LITTLE COMFORTER.


149


stranger to tears, especially since Rose had been
away; so he came up to Patience, and said in his
kindest little voice, " What for you kie?"
"Because no one here loves me!" said Patience.
" I will love you!" said little Tim, putting his
hand upon her cheek, and then, when Patience
still cried, slipping his arm around her neck, he
said again, " I will love you very much, don't kie
any more!"
Patience clasped her arms round the child, and
laid her head one moment on his little shoulder,
as he stood beside her, and sobbed; then looking
up, she made an effort and wiped away her tears,
and said, "If you love me, then I will not cry!"
From that time little Tim seened to feel that it
depended upon him to keep Patience from crying;
he would often come and look at her from the
back-kitchen door, and when she was alone would
stay beside her and talk to her; and the heart of
poor Patience grew content in her place —because of the love and care of that one little ministering child.
Rose had now been more than two months
away, and they had proved happy months for her.
Her uncle met her in London-a grave and silent
person, of whom Rose felt afraid; but her aunt's
kind face, and her cousins' warm greeting, soon
VOL. II.-13*




150  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


mnade her at home among them. She found every
one of them full of occupation; but each one
seemed ready for her, and always able to find her
a help and comfort. She helped her cousins tend
their poultry, and make the summer preserveslearning many things unknown in her home. She
helped themn in their garden, where she learned
froin thelm to bud roses, prune trees, and as the
summer advanced, to distil rose-leaves and herbs.
She helped them in their work-she learned to cut
out and make by herself garments for the poor;
and often while she worked with them, one read
aloud, and Rose learned more of general knowledge in that visit, than in all her young life before. Here she heard histories of Missions, all
new to her; and read of other countries also new
and strange to her. Shle sat by her cousins while
they taught the village children in the school, till
at last they made her take a little class of her own;
this gave new interest and delight to Rose, and
she thought it would be as hard to leave the little
children of her class as it would to leave anything.
She wondered how she could have lived so long
without knowing and loving relations so dear to
her now! but the distance had been great between
them. Still Rose often thought of her home, and
longed to see it again, though she did not like to
think of leaving her aunt and cousins far away.
But when the harvest-time came, and Rose was




THE LITTLE COMFORTER.


151


expecting to return, a letter arrived to say that
little Tim was ill with a dangerous fever, and the
letter asked that Rose might still remain at her
uncle's house, for fear of her taking the fever if
she returned. This was unexpected sorrow for
Rose-little Tim, whom she loved so much,
dangerously ill, and she could not nurse, or comfort, or see him! Poor Rose was overwhelmed
with grief, but she had those around her now who
knew how to comfort; they loved her more tenderly in her sorrow than they had done before,
and they reminded her to whom to look-even to
the Saviour who can comfort any heart that turns
to Him.
Little Tim lay in his cot at home, and the doctor
said that his life wnas in danger. Now a real trial
was come to Mrs. Smith at last; she had long been
making troubles for herself and others, but trouble
was come now, and she felt it was; and all that
before she had made so much of was forgotten.
Day and night she watched by the cot of little
Tim; he did not like to lie in her arms when restless-he seemed uneasy there, and cried for Rose
when his mother took him; so, weeping, she would
lay him back upon his pillow, and sit long hours
and watch beside him. As she sat there, a sense
of the past came over her-a sense of years of
harshness and ill-temper; of peace destroyed by
her, and sorrow made for others; she thought, too,




152  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


of how the child had always seened glad to slip
away from her, as if uneasy in her presence; and
she looked down on his burning cheek and felt as
if it would kill her to see him die. Patience too
would watch beside the cot while widow Jones
did her work below-and it seemed to ease the
heavy grief of Mrs. Smith to have her there. The
men were constantly inquiring for the child, and
Jem was always waiting about the house, when
possible, helping his mother do the work, and
asking of all who came fiom the room how the
child seemed now?
Mrs. Smith was leaning over the cot, and Patience kneeling beside it, when little Tim called,
"Rose! Rose! Come to Tim!      Come now!"
"What do you want, my darling?" said Mrs.
Smith, "I will do it for you!" " I want to puay,"
said little Tim, " and Rose can teach me, I forget
it now!" Mrs. Smith was silent.
" Mother, can you puay?" asked little Tim.
Mrs. Smith hid her face and wept, she felt she
could not pray; she had never taught her child,
and she could not teach him now, he could think
of nothing!
" Can you pulay, Patens?" asked little Tim, in
his anxiety. " Yes, dear, I do pray for you."
" Oh then you can teach it to me! I forget it all
now!" said little Tim, and he joined his hands to.
gether in act of prayer.




THE LITTLE COMFORTER.


153


Patience repeated the prayer she had taught to
little Esther in her last place, and Tim, quite satistied, repeated it after her.
" Can you say my texes too?" asked little Tim.
Patience made a guess, and said, "Suuffer the
little children to come unto Me, and forbid them
not, for of such is the kingdom     of Heaven," it
proved quite right, and little Tim added, " I can
say my other, 'Speak, Lord, for thy servant
heareth.'"
"Now    I can say my hymn," said little Tim,
"that Rose did teach me!" and looking up with
folded hands he repeated in his broken utterance"Lord, look upon a little child,
By nature sinful, rude, and wild;
0 put Thy gracious hands on me,
And make me what I ought to be.
"Make me Thy child-a child of God,
Washed in my Saviour's precious blood;
And my whole heart from sin set free,
A little vessel full of Thee.
"A star of early dawn and bright,
Shining within Thy sacred light;
A beam of grace to all around;
A little sp4o of hallowed ground.
"Lord Jesus, take me to Thy breast,
And bless me that I may be blest;
Both when I wake, and when 1 sleep,
Thy little lamb in safety keep."




154


MINISTERING CHILDREN.


And then, quite satisfied, he said, "Mother,
don't kie any more-Patens can teach it me all!"
and turning his cheek on his pillow, he fell peacefully asleep
Day and night Mrs. Smith repeated to herself,
and tried to keep in her memory continually, the
prayer that Patience had said for little Tim, in the
hope that he would ask her again to teach himbut he never appealed to his mother any more;
when he woke fiom sleep, if he had his senses, his
first look was for Patience, and with folded hands
he waited for her to teach him "how to pray!"
"Does it hurt you very much, dear?" asked
Patience, as she helped Mrs. Smith to dress a blister on the child's head. " No, nothing hurts me
now!" said little Tim. And he soon after drew
his last breath, and died.
It was grief for all: but the mother's heart was
broken up; she took to her bed, the fever that had
taken little Tim fiom  Earth came upon her,
and her mind wandered in sorrowful delirium.
Patience was her devoted nurse; while widow
Jones sometimes gave Patience a little rest fiom
the sick-room, or ]lelped her in it, and at other
times did what she could of the work below, with
Jem to aid.
"I see it now!" said Mrs. Smith, when for a
short time her senses returned, "I see it all now,
it is rilght I should be left to die! I turned fiomn




THE LITTLE COMFORTER.


155


our young Minister who would have taught me
how to live; and now death is come, and I see
plain enough that I am not ready to meet it!"
" Don't you think the Minister would come, if
he was asked?" said Patience, to widow Jones.
'"What's the use of it?" asked widow Jones,
" she is scarcely a moment reasonable, and she has
been so set against him, it might be too much for
her now!"
Widow Jones had seen their aged Minister sent
for to the dying; but he had never unlocked the
exhaustless treasury of the love of God in Jesus
Christ for his own heart-therefore he knew not
how to dispense its balm of Life, its soothing peace
to others: widow Jones had never seen the servant
of the most High God, the faithfuil Minister of the
truth as it is in Jesus, draw near in his Master's
name to the dying bed where hope was not-this
she had never seen, and so knowing only what she
had seen, she only replied, "What's the use?"
But Patience was not to be so easily satisfied;
she waited awlile, and then she went to her
master: "My poor mistress keeps lamenting so,"
she said, " to think how she turned from  the
Minister! Don't you think he would come to see
her if you asked him, sir?"
Farmer Smith stood silent, " It's a hard case!"
he replied, "I am sure I don't know; I have been
ashamed to meet him for ever so long now, and




156  MINISTERING CHILDhEN.


it's more than a year since he has been into the
house-your poor mistress was so set against him;
and now such a fever as it is,-and her senses
gone-I don't know that I dare to ask it!"
" May I go, sir, and just tell him the state my
poor mistress is in, and hear if he would please to
come?"
" But," said farmer Smith, " it might overset
her, so bad as she is, and then if she were worse,
I should have to answer for it-I dare not engage
with it!"
So Patience returned to the sick chamber. The
sun was setting in the autumnal evening, she sat
down by the window and looked into the glowing
sky, and thought of little Tim-the thought was
sad, yet full of peace. Lost in the feeling, she
watched the sun's decline behind the purple clouds;
then looking down below again, she saw a distant
figure crossing the pasture in the valley; it was
the Curate! could he indeed be coming to the
farm? or would he take the road that led to the
cottages by the wood? Patience watched, breathless between hope and fear! He crossed the farmstile, he turned to the bridge over the \book, and
then began to ascend the green slope-he was
coming indeed! Patience ran down, farmer Smith
was still within; he hastened out to meet his visi.
tor, and Patience returned to see that all was in
readiness above.




THE LITTLE COMFORTER.


157


"I am grieved to hear of your heavy trials,"
said the Curate, as he entered the b,':se with
farmer Smith. " I was absent at the death of
your child, and only now heard on my return, of
the illness of your wife. I thought she might be
willing to see me; but if not, I hope I may be
permitted to speak a word of comfort to you."
"I am sure, sir, it is more than I could have
expected!" said farmer Smith, hardly able to
speak fiom overburdened feeling.
"It is a dark and cloudy day for you!" said
the Curate. "A storm has burst upon you! but
you remember how after the storm the bow is set
in the cloud for all who will look above to the
hand that smites them-the storm has come, and
now we must look up, and wait and watch in
prayer and faith, for the rainbow of promise and
comfort! Will your wife be able and willing to
see me?"
Mr. Smith went to the sick room, and returned,
saying, " She is not sensible, sir, and I am afraid
it is but putting you into danger."
"Oh, I am not afraid of that!" replied the
Curate, — if you are willing I should go; we
may pray for her, and more may be known by her
than you think."
" Well, then, sir, if you please!" said farmer
Smith. And the feet of the publisher of peace,
the bringer of good tidings, entered the chamber
VOL. r[.-14




158   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


of sickness and sorrow. He stood a moment by
the bed and looked upon the poor unconscious
sufferer, then saying, "Let us pray," he knelt
down beside the bed, while farmer Smith and Patience knelt also.
"   God of the spirits of all flesh, Thou who
art a just God, and yet a Saviour, hear us, we beseech Thee, in the prayer which we offer up through
Thy Son Jesus Christ, for the body and soul of
this sick woman. In Thy most merciful Iands
are the issues of life and death: O suffer not the
king of terrors to destroy, but raise her up, we
beseech Thee, that she may live in Thy sight. O
spare her, most merciful Lord, now that Thou hast
dug with Thy chastening Hand to her roots; O
spare her, we pray Thee, yet another year, to see
if she may not now bear fruit to Thy honour and
praise and glory! Open Thou her ear, good Lord,
to hear Thy still small voice in this hour of tribulation: open Thou her eyes, to behold the Lamb of
God who taketh away all sin: open Thou her
heart, to receive Him whom Thou hast sent to
seek and to save that which was lost. As Thou
hast ploughed up her soul with affliction, O cast
in the precious seed of Thy word, and so water it
with Thy grace and nourish it with Thy blessing,
that it may bring forth fruit unto life eternal.
And cause, we beseech Thee, the doctrine of Thy
grace and the word of Thy lips to distil as the dew




TILE LITTLE COMFORTER.


159


at this time upon the parched spirit of this poor
sufftrer, tllat she ilay knov the power of its Ilcavenly refrieslilme!nt. We ask all for His sake -whose
precious blood cleanseth from all sin, and whose
Spiirit quickeneth the dead, even Jesus Christ our
Lord. Amen."
Then, sitting down beside the bed, the Minister
repeated softly and slowly, " Come unto me all
ye thatt labour and are heavy laden, and 1 will
give you rest."  " Come now, and let us reason
together, saith the Lord; though your sins be as
scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though
they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool."
" The blood of Jesus Cliriist cleanseth firom all sin."
"Look unto Me, and be ye saved, all the ends
of the earth; for I am God, and there is none
else."  "Ask, and it shall be given you; seek,
and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened
unto you; for every one that asketh, receiveth;
and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that
knocketh it sh-all be opened." The words, the
tone of peace, seemed to soothe the sufiferer-she
lay still and composed. The Minister said fervently, " The Lord bless thee and keep thee; the
Lord make His face to shine upon thee, and be griacions unto thee; the Lord lift up the light of His
countenance upon thee, and give thee peace!"
And then he left the room.
The Curate talked longr with farmer Smith below,




160   MINISTEPTNG CHILDREN.


who found, to his surprise, that there was no re.
sentment at the conduct poor Mrs. Smith had
shown towards him; he only spoke the words and
breathed the spirit of sympathy, and counsel, and
comfort. Oh, what a weight wNas lifted that evening from the heart of farmer Smith! The opposition expressed and shown in his home, had kept
him back from venturing to speak to the Curate;
but now he had been seated with him in his owa
parlour without fear, and there had been able to
utter the long pent-up and hidden feelings of his
heart. How the father thought of his little Rose,
as he returned with thankfulness and peace to his
kitchen!
"Patience, child, is it you?" said Mrs. Smith
that evening, when the light of day had faded,
and the candle was lit. " Patience, child, is it
you? I hardly seem to know where I am, and
yet I think I am better! I have had such a Heavenly dream-I thought I was carried, all so bad
as I am, in my bed to the church, and there I saw
the new Minister again! Oh, howv it seemed to
give me hope, for I thought I had turned away
from him, and now I should never be suffered to
see him any more! I thought he stood up, but
he seemed to speak only to me, and to look down
at none but me, and he preached about " rest!"
and it seemed as if he came with the message for
me, straight from the God above; and t en 1




THE LITTLE COMFORTER.


161


thought I looked round for little Tim to hear the
sweet words too, but he was not there, and then I
remembered he was gone! but still it did not seem
to strike me down as the thought of him did before, for I seemeed to know that he was gone to
that " rest" that the Minister was preaching
about. Oil, how it did ease me to hear our new
Minister again! Patience, child, do you think I
shall ever be able to get to the church any more,
before I am carried to my grave?"
" O yes, dear mistress, I do think you will live,
by God's mercy; and that was not all a dream
you had, it was part true, for the Minister has
been here to see you!"
" The Rector?"
No, the Curate himself! and oh, I feel sure
since he came and prayed for your life, and your
pardon, and peace, that God will give it!"
" What! our Curate been here to see me!"
" Yes, and he stood up by the bed, and he said
those words, 'Come unto me, all ye that labour
and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest!'"
" Why, those are the very words I seemed to
hear him preach upon! Who could have thought
it I Do you think he will come again?"
"Yes, I am sure he will," replied Patience;
"and he will find you better when he does!"
The next day the Curate called again. Mrs.
Smith had been saved all anxiety of expectation —
VOL. ii.-14*




162  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


not thinking he would come so soon; she wad
much overcome at seeing him, saying to him,
Ohl, sir, I thought I should never have seen you
again!"
"My Master has sent me to comfort all who
mourn," said the Minister, " and I hope by His
grace to be able to comfort you!"
" Oh, sir, I don't know, but I fear not, I fear
my comfort is dead, and I dying myself!"
"The Lord my God," said the Minister, "is one
who quickeneth the dead! I-e can not only
restore you, but comfort you also!"
" Ah, sir, I fear you don't know how bad I have
been! I was set against your preaching from the
first, because you said there was but one way for
all, and you invited the worst of sinners to come
and try that way, and it hurt my pride-I thought
they were not fit to be put so along with me! but
now I have seen that I am not fit to be put with
them, for I am the worst of all!"
" I have then a message for you," said the Minister, "you have often heard it before, but now
that God is chastening and teaching you, you will
be able to understand its meaning, and I trust to
receive its comfort. 'If we say that we have no
sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in
us. If we confess our sins, God is faithful and
just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us fiom
all unrighteousness.' You see then there is for.




THE LITTLE COMFORTER.


163


giveness for you-pardon and peace with God,
through Jesus Christ our Lord, if confessing your
sins unto God, you look to the Saviour, whom
God has set forth to be a propitiation for sin."
Mrs. Smith listened to the words, and that truth
which before had been so bitter was now sweet to
her hungry soul. The visits of the minister were
her greatest comifort. Till at last fiom that sickbed, the tones of hope, and peace, and praise,
were heard: and the alwvays pleasant but now
softened smile of Mrs. Smith would fall on those
who watched beside her; and on Patience it fell
with something of a mother's feeling.
The evening hearth shone bright whlen Mrs.
Smith first came down to tea. Samson and Ted
had done their best to make all things cheerful
and full of comfort. Widow Jones had put away
into the parlour Tim's little chair-but the mother's
eye fell upon its vacant place. It was a long sad
lesson that mother's heart had still to learn; but,
sweetened by Heavenly mercy, and soothed by
Heavenly peace, the longest lesson will only the
more establish the heart, and root it the deeper in
faith, hope, and love.
The autumn passed away, but fear of infection
still made the anxious mother keep Rose from
home. At last all danger was considered over,
and the day was fixed for Rose to return; and her
two brothers, William and Joe, were to join hez




164    MINISTERING CHILDREN.
in London, and return with her. What a day of
expectation was that! Jem drove the horse in
the gig to the next village inn, where the coach
always stopped; then leaving it there, he walked
back, and the two brothers, with Rose in the gig
between them, drove home together. Far over
the now empty fields gleamed the light from the
farm-window, of the blazing logs heaped up by
Ted upon the fire; the mother in her gown of
black, sat in her chair beside it; the tea was prepared, and the pile of buttered toast, which
Samson made in Rose's absence. Patience had an
extra baking, with Widow Jones to help, and all
her skill could do was added to the prepared
reception. Patience had never seen Rose as yet,
and her heart trembled at thought of the one for
whom the dying child had called, returning to the
home where he was not! But in they came, Rose
first. "' Mother! oh, mother!" said the child, and
her mother held her, long-pressed in her close
embrace-as if fearing that she too might pass
away from her sight like little Tim! Then in
came William and Joe, with their tender and
gentle greeting; and with softened feeling on
every face, and deeper love in every heart, the
circle, from which one had been taken, drew round
to their evening meal.




IX.


dUe      oaunq      Squire's      tefurn.
Enthroned upon a hill of light,
A heavenly minstrel sings;
And sounds unutterably bright,
Spring from the golden strings.
Who would have thought so fair a form
Once bent beneath an earthly storm.
Tur   winter passed peacefully away at the farm.
There was a hush about the place-a shadow evi.
dently hung above it, the former active bustle of
the house went on more quietly; but it was a
stillness that told of greater depth, a shade beneath
which the best feelings of the heart strengthened
and grew. The look of anxiety which used so
often to cross the young and blooming face of
Rose, as she feared in time past, her lnother's
hasty feeling at every fiesh proposal or event, had
passed away; yet was hel      brightness blended
with a quietness, that told the sense of something
gone-which steadied     the light spirits of her
happy youth; steadied but did not sadden-for
she shared the happiness of little Tim; and she
often sung aloud the first verse of one of Mercy's
hymns —
(165)




166  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


"There is beyond the sky
A Heaven of joy and love:
And holy children when they die,
Go to that world al ove!"
And though her mother never noticed it in words,
yet did she often listen to the low tones as lRose
sang on to herself; listened in fear lest the sweet
sounds should cease; but happily Rose acquired
the habit, till she would begin and go on almost
unconsciously to herself. Sunday was now a day
of rest indeed; a day made holy and a delight by
the glad tidings of great joy, preached every Sabbath in the village church.
Patience had again found a home, and the heart
of her mistress cherished for her a deeper feeling than any tliat Patience had known in service
before. With Rose it was always pleasant to
work, or to speak; and when Patience discovered
the mutual fiiendship existing between Rose and
a variety of the living creatures upon the farm,
Patience took pattern, and trained her cows to an
intelligence that seemed to give promise of rivalling, in time, the very horses themselves!
In the following summer, to the delight of Rose,
her Derbyshire uncle and aunt and two of her
cousins came down, at Mrs. Smith's earnest request,
to make a visit at the farm. TIrs. Smith's brother
soon returned to his home, on account of his business; but he left his wife and daughters, who




THE YOUNG SQUIRE'S RETURN. 167


made a stay of six: weeks —to the comfort and
profit of Sirs. Smlith, the satisfaction and pleasure
of farmer Simith, and the ceaseless enjoyment of
Ilose. 'This intercourse tended to raise and enlarcge
M1rs. Smith's already softened and liightly-directed
feeling. And six weeks of so much peaceful er,.
joyinent had never been known before within the
far lll.
William and Joe obtained an early holiday this
year, and to their father's comfort and the pleasure
of all, they came down for the last fortnight of
the harvest-tinme.  Iow melrrily did Rose prepare
the harvest-calkes the last baking before their return, obtaining fioom  her mother's pleased and
willinrg hand a larger supply of plums-because
WVill and Joe would be aniong those to be fed
wvith the harvest-cakes! And though it was four
years since William had held a sickle, the reapers
declared that Master William might stand kin(g of
them, for all he had been up in London so long!
But it was only a fortnight-and the time drew
to its close. The fa.ther had felt again the comfort
of his eldest son at his side in the anxiety and joy
of hnarvest, anld his spirits sank at the approaching
separation.
"Do you see any    prospect of returning for
good?" asked the fithller a few evenings before
the la.st, as tleyv sat together, after supper,-the
younger boy-s having retired to rest.




168  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


" Well, father," said William, "I should wish to
do what I can for my brothers. Joe stands on
his own feet now; as for Ted I think I may leave
him to Joe, if you and mother consent to his going
to sea; Joe is'much more in the way than I am
of hearing of an opening in that line. But then
there's Samson, I don't know what you would
wish about him?  I am afraid he has not spirit
enough for a farmer."
"No," said the father; "but I would sooner
risk it, than have you stay away for him, till no
one knows when!"
" Well, I need not do that, father; for if you
thought he would do better in business, my uncle
made me an offer before I came down, to take him
on trial; and he might, I think, with his steady
head, make a good man of business. If you liked
him to come up to me this Christmias, I would see
the boy fairly into his work, and then in another
year I think I might hope to be a farmer again!"
It was agreed to give Samson leave to decide
for himself the next day. William said he could
never consent to bind down his brother to what
he had felt so much, unless Samson was inclined
for it himself; and Mrs. Smitllsaid slie should be
satisfied if the boy made his own choice. So the
next morning, after breakfast, the proposal was
made to Samson. lie waited a minute in grave
consideration, then said with a deliberate tone



THE YOtUNG SQUIRE'S RETURN. 169


" I should wish to come and see the place sometimes; but for the rest-I would as soon be up
there as down here!"
Mrs. Smith looked out of the window, and tears
started to her eyes.
"Never mind, mother," said William in a low
voice, "there's many a heart wakes up from its
home, that lay fast asleep in it!" But Mrs. Smith
made no reply; she felt again the refluent wave of
bitter memory, reminding her how little she had
done to call forth and bind the hearts of her children to their home-their mother's dwelling-place!
Yet William seemed as if he could love no other;
but it might be only his father and the place he
cared for! it was always for his father Joe talked
of earning money! little Tim had seemed uneasy
with her! and now Samson cared not whether he
went or stayed! Oh, how bitterly around the
heart flows sin's returning tide! But then back
to the mother's memory came the first utterance
of Rose on her return-the first words half smothered by her feeling, " Mother! oh, mother!" and
looking round, as if to see whether the child who
breathed them were still hers, she met the earnest
eyes of Rose-bent in their full and tenderest ex
pression upon her, as if only one thought were in
her heart, and that one, how her mother would
bear the decision for Samson to go! It was
enough; the mother felt one child to be at least a gift
VOL. n.-16




170  MINISrERING CHILDREN.


from HIeaven to her-a gift most undeserved; and
her strengthened heart was ready to endure in
patience and in hope; and to wait the influence of
her now better feelings on all around. So it was
decided for Samson to go.
Ted had stood by in breathless attention, while
the fate of his brother was deciding; but the moment it was fixed for Samson to go, and farmer
Smith had taken his hat and was gone out to his
men, Ted exclaimed, "And what's going to be
done with me? I mean to go to sea! Joe said he
would find me a ship, and if he does not, I shall
just run away and find one for myself!"
"t eyday!" answered William, "I shall look
after Rover's old chain! How do you think you
are to climb a mast?"
" I will just show you!" said Ted, springing into
his tall brother's arms, then on his shoulder, his
merry face looking down at his brother's as he
asked, " Is not that something like it?"
"Well done!" answered William, " but there
are no friendly arms on ship-board, I warn you!"
"Just you come off, then," said Ted, " and see
me climb the barn-roof: I can do it all over! And
if you and father don't find me a ship, I will find
one for myself!"
"I tell you what, my little man," said William,
stopping suddenly short, as Ted was leading him
to the barn, " I sblll not go a step far'-her, nor see




THE YOUNG SQUIRE'S RETURN. 171


you climb, till you have listened to me." So sitting down on a cart-shaft that rested on the
ground, he made a prisoner of the impatient boy,
and began his discourse.
" Now, Ted, I tell you what, if you talk so I
shall expect to hear that you fall down from the
barn-roof and kill yourself, before ever you see
your ship!"
" Well, but I want to go to sea,-and father
said I should,-and father never said Samson wag
to go to London,-yet he is to go, and I am not!
" I would not have Samson in London if I could
not trust him," replied William; " and if you
were only a runaway-who would trust you?
You must try to earn a ship, and then I have nol
the least doubt but we shall find you one, and then
you will go on board to serve like a man, and not
like a runaway slave!"
" But why may I not go now? I can never
earn it, so it is not any use to try; and I can climb
well enough, and tllat's all a sailor wants to
know!"
" Yes, but you can earn it, and you will not be
happy in it if you do not earn it!" said William.
" How can I earn it?"
"By trying to do your duty now-being a comfort while you are at home; and learning all you
possibly can to make you worth taking on board
%hip."




172  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


"1But I tell you I can climb-and that is all a
Bailor want's to know."
"If you think so, you are very much mistaken,
and it is a very happy thing for you that the
ship is not yet lying in the harbour waiting for
you."
yOU?1
" Why, what do I want to know more than
climbing?"
" What? why a sailor ought to know as many
things as any one! The very first voyage you go
you may be wrecked on some uninhabited island,
and wxshat use would you be then to yourself or to
any one?-Nothing better than a poor helpless
child! You must set to and learn the use of your
hands for something more than climbing - a
monkey can do that better than you already! but
you hope to be a man, and I hope so too, and you
must begin to act like one, and then I shall think
we may look out for your ship."
" But, Will, what must I learn?"
" Why, go off to old Lewis, the basket-maker
in the next village, and get him to teach you how
to twist the willow witliys, and don't you give
over till you can make mother a basket strong
enough to send her eggs to market in. And then
go to old master Newson, and help him to make
his wheels, and his barrows, and his carts. And
then you must take to thatching, and learn how to
bind a roof in dry-before you reckon yourself all




THE YOUNG SQUIRE'S RETURN. 173


ready for a life that may cast and leave you anywhere! And I advise you these next winter
evenings, to get Rose to teach you how to work
with a needle."
" So I will! and then, William, I can go to old
Dawson, I know there's plenty of room for me at
his stall, and I will be a cobbler, and mend and
make shoes,-what fun! I will make haste and
learn everything!"
c" Yes, to be sure," replied William, "and then
think of what use you might be! Why, you would
be the last man on board ship to be parted with,
if you could be of use for everything. And then,
Ted, do you think I have told you all you would
want to know?"
"I don't know," replied Ted, looking up, at
William's earnest tone.
"What if there came a storm at sea, and the
ship went down, and you went down to the bottom with it? do you think your spirit would rise,
like a little diver, and know its way to the Holy
Heaven-where Tim is gone to dwell?"
"Did Tim know the way?" asked Ted.
"Yes, don't you remember how he loved to
pray, and to learn and repeat the texts and hymns
Rose taught him, which tell of Jesus-Who is the
way to I-eaven?"
"Yes, I know that!" answered Ted.
"Then don't you think you will want to know
Voi u -15*




174  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


as much as little Tim knew, before you go on those
great deep waters? And suppose you should find
poor sailor boys, or men, who don't know the way
to Heaven -you could teach them; and that
knowledge would be the best of all, both for yourself and others.
" Yes, I dare say it might," replied Ted, "but
I don't see that I can learn that."
" Not of yourself alone, but if you really try
to learn, God will enable you both to know and
to love it. Little Tim learned from Rose; would
you like to go and see our Curate with me, and
for me to ask him to take you into his class of
boys, that you may learn that knowledge?"
" Yes, I should not mind that."
"Very well, then, we will go; and I think by
the time we have found the ship, you will be ready
for it, with knowledge to make you happy yourself, and a comfort and blessing, I trust, to others."
William returned with Joe to London, leaving
Ted full of spirit for his trades; and received
under the Curate's care, to learn that which hath
the promise, not only of the life that now is, but
of that which is to come. Ted inherited his
mother's energy, and, being a general favourite,
he found little difficulty in persuading the village
trades-people to teach him something of their skill
— some idea how their work was done, and their
tools handled; besides-a refusal was not very




THE YOUNG SQUIRE'S RETURN. 175


easily giver to one who had no idea of taking it.
The Curate, in his walk through the village, would
see his little scholar busy at the wheelwright's
side; or look down upon his merry face in the
cobbler's stall-intent with earnest gravity on
mending some worn-out boot. Samson went to
London at Christmas. And so passed away the
village winter.
Old Willy's health had long been visibly declining; there were those who thought the old man
would not see another spring, and not without
reason-for in the frost of February he took to
his bed, fiom which he never rose again. Widow
Jones was nurse, Mercy his comfort, and Jem his
earthly stay and dependence. Rose was often
sent by her mother with something warm from
the farm; and Mrs. Smith herself was not seldom
seen making her way to the old man's cottage.
Ted, to his own perfect satisfaction, had soled a
pair of old Willy's boots, for which Dawson, the
cobbler, said he should charge nothing, because
the work was none of his! so Ted carried them
home and set them down close by old Willy's bed
-ready for him as soon as he might be able to
get up; and from time to time the ministering
boy looked in to see whether the old man had yet
made trial of his new mended boots. But old
Willy had trod the rough path of the world to its
end; he had put off his shoes from his feet, and




176    MINISTERING CHILDREN.
lie needed to be shod no more, save with the preparation of the gospel of peace-which time and use,
so far from impairing, can only serve to strengthen
on the Ieavenward pilgrim's feet.
At the approach of spring, notice arrived at
the Hall, of the return of Mrs. Clifford and the
young Squire, and immediate preparations were
made. A request was sent that there should be
no demonstration of joy on their return; it was
to be as quiet and private as possible. The servants were to be arrayed in the garb of mourning;
and every circumstance to mark the event, not as
a family return, but as that of the widow and her
fatherless son. The day was not made known, in
order more effectually to prevent an assembling
of the people. Jem now watched with anxious
fear, lest the fast-waning life of old Willy should
depart before his long-cherished wish had been
granted-to see his young master again! Widow
Jones and Mercy had for some time kept watch
by day, and Jem slept in old Willy's room by
night. And still the feeble lamp of life burned
dimly on with that old man-as if no outward
circumstance now affected its slow and gentle expiring. Widow Jones and Mercy were in the
cottage, when at the sound of carriage-wheels
Mercy ran to the door. It was a travelling carriage, and there could be little doubt that it was
on its way to the Hall; but no one was visible




THE YOUNG SQUIRE'S RETURN. 177


within, no one looked out as it swiftly passed by
old Willy's door. Could it be the young Squire,
and the Lady of the Hall? Yes, Jem, when he
came in the evening, brought word that it was
said in the village they had arrived. Widow
Jones had sat up through the previous night, and
Jem was to keep watch through the first hours of
this-till his mother, after necessary rest, should
come and relieve him. The evening closed in, Jem
drew the little windowv-curtain, lighted the candle,
and opening the old man's Bible sat down to read.
But he found it difficult to stay his thoughts on
the sacred page, his mind was full of the young
Squire's return-would he be altogether changed?
Jem feared it must be likely he would-away so
long, and in foreign parts, he could hardly return
the same! Yet Jem believed the good were not
given to change, he had heard his mother say so
when he was a child; and surely the young Squire
was good if any ever were! so it might be he
would prove still the same. Then the question
rose, would old Willy know him if he came to see
him? Was there consciousness enough still left
for the old man to know his hope fulfilled? and
Jem looked round on old Willy in anxious inquiry.
While his thoughts were thus busy, he heard a
knock at the door; then a hand, to whom its latch
seemed familiar, opened it; and a stranger gentle.
man looked in; Jem started up, but in a moment




178   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


he knew the face, he knew the fiiendly smile, he
knew the form, yes, he knew the very hand that
was raised to silence his exclamation and then extended to him! Jem bowed his lowest bow, then
took the offered hand, and grasped it in both of
his, while such a light of sudden joy suffused his
countenance that words were little needed. Laying his hat on the table, the young Squire turned
to the bed where the old man lay with his eyes
closed as if in slumber. He stood and looked on
him in silence. Oh, then what a wave from memory's sea overflowed his heart!-the past, the
long past became present again-he thought of
his dream; and as vividly as then in his sleep did
he now seem to see the bright angel who watched
over the old man-the heir of glory. He thought
of that time when his work of love had not even
begun, he remembered how hard that work had
seemed at first-then how pleasant; how the difficulty again grew worse than before-then brightened into joy. And with that remembrance came
the thought of his father-how he had met him
in his childhood's feelings, and made him possessor
of the home where old Willy dwelt-the recollection of all passed before him, till he wiped away
nis starting tears, and turned round to Jem, saying softly, " I-e sleeps!"
"No, sir," Jem replied, "I doubt if he does!
he lies now mostly in that quiet way-as if his




THE YOUNG SQUIRE'S RETURN. 179
doings with Earth were all over; and we don't
disturb him, except for his food. But I will just
speak to him, if you please, sir, for he has longed
sore to see you, and maybe he will still have the
knowledge to understand that!"
Jem went to the pillow, and stooping above it,
said gently, "Daddy, look up! I say, daddy, look
up and see who has come to you!"
The old man looked up, the voice had aroused
him and called up his slumbering senses. Herbert
knelt down by the bed; and the eye of the old
man fell on him, and he gazed with that long
earnest look that the departing spirit seems to
cast back from a still lengthening distance-its
last glance through the eyes that have been its
earthly portals of vision. The old man gazed on
Ierbert, but did not speak. It might be he
thought himself lost in some dream of a hope yet
unfulfilled; however it might be, the old man
gave no sign of recognition-save that fixed, earnest look on the face that now, after long years,
was before him. Herbert in that sacred moment
felt unwilling by the name so familiar to appeal to
the old man-who seemed calmly departing; afraid
to bring back before him the dim visions of Earth,
when he was just landing in Heaven. So he
tlought of the words that old Willy most loved,
and said in his clear softened tone, "Let not your
heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe alsc




180   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


in ile. In my Father's house are many mansions;
if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to
prepare'a place for you. And if I go to prepare
a place for you, I will come again and receive you
unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be
also." The old man's dying ear caught the joyfui
sound; he listened with clasped hands and eyes
upraised, while Herbert thus performed for him
the last sacred ministry his spirit needed on Earth.
There was silence again, and the old man seemed
to muse on the words he had heard. Then, as if
waking afresh, he looked up to Jem, who stood
still beside him, and called, in his feeble tone and
words of endearment, "Jem, my poor boy!" Jem
stooped to his pillow, and the old man said, "I
have seen him! he is grown up a heavenly man!
and he spoke those words from my Book that he
had read me often and often before! I knew him,
for the voice was his own!" Herbert still knelt,
by the bed, but the old man ceased to discern
him, his dim eyes now failed him. Then Herbert
rose up, and taking his seat on the bed, he leaned
over old Willy, and laid his hand gently on the
old man's and said, " Willy, dear old Willy, your
young master's here! I am he! don't you know
me?"
Then the old man wept, and raising his hand,
as had been his custom when feeling overpowered
him, he said, " It is granted me then! my young




THE YOUNG SQUIRE'S RETURN. 181


master's come!" And looking through his tears
to where Herbert sat before him, he said with
calmer utterance, "I have waited for you! I
knew you would come! and now I have seen you,
I am ready to go! I heard those sweet words
you spoke fiom my Book, and they have lifted me
up to the mansions above-I am at the door, I
shall soon be gone in, and you will come to me
there! You sheltered me here, but the good
Lord has sent for me home-I-His angels are come,
but He let me stay till I had my last wish-to see
you once more! Will you care for my Jem? and
please let him have my Book to show him the
Way; and the coat that you bought me-it will
serve him many a year. And when I am gone,
let them lay me to rest at the feet of my lady; I
have stood at the foot of her tomb in winter and
summer. I went there most days to look where
she lay, and I would lie where I always have stood
to keep watch over her; I know the angels keep
sight of her grave, and they'll watch over mewhom she taught the way to I-eaven where they
dwell; she is sure to see me when they carry me
in like the poor beggar she read to me of! She
will know then how fast in my heart I have kept
the name of my Saviour; long nights as I lay
here, I say to myself, 'Jesus-my Saviour, Lord
Jesus-my God!'-and it keeps me so close by
the Heavenly gate that I have only been waiting
VOL. It.-16




182  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


for you! I leave you my blessing, dtAr young
master, God grant you may know what the blessing of the poor man can be! 'tis the God above
who makes the Poor's blessing rich, and with my
dying breath I commend you to Him!"
Herbert had already bowed his head on the old
man's hand, which his own hand still held; and
at his parting blessing, the old man raised again
his other hand in act of prayer, then, spent with
the effort, it fell by his side, and he seemed to
repose. Herbert at length rose, and spoke softly
with Jem, and would have sent firther assistants
to watch through the night; but Jem said his
mother had already had some hours of rest, and
would be there by midnight, and he would rather
be alone till then. So Herbert returned to the
Hall: but a servant soon arrivred at the cottage
bringing warm cordials; Jem again rolsed the old
man, to take some, and lie well understood who
had sent the warm cordial for hin! then turning
again to rest on his pillow, he slept; his breathing
became stiller, till it ceased; and Jem, though
watching beside him, knew not when lie died.
Herbert called at the cottage the next day, and
looked on the smile that lingered on the lips of the
departed. Jem was away at the farm, but widow
Jones and Mercy were there. Widow Jones took
from a drawer a small bag of money, saying to
Uerbert, " I made my promise to the old man, sir,




THE YOUNG SQUIRE'S RETURN. 183


that I woukd give that for his burying; he said he
considered it was right that he should make a
provision for that."
"Keep it yourself," replid Herbert; "I shall
lay him to his rest."
"Thank you, sir, I am sure," replied widow
Jones, "but if you won't be offended, sir, I
could not be satisfied to take it; because he had
laid it all by, and I promised him to give it for
that."
"Then let me have it," said Herbert, "and I
will send it for Bibles to be given in heathen
lands-that was what lay nearest his heart, and so
in that way his own money shall embalm him!"
The winter's rain was over and gone, the
flowers had alppered on the Earth, the timle of the
singing of birds was come, the voice of the turtle
was heard in the ]and-then it was they laid the
old man to his rest. IHerbert walked on one side
of the coffin, and Jem on the other, and the village
mourners followed. They had dug the old man's
grave, by the young Squire's direction, at the foot
of the lady's tomb, and there, with the words of
blessing and the tears of affection, they left him
to his rest. Herbert lingered-Jem waiting near,
at his desire; Herbert spoke not of the past, but
it rose in fiesh remembrance before him; till at
last, turning slowly away from that hallowed spot,
he descended the hill in heavenly converse with




184    MINISTERING CHILDREN.
Jemr. The cottage was shut up, the young Squire
kept the key, and the dwelling mourned for three
months, in desolation, the life it had sheltered
from birth, and now had lost from its shelter for
ever.




X.


i!  e 01hb    Q;;bbitX.
Ready to give thanks and live,
On the least that Hleaven may give."
"Godliness with contentment Is great gain."-I Tim. vi. 6.
WE must return for our last visit to the town,
and take a final leave of the childhood of little
Jane. She had grown what her father called " a
great girl:" she went daily, alone, to a good
school in the town; and was often usefill to her
mother in the errands she could do for her. She
still looked upon widow Jones and her granddalughter AMercy, the old people in the almshouse,
and the lone old woman on the heathl, as her p'ar.
ticular friends; and now a whole family were to
be added to the number. Jane heard of a poor
old lmau in the town, a cobbler by trade, but
scarcely able to earn lfood by his work. He had
been a sheplierd on the very heath where Jane's
ol(l womlan lived; but he was obliged to give up
keeplilg sheep, and now he earned hlis bread by
niendiig slhoes. Jane heard that lie Awas as happy
as he was poor: and she thouglht how delightful
it would be to help hirnl. So sl.e told her mother
Vol,. 11. —16      (185)




186  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


all she had heard; and asked if she might n bt go
herself, and take her own boots to be mended by
biin.
M3rs. AMansfield replied, "Yes, you may take
them  if you like: aind tll Ihe,,- r man to
mend them up for giving awiay-he Awill be able
to do thenm in a stroniger way and for less nhoieey,
or I should not think them worth doing at at l.
But are you sure you know exactly the place
where he lives?"
"O yes, mammina, I know it exactly! I have
been and looked down at it; only I would not go
without your leave."
So Jane set forth with her boots in a little
basket, and in her pocket a purse that had for
some days held a piece of silver. Eager, rich,
and happy, went the ministering child, gliding
through the busy streets of the town! HIer's Awas
the joyous sense of power —how easily taugllt,
how easily learned, and yet how often untlought
of, unknown! She had love in her heart, iwork in
her bhandl, and money in her purse-what could
she not do! OIne thing was certain —she could
hell) and colllfort; and strong, and briglht, and
fiearless ill thlis uiidotbl)tiil filith she hastened oii.
Slhe reached at last tlie narrow door at the top
of the steep flighlt of steps that led to the little
Ciurt liwhere tlhe cobbler dwelt. Jane stopped a
momnent, looked down int ) the strange place, tlleu




THE OLD COBBLER.


187


carefully descended the steel) steps, made of red
uneven bricks, and edged rith rottinfg wood, till
she arrived in safety at the bottom. The cobbler's
dw-elling was No. 2, and at the second cottage
before her, Jane noticed the clean-washled bricks
betore the door: it looked lilke the entrance to a
good nman's dwelling. Jane gathered fiesh pleasure at the sight, but now the shlyness of a stlaniiger
came over her, and she knocked with some tremlbling at the door. A tall w-omlan inl a brow\n calico
gown op)ened it, with a snow-white handkerchief
ullder helr dress,  clap of thick muslin as white,
and her sick-lookillg flice, almost as vwhite also.
" I)oes Mr. MIay live hlere?" asked Jane.
"Yes, liss,) sai(l the womlan with a curtsey,
" will you please to walk in?"  And Jane entered
as nelat a little dwvelliniig as ever met a visitor's eye.
A very smnall fire a ew iluches -\ide anld deep,
burled in tile grate; oNer thle fire was a high
black mantel-p)iece; on one si(tC the lire-place was
a black closet door, anid on the other another
black door leadiiig up-st:irs; the walls weree wlhite,
+washed,.and onie little book-shlelf suspended upon
them, with a row    of books in neatest order.
There was a long hutch opposite thle fire, and on
it a store of large neNw-)laked loaves; the floor was
neatly sanded, alld before the large lattice window
stood the cobbler's low stall —not ev-en a straggling leather or tool had escaped from it, to litter




188  MINISTERING CIILDREN.


the brick iloor; and before it sat the small old
nman, on a low round stool of homiely manufacture,
writh his apron tied round him, busy at wvork.
Two daucghters rose up at Jane's entrance, and
the old cobbler took his spectacles fiom his nose
and looked round. Jane turned at once to hiim,
and said, " I h-ave brought a pair of boots, -which
nlamma thouglht you might like to mlend, and I
was to tell you they are to be done for giving
away."
"Thank you, miss, I am sure," said the cobbler;
"it's well to know that, because you see then a
patch outside, here and there, does not signify,
and that's a deal less trouble to do, anld lasts all
the longer, because it dont wear out the old
leather, like so many stitchles as you must set into
it for that fine particular mending that must be
done for gentle folks." The old cobbler had risen
up, and did not begin his response to the mrressacge
till Jane was seated, so that Jane listened with a
settled feeling to his long reply, which gave he,
complete satisfaction, as slie had not quite liked to
say they were to be mended for giving away!
But she thought now how wise her mother waswho must h.ave known all that, when slle gave her
the message! Though only a child had entered,
the mother and daughters still stood, and Jane,
uncomfortable at that, said, "I may stay a little
while, if you are not busy, and can sit down?"


It




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I ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




THE OLD COBBLER.


189


The old cobbler fastened his spectacles on his nose,
and was soon at his work a'gain; but he seemed
to feel that the responsibility of entertaining- their
guest rested with him, so he lost no time in going
on to say, "It's a comfort, that many can little
think, to see work come in at the door; for to sit
here and earn the food one eats makes it seem to
be doubly sweet; and I believe too that it does
do you more good, for I believe that's the order
God has written upon this world-that the bread
of idleness shall do none the same good! And I
am sure," said the cobbler, looking round, as he
did for a moment at frequent intervals of his discourse, "I am sure, miss, we are thankful to you
for the bringing it!"
"I liked to come," answered Jane, "I heard
that your wife was ill."
" Well, miss," replied the cobbler, looking round
kindly at his wife for for a moment, " she is never
well. I do what I can, but one pair of hands can
hardly keep four in food and clothing and houserent, by shoe-mending! And she has been sickly
now a long time. But, as I say, we do what we
can, and there's the comfort of knowing that the
trial is the will of the Lord. My poor girls there
would be thankful to do what they could, but the
Lord has not blessed them with the sense He has
given to some: but still I say, if He is graciously
pleased tc keep them from evil, and teach them




190     MINISIARINcG CHILDREN.
the know-ledge of IHimself, why that's mnercy
enough to keep from  fietting about the other.
Mly p.)Oo  loy is inuch. the same, hut lie hans got a
place, and I hope he may keep) it, for it briiicns in
a little."  Jane looked at the daughiters, clean and
neat as their mother-, and alimost as p)-Ale; they sat
u1prighit on chairs by the wa:1,fllad the inexpressiv-e
stare of their Ia.re mound eyes c'ive evidence of
somic want ot seiise wN-ithini. Tlie fiather's face wvas
v-ery like his clhildlreuu's, except that in his eyes and
on his lips was a sm-ile as brip'lt as a sunbeam-1
and the whole expression of his face when speaking was irradiated wi ith Heavenly faith.
" Can your daugchters do needlework?" asked
Jane.
"Yes, miss, they can sew very neatly, when
they can get it to do; and the eldest has been in
a place, but she had riot tIme strength to keep it. I
hope, however, she may get the better of it again,
and look for another situation before long, fo' it's
trying to sit at home whven there is rot work or
food; but, thank God, we have managerd as yet,
and we would do' anything we could to keep the
house and home together."
" TYou hrave bread now!" said Jane, in a tone
expressive of hier pleasure at the sight of the large
loaves on the hutch.
"L0 yes, miss, and I don't know that we have
ever been a day altogether without I The bread




TITE OLD COBBLER.


191


tllat, you see will all wait for a fortnight. We al.
ways!; hae one fortnighlt under another; that's a
rule we never break whleln we can possibly buy the
flouri, for no one would believe the difference it
make.s-how fwar a little bread will go to satisfy
your hunger, lwhen once it begins to turn mouldy!
My wife can shew you, we are now beginning the
last fortnilgt's bre.ad, and that must lhold out, or
we should never be able to manlage at all!"  This
was said in the earnest, cheelrful tone of one
who had discovered a fortunate secret of sufficiency; tlhe wife and daughter removed the hot
loav-es, opened the hutch, and shewed the hardlooking. bread now comingi into use. Jane was
distressed; it was a study in poverty new to her,
and the thought of this constant denial of pleasant
food fell more heavily on her heart than would
the knowledge of the occasional want of bread-a
want, the experience of which she never knew,
iand therefore the suflering of which she would not
fully have realized. Tlle cobbler through his spectacles read the look of distress on the face of Jane,
and in a moment turning his quick bright glance
from his low stool again upon her, he said, in a
tone of cheerful comfort, " There's no riches promised us here, if we be the Lord's; only the riches
of faitlh and the riches of His blessing-and thanks
be to Iim, we have them; so we can say, Hle is
faithful that promised I And 'tis my belief there's




192  MINISTERING CH.LDREN.


nothing makes the true riches increase so fast as
trial does; so we must beware how we fret at it,
lest we lose our best gain along with it!"  Jane
looked at the beaming face of the cobbler, with its
kind and lingering expression of inquiry on heras if to see whether he had removed the cloud he
had cast over her, and she thought she had never
seen any one look so happy as that poor man; and
her heart grew warm again in the sunshine of his
faith-for the sudden shock of what she heard
about the bread had chilled her with distress.
"Are you never unhappy because you have not
better food?" asked Jane.
" Tell, miss, trouble is always ready enough to
spring up; it's got its root in my heart, and so it will
have as long as there's any sin there for it to grow
in; but blessed be God, I know what to do with
it; I never let it hold up its head long; I take it
right away to our Saviour in prayer, and I leave it
with Him, for I believe he knows better than I do
how to manage with it; and so sure as I persevere in doing that, it comes right in the end, or I
come right out of it."
Jane listened, and she loved to listen; for that
old man's faith was truly making sunshine in the
shade of his deep poverty. But now she began to
think that perhaps she ought not to stay any
longer; so, rising up to go, she slipped her piece
of silver, which she had managed to get unseen




THE OLD COBBLER.


193


from her purse, into the cobbler's hand, saving
softly, " Will you take that little present, friom
me?" and then, in a minute more, she was climbillon the steep steps that led out of the court.
Jane waited in thope of some more shoes need
in g repair, and( it was not long before her nmotlerAlwho never forgot a case of want when once made
acquainted with it, called her, and packed into a
basket some of the children's shoes, whlich she told
Jane she might take to lher cobbler. So Jane set
out on the pleasant errand. As she descended the
high steps she heard some one singing; it was a
bright spring day, and the cobbler's lattice windlow
was open; Jane felt sure the voice came fiom]
there e; as she passed the window, it stopled.
Jane delivered the work she had brolught into the
hands of the cobbler, and then sat down on thie
chair he had set for her near his stall, quite disposed to linger in the tempting-looking cottage,
now ligihted up by the spring's sweet sunshine.
" I)o you sing at your work?" asked Jane.
' Weell, miss, I do amuse myself a little that
way sometimes," said the old man, going on as
fast as possible with his mending, " I find it keeps
troublesome thoughts out, and cheers my spirits
up. I was singing a verse as you came. that's
seldom long from my thoughts," and the cobbler
took off his spectacles, and looked up with his
face of unchanging sunshine and said,VOL. Ix.-1 7




194  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


"Though vilely clad, and meanly fed,
And, like my Saviour, poor,
I would not change my Gospel bread.
For all the worldling's store!"
Now Jane was surprised at the cobbler's hap.
piness, and could not quite understand why he
should seeni to be the happiest of all the good
people she knew; so she said, "Every one who
loves God is not so happy as you are?"
" Well, miss," replied the cobbler, " perhaps it
is not given to all alike,-we see a deal of those
differences in the Bible. It pleases God, I believe,
to try His people some one way, and some another.
I am very poor, but maybe there's another who is
not-then lie must have his trial some other way;
let it be as it will, each must have a trial!" said
the cobbler looking up over the top of his spectacles earnestly at Jane, as if anxious to impress
that truth on her mind, "All must have a trial
some way-because it is written, ' Ye must through
much tribulation enter the kingdom of I-eaven! "
"But," asked Jane, "is it not very difficult to
be always happy?"
" Well, mis%," answered the cobbler, without
pausing in his busy labour, " I should soon be dull
enough if I were left to myself; but I will tell
you what I find the best help, I always try to keep
a flame of praise lit up in my heart, and that burns
up the dross of unbelief and discontent in a won




THE OLD CDBBLER.


195


detrfiul way! That's one reason why I so often
take to singing a hymn-lwhen I find that flame
of praise is getting low, and I can only work onl,
and so little comingr in oftenl f yor rk whele it
is done, then I get singing some hymn of prlaise to
that Saviour who worked out my salvation at
at such a cost as I-Iis own blessed life, and gives it
to me without money anid -wAithout prlice; and
then when praise to Him kindlles up in my heart,
it burns up the discontent in no time. Anld then,
dear me, what mercies come in! It was only last
night I lay awake thinking entirely of our Mary;
you see, miss, she is the youngest, and I have had
many an anxiety about her, not but what she is a
good girl to us, but she is very silent, and I was
afraid whether thle love of her Saviour was in her
heart. Well, as I lay awake last night, I kept
praying that the Lord would give her grace to
choose the better part, like MIary we read of in
the Scriptures, but I did not say anything to her;
well, this morning she said to me, 'Father, there
was a text in my mind last nilght that I could not
seeln to forgcet, "Mzary hath chosen the better
part, that shall neNver be taken fromn her,"-I hope
I shall do that! father.' Now what a mercy that
was; who could but know that must be the Lord's
doilg!"
It was no wonder that Jane loved 'to visit the
oobbller's bright cottage. There she saw faith,




196    MINISTERING CHILDREN.
not so much contending with difficulties as triumphing over them, and its victory could not but appear
beautiful, even to the eyes of a child. One day,
as Jane was looking at a hymn-book, she suddenly
caught sight of the very same verse that the old
cobbler had repeated to her as the one he had been
singing. Jane showed it to her mother with tie
greatest interest; and her mother always quick to
meet and strengthen every pure and hallowed feeling, found an embossed card she had somewhere laid
by, and in her plainest writing copied the favourite verse, in the centre of the card; then finding
four little brass nails, and showing Jane how to
cut up a piece of scarlet cloth in small rounds to
fix the nails into, she gave it into Jane's possession, who went the next day, after her morning
school, by her mother's leave, to carry the treasure. She stood up in a chair, and nailed it herself with the cobbler's little hammer over the
mantel-piece, while all the family stood admiring;
and there the cobbler, whenever he looked up,
was reminded of his hymn of praise. Jane gave
so warm an account of the feeling called forth by
the card upon the walls, that her mother said, " If
you save up your pence for a month, I will show
you what more you can do to adorn the cottage."
Jane could not imagine what fourpence could do
to adorn her old cobbler's walls; she tried to find
out, but she could not guess, and her mother stil)




THE OLD COBBLER.


197


kept I)ack the secret. At last the fourth Satlurday
caine, and Jane was possessor of fourpence. " (Now,
inaimna, w-hat can it be? do tell me!"  " You
shall go out with me, and then you will see!"
said her mother.  So Jane went out with hler
mother, and when Mrs. TTansfield h1ad accomplished her business, she took Jane to a statione 's
]lOp, and asked for some pasteboard; slle chlose
three penny sheets, dark purplle on thle wrong
side, and white on the right; then:Mrs. Mlansfield
asked for some tissue paper, and chose a penny
sheet of lilac colour. "Now, Jane," said [Mrs.:Mansfield, "you hLave spent your fourpence, an(d
this afternoon you shall see what you can do!"
On their return, Mrs. Mansfield looked out with
Jane soine of the most interesting pictures on the
Chllurch MIissionary papers; then makingo some
paste, she bade Jane put on her pinafore, and laying the nursery ironing-l)oard on the nurlsery talble,:Mrs. Mansfieled showed Jane how to divide tlhe
large sheets of pasteboard in half; then to cut the
tissue papler in broad strips, and paste it roilI(nd
the margill of tile pasteboard, laying the MIissionary picture in the middle; thlen pressing them
under something heavy, and large enough to cover
themn, tlhey looked, when dry, like pictures mounted
on coloured cardboard, and the broad lilac nlargin
made thle effect very pretty. Jane was delighted
with her work, and tile next week, when the pic.
VOL. II.-17*




198  'MINISTERING CHILDREN.


tures were quite dry, her mother provided the
scarlet cloth to be cut into very small rounds for
eacll nail, andcl four nails for each picture, there
being six pictures, and Jane carried a hammer at
the bottom of her little basket, for fear the old
cobl)ler's smnall wooden hlamnier should not prove
sufficient; and attended by the cobblel's wife and
daullrlters, while the old cobbler looked up fron
his work continiually, Jane put u1p the pictilres to
the pleasure and admitration of all. Then thle old
cobbler stood up and( looked roulnd withl delighton scenes that told of the triumphs of his own
pure and IIe:alenly fiaith over the dark and clruel
sulperstitions of idolatry. Fronm that time it was
a favourite anllsement with Jane, to save up her
weekly pence and ma-ke pictures to adorn the walls
of all ther poor friiends.
And now we rmust say farewell to Jane in her
childhood. We leave her,athlerin(g around her
the hearts of the poor1. And IIe who gulides the
sparrow-'s fall, guided her steps, so that never
breatll of evil, or sight of sinl, fell )n her child.
Lood's ear or eye, among the Poor.




XI.


"lark     q tutv.
"It grew up toge her with him, and with his children; and w58 unto
him as a daughter."- 2 Sam. xii. 3.
W11EN three months had passed away, the ycung
Squire went alone to old Willy's cottage; he
stayed somie time in the house, then walked in the
garden, and seemred engagfed in a general consideration of the place. The next day workmnen arrived, and the young Squirie went to meet them.
Then b)egran pulling down and building up; the
front of the cottage remained as it was, the room
in which old Willy sat by day and slept by night
was untouched, but other roomrs were added behind, till the dwelling rose with its three chamibers
above, its back-kitchen and little dairy,.and  outhouses, complete. Some said it was going to be
turined into a farim; but no, it was a simiple cottage still, too lairge for one p.)erson, but with every
comfort for a family.   rlhe young Squirie often
walked down to the spot, lookinlg wvith interest o'i
all, and givinrg his (lirections to the wN~orkmen.
Mcdaitiiue the summiner niontlhs wer-e glidimig by
Snowf-:like and Jet again drew the pony-carl'ri'(Age,
(199)




200  MINISTERING C OILDREN.


and HIerbert again drove his mother out; and
still sometimes MIrs. Cliffbrd would call at a cottage, but more eneleally she only stopped in passilng, to mnake kind inquiry! it was evident that
greneral intercourse with others was, as yet, an
eiffort to her. But one day she stopped at widow
Jones' door, and went in. Mrs. Clifford had neNver
forgotten Melrcy-the child in whom Miss Cliffolbr
had always taken more interest than in any other;
and M3:rs. Clifford, knowing her to be of an age
for service, and remembering ller delicate look,
was afrtaid lest any place of colnmon work should
prove beyond her strength, so she called on widow
Jones to ask whethier she had any wish about her
grand-daughter that she could be aided in. Widow
Jones replied tlhat she had long been on the lookout for a situation for M:ercy; the field-work was
too much for her, she had not the strength for it
-and that was her fear about service, bult she
believed she mnust makle inquiry for a place in the
town before another winter came on.  Hearing
this, IlMrs. Clifford offered to take TMecy, and have
her trained under her own maid, adding, " I should
have her a good deal writh nme, she would have to
read to me, and to carry out ninny little plaiis I
may not feel able to undertake nlyself, in the village. I believe her to be capla:ble of this, and if
it meets your wish, I shiall be quite willing to try
her."  This p1roposal was received with overflow.




BLACK BEAUTY.


201


Ing gratitude by widow Jones; and when Mercy
heard of it, with delight by her. To live still in
her own village, near her grandmother, and to
wait on Madam-all this was more than hope
could have believed, or imagination pictured! So
Mercy went to service at the Hall, to wait on Mrs.
Clifford, and be trained under her maid.
When September hung its ripe fruit upon the
trees in old Willy's garden, the cottage stood
complete; the bricklayers, and carpenters, and
thatchers, and glaziers, and painters were gone;
the door was again locked, and the place stood
silent and peaceful.  Then early one summer
evening, just as Jem returned home fiom his work
at the farm, the young Squire called at his cottage,
saying, "I calme to ask you and your mother to
come and see the dear old man's dwelling. I have
had it enlarged; and you always took so much
interest in it, that I wish to shew it to you
myself."
Widow Jones put on her bonnet, and walked
up the lane with her son Jem and the young
Squire. The sun was setting, and his parting
beanms fell upon the cottage-roof, and gilded the
garden trees. The young Squire crossed the
garden-stile-the very same that used to be —then
turning round, he said with a grave smile to Jem,
"Do you remember the dark morning when you
and I first crossed that stile together?" " It was




202  MINISIERING CHILDREN.


a good morning, sir, for him that dwelt within!"
said Jem; and on they passed.
The young Squire unlocked the door, and they
went in. There was the same look about the open
fire-place; the very chair old Willy always sat in
-with its crimson cushlion-was there; there
stood the little table, and the very stool on which
the young Squire used to sit. The bed was gone,
and in its place stood a bureau, and a larger table,
and chairs round the room-while flowers in pots
bloomed in the window. "' What do you think
of it?" asked the young Squire, as Jem and his
mother looked round with wondering eyes. "'Tis
made wholly beautiful, I am sure!" said Jem.
" There is not the cottage like to it in the place!"
said widow Jones.
"Then, Jem, what do you say to being my
tenant, and bringing your old mother to live here
in comfort?"
" Well, sir, I am afraid I should fail more in the
doing than the saying, so far as that is concerned;
my best wages could never clear the rent of such
a place as this!"
And I suppose," said the young Squire, " you
would be as hard as my dear old Willy himself, to
be persuaded that a house could be honestly ten.
anted without the payment of money! But you
need not fear robbing me when I say you shall pay
me no rent, for I hold this dwelling a sacred place,




BLACK BEAUTY.              203
for many reasols, and so long as I can find a
faithful heart to inhabit it, I never mean to let it
for money! I make it your homre now, and your
mother's till such time as you may receive notice
to quit it-which will not be with my desire, so
long as life is granted you, if you are enabled to
maintain the same character as that which wins
my regard for you now. You will find the upper
rooms furnished as well as this. The firniture is
all your own, I purchased it for you: the house
and land you hold as my tenant-in proof of
which you may always send up to the Iall the
first dish of rosy apples you gather from the trees
I planted! There is a small field, that was part
of the little place when bouglht; I let it to the
farmer who had hired it before, old Willy having
no use for it; but I have now attached it to the
cottage, and had a gate made into it from the
garden: you can let it or use it, as you like, only
seeing that it is kept in grass, and not dug up
without my consent. And may old Willy's God
grant you to live to as blessed and peaceful an old
age as he enjoyed beneath this roof!"  Widow
Jones and her son were filled with surprise and
gratitude.  The Squire let them speak their own
broken words of thankfulness, that they might
not afterwards feel distressed at having said
nothing. And then talking a few minutes more
with them, and telling widow Jones that he




204  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


shollld request his mother to let her grand-daultgh
ter be sent to them the next day to hlelp tlhemn
move in, lie left them  with the key in their
possession.
The inove was soon effected-Awhere everythingl,
was prep'ared beforellhand for use and colilfort.
Widow Jones sold off most of her old frnlliture,
saying thlere was scarce a piece of it that was fit
so much as to see inside of such a place as the
Squire had prepared for her Jen! and thlelre, with
Mercy's help, they slept in peac-e the followinog
night: widow Jones only expressing lher fear, as
to how she could ever brinl her mind to the care
of such things as stood on every side there-look
which way you would! When the young Squite
went to college in October, he left Jeim quietly
settled in his new abode. The village rejoiced iin
the good fortune of honest Jem; for Jem w as, as
may be supposed, a general favourite. Was lie
not always ready to lend a helping hand, to tender
some kindly office in sickness or trouble, and at
all times to speak a pleasant word? None but
the bad could have failed to look kindly on Jeln!
But among the general pleasure, none Awas molre
warmly expressed than Mrs. Smith's; her regard
for both mother and son seemed to make her
pleasure ill the event double: and never could
honest iabourer, and faithiful servant, and dutifull
son, have entered a new abode with mori pleasant




BLACK BEAUTY.


205


feeling to himself and others-thlan li nest Jem,
whlen lie called the home of old WVilly his own!
At the farnl, Ailliaml's return had been anxiously looked fbr, this year: but wh-en the time
drew near he wrote word to his father, that
though very sorry to be absent longer, lie did feel
a wish to wait one year more. His uncle, he said,
would be glad to detain him, and oftered to raise
his salary again-but he did not feel bound on
that account; still there were reasons that would
make him glad of another year, and though he felt
the disappointed hope more, he was sure, than any
one else could, yet, if his father were willing, he
certainly should wish to stay till the following
July, when he hoped to be down in time to put
the first sickle to the corn! Samson was getting
on well in his uncle's business and favour; Joe
was as happy as possible, and plainly giving satisfaction in the merchant's office-and by next year
Joe expected to find a ship for Ted. So the hope
of the parents was still deferred; and a short visit
from their three sons, was all they could that year
enjoy. William said nothing as to his reason for
wishing to remain longer in London; but everything seemed going on well for the three brothers;
and it was not difficult for farmer Smith to believe
that to have William to watch over the other two
was a great security for them.
In the following winter the old Clergyman died.
VOL. II.-18




206  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


Much anxiety was felt in the village as to whether
the Curate would remain; the anxiety of Mrs.
Smith equialled that felt by farmer Smith and
Rose, and great was the universal joy when it
was known that Mrs. Clifford had presented the
living to the Curate, and that now the villagers
might hope he would live and die among them.
The late Clergyman's widow remained some
months in the rectory, and everything went on as
before; till one day farmer Smith returned fiom
market with an unusually clouded brow.
" I never saw you look more like bad news!"
said Mrs. Smith, " what has happened?"
Farmer Smith was silent.
"Come now," said Mrs. Smith, " bad will be
none the better for waiting! I may as well know
to-day as to-morrow."
"It's only the horse!" said farmer Smith. "I
saw a paper in the town, and there's to be a sale
at the rectory, and Black Beauty is in the list."
" Well," replied Mrs. Smith, " he is none of
your's now! and you can't take up with vexing
over the sale of other people's creatures. Not
but what I am sorry enough myself; but I have
seen the good of his going since, and yo t must
think of that. If Will laid the first stone of Joe's
good fortune, it was the horse helped you to set
him on it, you could not have done it without him.
I am sure I made sin enough of it before, so I




BLACK BEAUTY.


207


have reason to bear with it now. I am only
thankfill tle child does not know of Iis going-he
used to count so of seeing the creature pass by!
but he is better off; and we, why we must take
the rough with the smooth as it comes, and be
thankfil there's One who can make them both
'work together for good,' as the Minister tells us."
Farmer Smith felt relieved, for he had dreaded
the telling his wife, or her knowing that the fav.
ourite horse was to be put up to the highest bidder. The young Squire was absent at college;
and many a time farmer Smith thought, had he
but been at the Hall there was little doubt that he
would have bought the favourite, and -then the
creature would but have exchanged one good
stable for another, still in sight of its first possessors. But the young Squire was away, so there
was no prospect but that of soon looking his last
on Black Beauty.
No further mention was made of the subject,
till a day or two after, Ted rushed in exclaiming,
" Iother, where's father? there's to be a sale at
the rectory, and Black Beauty's down in the list!
the bill is up on the blacksmith's shop-I saw it
myself!"
" Well, child, the rector's lady has as much
right to sell the horse as your father had —it was
his then, and it's her's now."
" What, don't you mind about it then, mother?"


V




208  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


" Mind! child, what's the use of minding? I
have vexed too much already for the poor beast!
Don't you say a word to your father about it; I
shall mind that if you do; let him forget it if he
can."
But, mother, father can't forget it! I-low can
he forget, when he must hear and know all about
it?"
"Well, don't you say a word to make him think
the more; you try and make the best of it, not
the worst-that's what you have to do."
"' I know what I shall do," replied Ted, " I shall
just write off and tell William!"
" No, that I do forbid," said 3Mrs. Smith; "for
why in the world should you want to worry him
with it? do you think he has not felt enough
about it already?"
" Yes, mother, but then I know William has
some money; I am quite sure of that, and a
great deal too, for when I asked him if he had
not last time he was down, he said, ' What you
would call a great deal perhaps!' so I know he
has, and then he could just send and buy Black
Beauty away from them all!"
"That does not signify," replied Mrs. Smith.
"If William has money, he has earned it hardly
enough, and I would not for the world have it
taken from him to buy back a horse."
" Well mother, William does not care for money,




BLACK BEAUTY.


209


I am sure, for he said when I asked him if he had
not got a great deal, that he would have given all
up over anid over again to be only yard-boy on
father's farnm-if there had been none but himself
he lad to think of! so I am sure he can't care for
money! and everybody knows how lie cared for
that horse!"
"Never mind, child, it's plain enough he did
not wish to be after buying him back, or he could
have said as easy as not, ' If there's a sale, you
might let me know!' but lie never said a word
about it in any letter, and if we write to him
about it, why it will put him up to do it just to
please us, and I would not have that on any
account. I will not have a word written to any
one of them till the sale is over; you remember
I have said it!"
" Well, mother, if I must not speak to father,
nor William, I declare I will go off to the sale
and see after the horse myself! and I will speak
a word to whoever buys him-let it be who it
will, if it's no more than to tell them what our
Minister told us in our class-it may stick by
them, and fright them a little, if they don't use
him as they should! I would not have him bought
and led off, and no one to speak a word for him
for anything!"
"Very well," replied Mrs. Smith, " so long as
you keep to what our Minister says, you are safe
VOL. IL —18*




210  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


enough!" And Ted satisfied at having at last
fixed upon something he might do, grew more
composed on the subject, and when alone with his
father, he said, "Never you mind, father, about
Black Beauty's being sold off again, I have just
got a word to say to whoever buys him that may
be of good use to the horse; I mean to be up at
the sale, and see all about it, and then I can tell
you, father!" And the thought of this seasonable
address that was to be made to the buyer of
Black Beauty, with the care necessary in composing and recomposing it to make it as brief and
forcible as possible, changed the prospect of the
approaching sale into an event of effort and interest, rather than of distress to Ted.
The morning of the sale arrived. " Mother,"
said Ted, " I must be off now, and I want my
best jacket, no one will care for me if I don't
look something respectable."  So Mrs. Smith
brought Ted his best jacket, which was of dark
blue, having been his particular request as most
suitable for one who was soon to be a sailor;
arrayed in this, with his round straw hat on the
side of his head, and his little cane in his hand,
he set off to the sale. ' Never you mind, father!"
said Ted, as he stopped to speak to his parent on
the green slope from the house, " I am off to the
sale, just to do what can be done, and then I will
come home and tell you. And there's sure to be




BLACK BEAUTY.


211


good come of it, father, though we may never
know it, for the Minister says, when the right
thing is done, if people don't think of it at first,
they will sooner or later; and I know just what
he said about those who have to do with dumb
creatures; so never you mind, father, I am now
off for the sale! Tell mother not to think about
dinner for me, there's no saying when I shall be
back."  "Take care what you are after!" said the
father. But off ran the ministering boy to watch
over Black Beauty, and speak the word of warning he had heard from the Minister's lips, to whoever might purchase the horse.
It was a heavy day to farmer Smith-this second
sale of the favourite horse, close by his own door,
and he not able to purchase it back, nor now to
have any control over the hands into which it
passed! The creature had been born and reared
on his farm, had played with his children, fed from
their hands, he had himself broken it in for use,
and it would leave its food or its pasture at any
time at the first sound of his voice-the after-tie
may be strong between master and steed, but it is
on the farm  where the creature is born, and
reared, and trained, that the feeling becomes all
but a family bond!
Mrs. Smith took the event more quietly, her
heart had been broken up by the bitter anguish of
remorse-remorse for years of pride and self-will;




212  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


and thclugh the balm of Heavenly love may lind
up such broken hearts, yet must the sil facechanges of life have but comparatively little power
to distress-where sorrow so far deeper still lies
within. Yet Mrs. Smith did feel it; and the point
in which it touched her most, was her sense of
what the sorrow of little Tim would have beento have had his favourite sold away a second time,
where he could never see him pass. But Mrs.
Smith spoke not of this! she had learned to endure in silence, conscious of the past-when her
personal annoyances were always made a subject
of distress for others; so she now made an effort
to hide her own feeling and comfort those around
her. Rose saw her father's grave expression of
face, and stepping out beside him after dinner,
said, "Never mind, father, I think it's better the
horse should be taken quite away before Will
comes home, or he would always be seeing him,
and then you know, father, perhaps he could not
help wishing for him, and that would be wrong
now he is sold away; and it would be vexing to
William, and to Joe - if he knew that William
could not help wishing him back; so I think it's
best, father!"
"So it is, Rose, I dare say, if I could but be
sure of his being well off!"
"But, father, God made the creatures; and
when we can't take care of them any Icnger we




BI;ACK BEAUTY.


213


must leave themn to Iim! I am sure, father, you
did the best you could, and then if we don't feel
satisfied, that looks as if we could not trust God
Almlighlty; and you know it says in the Bible, the
sparrow does not fall to the ground without our
Heavenly Father!"
"So it does, Iose; I will think of that. Oh,
if my mother could but hear how you comfort me!
But I have a hope now, that I shall show you to
her some day in Ieaven, and tell her how her
prayers were all answered, though she never knew
it."  So farmer Smith passed on with livelier step
to his men, and Rose went back to iron at her
mother's side.
Ted had not returned to dinner; and now his
mother, eachl time she paused in her work and
set the iron down upon the stand, gave a glance
from the window.
" I can't think what the child is stopping after,
all this time!" at length said Mrs. Smith.
"I daresay Black Beauty came near the end of
tlle sale," replied Rose, " and lie said he should not
stir fiom the place till he saw what became of him."
Mrs. Snith said no more; only looking from
time to time along the distant road. Four o'clock
-five o'clock passed, and Rose prepared the tea
the ironing was finished and all cleared away, the
table was set, the toast made, farmer Smith came
in, but no Ted appeared.




214  MIN ISTERING CHILDREN.


"I cannot think what the boy is after!" said
IMrs. Smith. "I wish you would just step and
see; and tell him he must come home. I wvould
not have him stay after dark among a set of horsedealers for anything!"
Farmer Smith took his hat and went; and Mrs.
Smith watched at the window-watclhed till she
saw him returning alone. " Where's the child?"
asked Mrs. Smith, "I wish enough you had
brought him!"
"I don't think he will take any harm," replied
farmer Smith. "I saw Beetlebright, the horsedealer, there, and I asked him to have an eye on
the boy, who was in the very thick of it, amongst
them all, looking on as earnest as possible: I could
not catch a sight from his eye; and Beetlebright
told me the horse was coming on directly, so I
came off, for I could not stand to see him led up!
But I was not sorry I went, for I heard some
good news!"
"Did you?" asked Mrs. Smith; and her tone
betrayed how far she was from indifference on the
subject.
" Yes, Beetlebright told me he knew who had
given orders to have the horse purchased, and I
might be sure he would have a good master, if
ever he had!'
"Well, that's a comfort," said Mrs. Smith, "I
%m sure I am thankful enough! Did he say who?"




BLACK BEAUTY.


21.)


" No, he turned off at that; and I thought no
doubt he would not be free of speaking before
hand, and I heard them call for the horse, so I
came off."
Upon this, Mrs. Smith, and Rose and her
father sat down to tea, but with more feeling
than appetite.
"Just look here, Miss Rose!" said Patience,
stepping quickly up to the door of the family
kitchen, which always stood open.
All ran to the window, being ready for any
alarm. There came the boy, in blue jacket and
straw hat, mounted on Black Beauty, as large as
life, and as steady as Time, stepping down the old
familiar hill, the home-road to the farm, which he
had never trod since the day that Joe led him
away. All hurried out from the door: Rose flew
down the sloping green to the valley at the foot
of the hill, where Black Beauty, at meeting her,
stopped of his own accord, and arched his neck,
and put his nose into her hand.
"Now, Rose, that will do; don't you see I
want to be off to father!" said Ted. And Black
Beauty started on the accustomed canter along the
path up the greensward that led to the wicket
gate of the garden.
"Do go and see," said Mrs. Smith " what the
boy is after!"
But farmer Smith stood still with Mrs. Smiti




216  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


beside the garden-gate, at which, in a minute
more, Black Beauty made a stand.
" What in the world have you been after, boy?
What are you doing with the horse?" asked Mrs.
Smith; while Rose came breathless fiom her run,
and stood beside. But now Black Beauty's turn
was come to give expression to his feeling,-he
stood again upon home-ground, close to his master, who had never spoken to him since the parting
day; he rested his head upon his master's shoulder,
stepped from side to side, and courted the caress
first of one and then the other-w-hile all seemed
to fail in its power to express the noble creature's
joy. The labourers were returning home from the
farm, laden with their implements and baskets,
and they gathered wondering around. Jem and
the yard-boy, and Iatience too, were there-all
looking intent on the mystery; while Mrs. Smith
hastily repeated her inquiry," What in the world are you after, boy! Make
haste, I say, and speak it out!"
" Now, mother," said Ted, seated like a chieftain on his charger, " don't look as if you thought
it must be wrong because I have done it!"
"Done what?" said Mrs. Smith, "what have
you done?"
"Why, brought the horse home, mother!"
"But how came you by him? that's what I
want to know!"




THE RKFTU.N OF BLACK BEAUTY,
Mini.-tcring cliildren


Vol.:1. p, 216,




I.




BLACK BEAUTY.


217


" Well, mother, I did not steal him-though
you look as if you were afraid I had; nor beg
him, nor borrow him; he was given me right
away for fhther as I stood there!"
" Who by?" asked farmer Smith, anxiously and
earnestly.
" Why, I don't know, father, only it was the
man who bought him, so I suppose he had a right
to give him if he liked!"
" I am afraid there's some mistake in it!" said
farmer Smith, seriously,-looking along the road
to see if explanation, clearer than his boy's, might
be coming there,-but no one was in sight.
" Well-now, father, you listen, and I will just
tell you," said Ted, still seated on the creatureyet restless with its joy. "As soon as ever they
led up the horse there was a man came and stood
near where I was; he seemed, I thought to be
thinking of buying, and I wished he might; for I
liked the look of him. Well, they kept bidding,
and I got in such a way, for the man seemed ever
so many times as if he would let him go, anAl he
kept so quietly at it, that at last I did not know
who had the llorse; but I found he was gone
down to some one, so I kept asking, 'Who has
him? who has him?' and they pointed to this
man. So 1 watclled my opportunity when he was
pretty well alone, and theln I went ip and just
said what I had to say to him, as to his care of
VrT ii.-19




218  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


the horse! Well, he listened, and when I had
done, he said, ' You come along with me, and see
what you think of my usage!' so I went with
him, and he never said a word more, but unpacked
this saddle and bridle-only you see, father, what
a saddle it is!" said Ted, tumbling himself off and
lifting up the lappets, more thoroughly to display
the saddle's excellence.
" Well, child, what then?" asked his mother.
" Why, when he had done putting them on, and
seeing they were all right, he said, " Now, little
master, have you a mind to ride?" and before I
knew what to say, he had lifted me up. O how
the good creature did paw the ground when I was
once upon him! he knew me as well as anything!
and thought he was coming off here, I know he
did!"
"Well, child, but go on!" said Mrs. Smith.
"Dear me, mother, I don't know any more!
only when the man had lifted me on, he said,
'You go and preach your sermon to your father,
for he is the owner of this horse now; and you
tell him that if he does not know how to take care
of him lie lias a son that can teach him! And I
I11 be down after you presently, when I have
settled some otl er business.' "
" Waas it Beetlebright, the horse-dealer?" asked
farmer Smith.
"I don't know, father, but I think I have seen
him before in town."




BLACK BEAUTY.


219


"But did he not say a word of who sent him?"
" Why lie sent him, father! he bought him and
sent him!"
" Nonesense, child; a horse-dealer would never
make me such a present!"
"Here's some one now coming down the road,
sir," said one of the men. They all watched; and
farmer Smlith soon descried the substantial figure
of l3eetlebrighllt the llorse-dealer, who imade his
way to the.assemnbled group.
"I anl afiaidl," said fthriler Smith, stepping forward, " we are under some little nlistake in stopping the horse at our g:te!"
"Not a bit of' it," replied the horse-dealer, "if
you caln trust that arndl-writing, and I think it's
as good and honiest a hand as I lhave seen for many
a day!" So sayilg, tile horse-dealer gave a sealed
letter to furmner Smith, w-ho opened it and read:
"; DEAR FATIIER,
"It was mny sorrow to cost you your favourite
horse; you did not spare him, neither did William,
and now it is my joy to hlave earned him back
again. I have been so afraid I should not get
money enough before-for some reason or otherhe might be sold off! I have never spent so much
as a sixpence, ino, nor a penny, I think, that I could
do without; and now I have twenty pounds in
hand over and above what you had fbr him, so I




220  MINISTERING CHILDREN..


am sure of it now. I hope I am thankful, I am
sure I think I am. Don't let a word be said to
William, but when he conies home let the horsu
be taken to meet him.-Be sure you don't let him
know till then! My love to mother, and Rose,
and Ted.
"Your affectionate and dutiful son,
" JOSEPI SMITH."
Farmer Smith put the letter into his wife's
hand, and turned to the horse to hide his feeling.
" Well, I suppose it's all right?" said the horsedealer. " Here's my commission too, with the
order for the new saddle and bridle;" and he put
an open letter into farmer Smith's hand. "As to
what your son says upon paying my charge on
the commission, that's all paid already in the
pleasure' of the job-I can say I never had a
pleasanter; and if such a lad does not turn out
well, I don't know who will!"
" Who's done it, father?" asked Rose.
"Why Joe himself!" said her father; " he says
he has never spent a sixpence he could help, for
fear he might not have the money ready when an
opportunity of buying the creature might come!"
"Well done, Joe!" said Ted. "I'll be up to
you, when I'm a sailor though!"
"It's master Joe! it's master Joe has done it
himself!" was repeated among the men; and cast.




BLACK BEAUTY.


221


ing a pleased expressive look at the father of such
a son, they began to disperse to their homes, to
tell tlere how master Joe had never rested till he
bought back the black horse to his father's stable!
Mrs. Smith gave back the letter to her husband,
and turned within doors, glad at that moment to
escape observation.
" Well, you will be thinking, I suppose, of leading him off to his stable?" said the horse-dealer.
"I wish you joy of him, and twenty times more
of such a son! And then I will just step in with
you, for I am altogether done up with my day's
work." Ted led the horse, and farmer Smith followed, and Jem to unsaddle him, and Rose followed also. Ted made all haste to give the horse
a feed, but the creature, when he stooped to
receive it, looked round, as if something were
missing. " Come, Black Beauty, eat!" said Ted,
impatient to give the first food; but the horse,
while he stooped his head in obedience, still lifted
his large eye, and looked to the door.
"Look, father, what's the matter?" said Ted.
"Black Beauty won't eat!"
" Never mind," said Rose, " don't say a word,
he is watching for little Tim! Here put his food
in the manger, he will eat when we are gone; and
come in to tea, do, Ted; you have had nothing
since breakfast!"
So Ted spread out the food in the manger, and
VOL. II.-19*




222   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


followed his father and the horse-dealer, with Rose
in to tea.
"What's the matter, mother?" asked Ted, as
his mother stooped to tuck him up in his little
bed that night.
"Nothing, dear," answered his mother, " only I
was thinking how good Joe l:had been!"
" Well, mother, I would wait till Joe was bad,
before I cried aboult him!" said Ted.
" Ah, Ted," replied his mother, " perhaps you
may know some day what it is to shed a tear for
goodness you don't deserve; for the Lord's goodness, if not for man's!"
"Was that all you were thinking of, mother?"
asked Ted, concerned at the sight of his mother's
tears.
" Well, I was thinking of little Tim, and how
delighted he would have been to see the horse
come back!"
"Well, mother, you need not cry about him;
we read in our class to the Minister, how they
ride on white horses in Heaven! and he is better
off there, mother."
"So he is, dear!" replied Mrs. Smith; and
kissing her boy, she left him to sleep on his pillow,
and turned away to think of her children on
Earth, and her youngest in glory in Heaven.
At last came the bright harvest month, July;
and before the sickle was put to the corn, William




BLACK BEAUTY.


223 


was to return. And Joe got leave of a few days'
absence also, having obtained a berth for Ted
on board a merchant-ship. The two brothers
travelled outside the coach. O what a day was
that for Williamn —all his best hopes fulfilled, and
he returning, after so many years of abse-nce, to
live at home again and farn lhis father's land!
Cliesnut was pltt in the gig, and Ted was to ride
Black Beauty, for William, with the new saddle:;nd bridle. All day the farm hlad been in commotion; Patience scrubbing and cleaning the always
clean house; IMrs. Smnith baking her largest
variety of best aipproved viands; Rose han rgillg
the new little curtains she lhad made at the window
of what was now to be William's rooml; men and
boys gettingc all thlings in tlleir best order-in
plreparation for iMaster WVilliam's return; while
Ted de-oted himself exclusively and entirely to
the groomling of Black BTeauty. Then came the
startilng-tinme; when f'armer Smith drov-e off in the
gig, and Ted —inl blute jacket and stra-w hat-on
Black Beauty, who ambled andcl capered along as
if he knew it to be a festive occasion.
"All! you good old fellow," said Ted, "you
little think who vou will havi-e to bring home
again witlh you!"
Mrs. Smith watched fiorn the door till the gig
and the horse were out of sight, then turned
within to hasten preparations with Rose. The




224  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


coach was still miles away, when 'he gig and
Black Beauty made their halt at the next village
inn; but after long waiting a cloud of dust came
in sight,-then the four grey horses, and men's
hats on the top of the coach. Now Ted had made
Black Beauty stand full in view across the road,
while he concealed himself behind the gig.
"There's father!" said William, and standing
up he seemed ready to spring from the top of the
coach, before ever it stopped at the Inn. And
then in a minute more, he added, " Why, Joe, I declare, if there isn't Black Beauty waiting for some
one! how unfortunate, just when father's come!"
" Oh, father's got all over that now," said Joe,
"and does not mind the sight of him the least!"
William looked at Joe as if he doubted not only
the fact, but also that Joe could suppose forgetfulness possible; but he said nothing, and the coach
stopped, and William was the first to set foot on
the ground, and he wrung his father's hand with
a grasp that said more than words; and thenquite unable to resist the temptation, turned to
speak to Black Beauty. The faithful creature
knew his young master, and had chafed and
stamped after William's descent from the coach
till he turned and laid his hand upon his neck.
" Why, Ted, my boy, what are you doing here?'"
said William, suddenly perceiving his younger
brother.




BLACK BEAUTY.


225


"Holding your horse for you, sir."
"O Ted, Ted!" said William, half-reproachfully; "do you know who the horse is waiting
for?"
"For yon, sir!"
"Come, come!" said William, "no joking
about that! Now, father, if Joe has the luggage,
we'll be off:"
Joe had been engaged in securing the packages
William seemed to have forgotten, and then stepping to Black Beauty's side, Joe took the bridle
from Ted, and putting it in William's hand, said,
"Your merchant-brother, William, has bought
him baclk-the first-fruits of his earnin(s."
"You don't mean it?" said William.
"Yes, Will, but I do; and none can say he is
the worse for being twice bought and sold for the
sake of a brother!"  William looked on Joe-and
that look was enough, but still he said in a low
tone, " O Joe, I little thought of this, when you
were so bent on saving!"  And he sprang on
Black Beauty, who knew his rider, and gently
rearing, darted forward, on-by the well-known
lanes, past the old familiar fields where every
tree and hedge-row seemed to greet his return;
on-out of sight and sound of the tardier steed
behind him, swiftly on, his own horse bore him,
to the home of his heart and toil! There in the
sweet summer evening, his mother stood and




226  M INISTERING CHILDREN.


watched with Rose, not on the door-step. but
beside the garden-gate; while Rover at the first
cadence of Black Beauty's measured trot, bounded
down the sloping greensward, and hearing his
master's greeting whistle, tried once and again to
leap upon his horse, and welcome him there. But
on Black Beauty bore his rider-till he sprang
fiom the saddle to meet his mother's kiss and tear
of welcome, and fold his sister to his heart; while
the horse stood unheld beside him, looking on-as
if with sympathising feelings.
It was finally decided by force of William's and
Joe's persuasions, that as there was yet a fortnight at least before harvest, farmer and Mrs.
Smith should accompany Joe and Ted on their
return to London, to have the satisfaction of seeing
Ted's captain and ship, and for their own refreshment and interest: while William and Rose kept
all in order at home. So they went up accordingly, Ted in high spirits at the prospect before
him, with William's full approval at the attainments he had made; and neither father nor mnother
harassed by any home anxieties to lessen the pleasure of their visit. The novelty of the complete
change was very beneficial to both farmer and
Mrs. Smith. They were most kindly entertained
by their children's friends; the old merchant
receiving them at his country-house to dinner, and
promising Mrs. Smith the first opportunity that
*




BLACK BEAUTY.


227


offered to come down and spend a day or two at
the farm; adding that he should take care to
bring her son Joseph with him, for he was quite
sure he was a son that never went down to his
home without a welcome for himself and all he
took with him!    Mrs. Smith confessed that
London was not so bad as she expected, and
might do very well for people not used to the
country! Joe insisted on paying all the expense
of the visit, which he said was a pleasure his
labour had earned-and that now having bought
Black Beauty, had his parents in London, and
obtained a place on shipboard for Ted-he should
begin life again with fresh spirit. Ted was left
with Joe and Samson, ready to take his place on
board ship as soon as necessary; and f:armer and
Mrs. Smith returned, greatly refreshed and beneftted by the inspiriting change.
On the evening of the day of their return, William
asked his father and mother to take a walk across
the farm with him and Rose, to which they agreed;
William  with gravest composure, walked and
talked at their side; but Rose seemed to find it
difficult to keep their meditative pace; she was
always before them, leading the way, till at last
they came in sight of the two white cottages with
gardens stretching at either end, built by farmer
Smith's mother, and lost by him through means
of the only loan he ever borrowed. Rose slill led




228   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


the way, till her parents had nearly reached them,
then turning round, she looked.Ill expectation at
William.
"0 you secret keeper!" said he, "you tell it
twenty times over! I shall know how to trust
you again!"
"Why, Will, I never said a word!" replied
Rose, coming to his side.
" No, nor much need you should!" he answered,
smiling. And then turning to his father he said,
"There, father, it was grandmother's cottages
kept me this last year in London!"
" Your grandmother's cottages! What do you
mean?"
" Because, father, when I went away from home,
I came the last thing and looked at them, and I
resolved I never would leave business in London
if I could help it, till I had bought them back for
you! I got put from it twice, with getting Joe
up and Samson, but I kept on at my aim. Joe
and I shared one room as we did at home, and no
one would have believed, perhaps, for how little
we managed; but I found last year the man had
no mind to part with them, and I was forced to
offer a higher sum than I had by me, so the purchase was fixed for this year-and I stayed on to
earn it. And now, mother, if farming quite fails,
there's a cottage rent-free for you and father and
Rose, and another beside it for me-and my hands




BLACK BEAUTY.


229


will be able, I should hope, with God's blessirTg,
to earn bread for us all! Thlev are bo)uhrt in
fither's name, and are as much his as tihey ever
were. I knew that wa.rs the best shleaf' I could
reap and bring honle for himn and for yotu!"
This was true-no earthly gift could perhiaps
have so much gratified fil'trmer Simitlh.  lis lmotler's
cottages, left to him by will, lost by debt, and
now restored by his sonl-effacing the memory of
the loss to him so painful, were a tretasured possession indeed!
" There's a refuige then, at least, now, mother!"
said William, as his mother turned silently to take
his arm home.
"' Yes, Will, my son's refuge for me on Earth:
and, I trust, my Saviour's in HIeaven!"
So William returned to his home, and began
life as a farmer again.
VOL. u.-20




XTI.
"lox selteth the solitary in farnflies." —Psalmn, lxviii. 6.
For with the samie mneasure that ye mnete, withal, it shall he meatnred
to you again.1-Luke, vi. 38.
TIE sun rose brigh,,t one summer morning, over
the mnisty village, over the Hall with its long ver.
dant slop)es andi spreading woods, over the farmi
with its barns and stack-s anid sleeping, cattle, over
the lonely cottage, of' Jem-wliere fruitfulness and
luxuriance in trees, vegretables, and flowers, bore
witness to "1 the bauid of the diligent whichl maketh rich." Th~e village was- still asleep, but Jem
wag ill his gafrden, "tighting it up," as lie called
ithough all. look~ed tigrht enough,,and Ileitlier
leaf nor petal, tree or flower, seemed there, on
that bricrltt morning, to show one trace of Earth's
decay. Jera was not watching the sun to tell the
time at which. to start off to tend his sheep; this
was no day of pastoral work for Jem, bitt a day
of rest, anid gladness, and blessingr-it was the
wedding-day of honest faithful Jem. Nearly two
years he had held his new abode; his mnother grew
maore feeble -with advan. agr agre, and Jent thotight
(23o)




JE M'S WE_)DING DAY.           231
to add comfort to her life, as well as to his own,
by the event of thlt day. So thought Jem's aged
mother also; and when the sun sent his first golden
beam through her lattice-window on that bright
1lolrning, she had already left her pillow, and was
preparing to put all tlings " straight " within
doors: and all the while she stirred about with
her best strength, she said within herself, "How
tig(rht and clean SHE will keep all when she takes
cllrge! I iknow she  ill, and comfort me up too,
and learn me a deal more of HIeavenly things than
I can comle at now!"
At the Hall, Mercy was up before the lark had
risen to chlant his first glad song at I-eaven's gate,
and now she llastened down the misty road with
her bridesmraid's attire in a handkerchief on her
arm, to help her grlandmnother put all things
straigrht, and then to hasten on to stand beside
the bride.
Mirs. Smith might have been up since midnight
-for all the sun could tell when he first looked
across the farm, and glanced in radiance through
its uncurtained wvindow-panes. Rose was moving,
worlking, spealkinlg, as quick again as usual-as if
all the laLbour of that day had to be completebefore the day had well begun, Farmer Smlithl was
out ill the fireshelning morning air, a iving directions
to his mlen; and Willilam was helping the yard.
boy sweep the garden-walks, and the path down




232  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


the sloping greensward. And where was Patience
— the faithful servant always at hand when work
was to be done, the faithful servant throught years
of' trial, sorrow, peace,-w-here -was I'atience? —
Kneelingl alone in her charnber, looking up through
its small window to the rosy sky above her head,
thinking on the past, thle present, and the fuiture,
till tears overflowed her eyes, and she hid her face
and wept; then enshrining all her thoughts and
feelings in one fervent tll:llksgiving and prayer,
she went down to the famlnily below:-This was
her wedding-day, and she the afiianced bride of
Jem.
1" There now, child, we don't want you standing
about in the way!" exclaimed Mrs. Slnith, as she
saw Patience looking on, at a loss how to act
without being told. "Go and be after anything
you may want to get done," added MIrs. Smith.
So Patience had her tinme to herself. R'ose at last
-went to put on her bridesmaid's dress; and Alercy
came down to the farm in hers-and she dressed
the bride; and William put on his Sunday suit,
he was to walk by the side of the bride and give
her away in the Church-for she had no relative
on Earth to stand beside her there. But before
they set out, Mrs. Smith said to Patience alone,
" Patience, girl, I know they s-ay black should
should never be worn at a iwedding! but you
won't be ag iinst my wearing that black silk, as I




JEM"S WEDDING D Y.


233


always do on Sundays, for the sake of little Tim?
Not but what I know his robes are as white as
the driven snow, but I did not like for myself any
other colour in silk, and being for him-it could
not tell of an evil to come! I know you won't
mind, but I thought I would just name it beforehand." Patience answered with a tear; for she
too had been thinking of the child, and how he
had been her little comforter there, and how he
loved Jem! and she could not help wishing he
could be with them then, though she knew it was
better to have entered Heaven - safe from all
changes, and sorrow, and sin.
Widow Jones did not go to the Church; nor
would she consent to lock up the cottage and
come to the wedding-feast at the farm. She said
she was wanted "to keep things straight at
home;" whether she knew some mischievons
spider to be lurking in some hole or corner, all
ready to distigure the pattern of neatness she had
finished off within; or whether she wished to
be there to give Jem and his bride her motherly
greeting at the threshold of their home, she did
not say; the only reason she gave was the "keep.
ing things straight," and this one word " straight"
with widow Jones admitted a meaning so full,
and application so endless, that it often might
baffle the learning of most to discover the precise
point she had in view under this word of a use
VOL. nII.20*




234  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


universal! And it proved well that widow Jones
did keep her resolve to "bide in the house," for
reasons far more important than keeping dust or
spiders at a distance, with apron or broom.
A trusty man and boy were in waiting at the
farm, and no sooner was the bridal-party off for
the Church, than Mrs. Smith said to her husband,
" Now, don't lose a minute, for things are quicker
done than you would think for, and they will be
back in no time!" So saying, Mrs. Smith hastened
off with farmer Smith and the trusty man and boy
to the farther barn, where the wedding-gifts had
been placed in readiness by William that morning.
Mrs. Smith looked upon them with fresh satisfaction. Sle had said, " The girl has served me like
a child, and she shall not be sent away like a
stranger!" And no one who looked into the barn
that morning could doubt Mrs. Smith having kept
her resolve. First stood the gift of her mistress
to Patience, the prettiest of young heifers, as black
as a raven's wing, with one star of white on its
brold forehead. Rose had named it " Black
Beauty," after the favourite horse. Mrs. Smith
said, that, as a bit of meadow-land vent with the
cottage, there could be no reason why Patience
should not have a cow of her own, and sell milk to
the poor! which was a thing, Mrs. Smith said,
that wan:ed to be done more than it was; she was
thankful that for her part she could say, that nev r,




JEM'S WEDDING DAY.


235


with her knowledge, had the poor been sent away
with an empty can, when they came up to buy a
little milk for their families, if she had any in the
dairy to supply them. Mrs. Smith knew how tc,
give generously when she did give, and beside the
young heifer, stood a new milk-pail, two milkpans, a cream-pot and skimmer; all these were the
wedding-gifts of her mistress to Patience. But
then Patience had been no common servant-the
nurse and comforter of little Tim, her mistress's
own devoted nurse, when infection and death were
near, and in her service faithful in all things-this
Patience had been, and her mistress was resolved
to testify her sense of it. Next stood tle gift of
Rose to Patience,-a pair of hens of perfect whiteness, with a black cock, all reared on thef.farm.
The fowls were in a basket, chiefly constructed by
the hands of the sailor-boy, his mother bestowed
it on I'atience, having another of a different kind
herself; for she said, that to leave her sailor-boy
out, would look as if he were no longer one of
themselves! In a corner of the barn a little black
pig was enclosed, waiting for his removal to fresh
quarters-tills was farmer Smith's gift to his ser.
vant Jem. Added to these was a new barrow,
made at the village wheelwright's, a famous substitute for the one that Jem had used from a childand which the largest nails would now hardly
avail to hWld together, this was William's present




236   MINISTERING CHIi DREN.


to his fEvourite farml-servant. But these were not
all; MArs. Smith had a maxim which she o&ten
used, applying it variously as occasion served, and
this was the maxim, "There's no good in reiuleir
bering one to forget another!" Accordlingly M.Irs.
Smith said she was not goinlg to o-erlook Jem, as
if she had altogether forgotten the valtue to be set
by his services. What she had saved by his care inl
eggs and young fowls when lie was yard-boy, sile
said she knew pretty well by the loss whenl lis
master took hint away to make him a sheplherdshe had never been able to get tup, or keep, such a
poultry-yard since! But Jeyn should see his mistress had not forgottenl him! And thlere, in (emonstration of the fact, stood a small box containing household linen, bleached and made by AlIs.
Smith. In this same box was a shlawl fi'oni Samson, chosen and bought iby him in his uncle's shop,
and sent down fiom Loii(ion for Patience. While,
from all the great city could offer, Joe had chosen
for Jemrn an engraNving of tlhe Good Shepherd, with
the sheep gathered near Him, -when he said to
Peter, "Feed my Lamnbs;" filamed with a glass
before it, Joe sent it down to gleam firom tle cottage walls of the village shelpherd, -ith its ligoht
of holy and blessed remembrance.
No sooner did Mrs. Symith with hasty step arrive at the barn, than the whole array of gifts
began to receive their dismissal  Farmer Smith




JEM 'S WEDDING DAY.


237


haltered the young heifer and led her himself;
while a tumbril received all the rest, as nicely adjusted as the case admitted of-the boy down in
the midst securing he little black pig, the box in
the barrow, and tile fowls on the top of the box,
while the milk-pail with its bright rims, the dairy
pans, cream-pot and skimmer, were all settled in,
and the tumbril drove off.
Farmer Smith arrived first with the young
black heifer. Widow Jones in the midst of her
business within, was still looking from time to
time from the window, to see what might be happening without. And now she saw farmer Smith
at the stile with the heifer. "Why, if there isn't
our master himself, and that handsome black
heifer!" said widow Jones with surprise; and
making haste from the door, she got down to the
moveable stile just as farmer Smith had lifted it
out to lead in the heifer.  "Well, neighbour,"
said kind farner Smith, in his most cheerful tone,
-which tone always rose up when his words had
to do with gifts or any token of good will," Well, neighbour, I am sure I wish you joy today; though you will just please to remember
that you are growing rich by making us poorer!
I don't mean because the black heifer is to stay as
yours, instead of ours-no, I don't mean it of anything money could have bought-but of her who's
your daughter by this time, if the Minister kept to




238  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


his hour at the church! I made her servant-girl
to my wife, who must choose for herself now-for
I am sure I can't hope to please her so well any
more!" Widow Jones stood in silent surprise.
The black heifer for them! Could it possibly be,
that farmer Smith had led down the handsomest of all his young heifers for her children!
"Come, then," said farmer Smith, "there are
plenty more things on the way, let's make one
safe at a time. You tell Patience, her mistress has
sent her the heifer, with her love and her blessing;
and there's a milk-pail and pans, and a cream-pot
and skimmer, that Patience may sell milk to the
poor; for it's a fact in this village, that the poor
often don't know how to get half a pint, and I
wish that some one would name it to the Squire,
that he might just speak to his tenants about it!"
O with what wondering eyes of delight and of joy
poor old widow Jones looked on, while her master, as she always called farmer Smith, led up the
black heifer and made her fast in the warmlythatched shed! But there was no time allowed
for expressing her feeling; farmer Smith hastened
back to the stile where the tumbril was waiting,
and widow Jones hastened after, and she stood
by while its stores were unloaded. Out tumbled
the little black pig, and the boy jumped down
just in time to secure him: then came the milkpail and milk-pans, the cream-pot and the skimmer;




JEM S WEDDING D.AY.


239


the box tied round with a cord and d:rected; the
handsome white and black fowls; and, last of all,
the new barrow for Jem. Farmer Smith gave the
messages one by one to widow Jones, who stood
listening beside him in the midst of the things;
there she stood in her short-sleeved, half-length,
large flowered, print gown, bought new for the
wedding occasion, and put on first by her that
day, her snow-white kerchief beneath it with its
thick folds in front, and her single-crimped bordered cap, with a scarlet ribbon pinned round itsaving all need of strings, and her white apron
tied on, all ready for whatever on that summerday might befall; there she stood wiping away
with the corner of her apron her fast-starting
tears, as she listened to farmer Smith and looked
on the gifts-all telling the praises, so sweet to
her, of her Jem and his bride! " The box," said
farmer Smith, "will speak for itself when it's
opened, which need not be done till your children
return. The fowls are fiom Rose, her present to Patience; my wife says Patience will know who made
the basket, and she is to keep it for our poor sailorboy's sake. 3My son William had the barrow made
on purpose for Jem; he says Jem is not to think
too much about him in the gift, for he had it made
as much in remembrance of our poor little Tim,
who always took such a fancy to Jem; my son
had a wish that Jem should have something to




240  MINISTERING- CH TILDREN.


serve him through life, in rememb 'ance if the
child. But I must be off, for my wife set her
mind on my being back and knowing the things
safe here, before they returned fiom the Church."
So ftinner Smith saw the little black pig secure in
the stye; and then leaving the man and boy to
help in with the rest, lie hastened back again to
the farm.
Mrs. Smith was impatiently waiting her husband's return, and losing more time by her looks
from the window and door than she gained by
her haste in all things beside. But now seeing
him  ascending the hill she was satisfied; she
heard of the safe bestowment of all, the messages
delivered as she had given them in charge; and
then bringing out farmer Smith's Sunday coat,
she waited in something more like quiet expectation for the bridal party's return from the church.
And now in the distance the party came in
sight. Jem led his bride, Rose and Mercy followed
after, and William beside them. Mrs. Smith gave
one hasty glance into her parlour to be assured all
was right there, then hurried to the door-step to
receive them. Farmer Smith held open the small
garden-gate, and gave them his hand, and blessed
them as they entered; then smiled on Rose and
Mercy, and shut the gate after them all. There
stood Mrs. Smith, in her Sunday gown of black
silk, upright on the door-step; but when Jem led




JEM'S WEDDING DAY.


241


uFp his bride, she stooped her tall figure, and kissed
the cheek of Patience, and led her in herself, as
Nwith a motller's feeling. The water was boiling,
Go the tea was soon made, thb coffee was ready
beforehand; and full of gentlest cheerfiulness they
all: sat down to the -wNedding-breakfast. IMrs.
Smith poured out thle tea and Ilose the coffee;
Jelm and his bride sat on onie side of the tal)le;
and AMercy between ftarner Smith and Willi.am on
the other. No paiiis had been spared in preparing the fetast;. plinl-cake, blaek with richlless,
was placed in the centre; it was 110ot fiosted over
with snow, which the art of the confectioners
alone can accomplish-such borrowed slkill wras
not nlee(led at this wedding-feast, nor would Mrs.
Smith have seen the merit of crusting a cake with
a coating of ice, for a table round.. which oily
affection could gather. Ornaments they hadnature's own. and not wanting in taste of arraugement. Rose had gathered white lilies, and laid
them over and in a circle round the cake which
her mother had made; and strewn on the white
table-cloth, in long winding lines, lay the flowers
of the season reposing; while round the plate of
the bridegroom and bride bloomed a circle of
nothing but heart's-ease. Among the fiail flowers
stood the solid mass of the dishes-a great pie
filled with rabbits, a ham dressed for the occasion,
a fresh-cut cheese from the dairy, with butter
VOL. u.- 21




242   MINISTERING CHILDREN.


made into swans that floated in a lake of water
or reposed on green borders of parsley. Each
corner dish was a large shining loaf, with a circle
of smallest loaves in the plate round it. Cakes
of every description-all home-made, with fruits
from the garden; sweet wine in glass decanters;
and a tankard for ale. While the faces around
looked down on those smiling flowers, and the
fingers of tenderest care still on all sides removed
them-when any change of the dishes might have
pressed on their forms; for the recklessness that
can gather together the fairest flowers of the
Earth, to please the eyes of those who will take
no care to preserve their Heaven-given loveliness.
is not found in the poor man's home, nor in the
dwellings of those who sow and reap the ground
Meanwhile, at the cottage, widow Jones had
scarcely marked the progress of time, intent on
the interest of her newly-arrived charge. L Pretty
creatures!" said widow Jones, "sure enough I
must find them some food!" So stooping down
her aged figure, she cut up some grass and mixed
it witll such leaves as a cow, she well knew would
like, and then strewed it before the black heifer,
who licked the old woman's hand before feeding,
as she used to do the hand of Patience-who had
brought her up from a calf; then, having no corn
of any description, widow Jones crumbled up a
small piece of bread for the fowls, though she




JEM'S WEDDING DAY.


243


said as she showered it over them, that it would
have been a shame on any other day to give them
such food! And finally she cut up a few vegetables for the pig. The creatures all liking their
food, and the notice bestowed on them in their
strange quarters, called after the dear old woman,
till she heard such a lowing and cackling and
grunting, that she hastened back to see after them
again; but at last, quite fatigued, she told them
all, gravely, that they must think she had something else to do than to see after them! and ha-y
ing ventured so far in a reproof for their persevering demands, she returned to the house, and put.
ting the small kettle on the little back-kitchen fire.
made herself a quiet cup of tea, which greatly
refreshed her,-so much so, that after the toil and
excitement of the morning she fell asleep in her
arm-chair. She slept quietly there for some halfhour or more, when a sudden sharp rap at the
door aroused her. "They are come!" thought
widow Jones, as she started up fiom sleep; but
no, it was not her son who opened the door, and
looked in, it was a stranger. " Is this Roodes'
plot?" asked the man. " Yes," replied widow
Jones, rather in alarm at sight of the stranger.
" I suppose you are the mother of the man who
lives here?"  " Yes," said widow Jones, stili
more uneasy. " Then you will please to give your
ton that letter, from Madam Clifford at the Hall,




244  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


and be so good as to show us where to set up this
eight-day clock!"  Widow Jones looked out, and
there at the stile stood a light cart, with another
man in it, and the eight-day clock! But before
she had time time to consider, the men were in
with the clock, and soon fixed on the best place to
put it in themselves, and, finding the old woman
had no objection to their choice of situation, they
set it up at once, observing as they did so, that it
was one of the best time-keepers ever put together;
and before widow Jones had recovered enough
from her surprise to do more than look at the
outside of the letter in her.hand, from that to the
clock, and then back again to the sealed letter, the
men were gone, and the cart, and all out of sight
like a dream-except that there stood the clock,
ticking each moment of time, and over the bright
hands at the top of its face, a coloured picture of
a shepherd-lad with a lamb on one arm, and his
sheep feeding at his feet. It was well widow
Jones had had her cup of tea and her refieshing
sleep, for most surely neither would have been
thought of after the arrival of the clock. "' Then
it's from Mladam herself, for my Jem on his wedding-day!" at last said widow Jones, as she once
more looked at the letter. " Well!" she added,
" if all this is not wonderful, I don't know what
is!" and lifting a thankful look upward, old widow
Jones sat down again in her arm-chair, to consider
all things over before her children's arrival.




JEM'S WEDDING DAY.


245


When Patience at the farm at last turlnd to
take leave, Mrs Smith's pleasant smile was gone,
her lip quivered, and her strong firmn voice faltered.
Patience could not tell her own feeling in words,
but none needed to hear it spoken, her years of
faithful service left no doubt of that. The moment
passed, and the maid and her mistress had parted,
the record of her years in that place of service
was finisled, and nothing of the past could be
altered. How often does that solemn moment
come and go unheeded-a service is ended, a place
left, and the past is supposed to be done with;
buit the record of that past-what is written
there? that moment of parting has sealed it, and
it lies from that time in the hand of the Judge,
until the day, that will bring all secret things to
light, must see it unfolded. In the hands of the
Judge lie the records of the past years of all;
and not one created being can unfold or read
them, still less alter a single word they contain.
Blit tlhere is One, aid only One, to whom they
still lie open-even Jesus the Saviour of sinners;
and earnest prayer to Iim may still avail to get
all the hanld-wi'iting against us blotted out in His
blood; only let us not go thoughtlessly forwardas if those records of the past contained no sentence against us! For Patience the record was
blessed; and she knew the secret of Prayer to
that Saviour, whose blood cleanseth from all sin
TYo IT.-21 -



246  M'INTSTERING CHILDREN.


-blotting out all His people's transgressions, and
making their imperfections perfect. So Patience
had parted in peace, beneath the blessing of
Heaven and of Earth, and was now descending
the hill. Mrs. Smith waited a few moments, looking out of the window, in the effort to recover
composure; then turning to Rose, who was watching beside her, she said, "I wish you would run
after Patience with that," taking a book done up
in paper fiom her pocket, " you know what it is,
I did not feel able to speak abouit it when she
went, as I meant to have done. You can tell her
it's for the sake of little Tim!" Rose took the
book, and her swift steps soon overtook Patience,
who, leaning on Jem, was ascending the opposite
hill. "Patience, mother sends you this, it's a
book of family prayer, like the one my aunt gave
her; she wishes you to keep it fbr the sake of
little Tim; she meant to have given it to you
herself, only she was so overcome at your going!"
Patience took the small parcel, and looking back
at the farm, sent a message by Rose of her duty
and her thanks to her mistress, with the assurance
that they would take it into use every day.
Mercy stayed at the farm to assist Mrs. Smith
and Rose, in the clearing away; and to make
things more cheerful there where she was a favourite with all. And now at length widow Jones,
looking out from above the bright geraniums iv




T Li' X I).: 117 U I I ATXT 11 11 % V


Ministering Children.                             Vol. II, p 246




t
t
I
r
r




JEM'S WEDDING DAY.


2t7


the wintow, saw Jem and his bride at the stile.
Then she opened wide the cottage-door, and stood
just within-while the sheltering vine one side,
and the drooping honeysuckle on the other, softly
shaded the view of her now feeble figure. Patience walked up the path first, and Jeni followed
close after, and the old woman stretched out both
her arms and clasped them round Patience, and
Patience threw hers round the old woman's neck,
and felt for the first time in life, that she too had
a mother! Then as Patience unlocked that close
embrace, the old woman turning to her son said,
"God bless you, my Jemn, and bless us all here
together, for I amn sure 'tis His goodness that
brings such things to pass!" and Jein looked on
as if he felt the sight lie then saw was the best
sight of all. But just then, Jeni started and
stared, for a loud striking clock told the hour,
with a slow decided call upon the attention of all.
"Why, mother! a clock! where did it come
from?"
"Ah! never mind that!" replied widow Jones,
"look lere in this drawer, here's a letter in Madam Clifford's own htand-if that don't tell you all
about it, I am sure that I can't!"
Jem took up the letter.
"But now, child, come, sit down," said the old
woman, turning to Patience. "Why, to think
tfiat you have never been inside the door, and yet




248  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


all these months you have known the place was
just waiting for you!"
Jem had opened the letter, but finding it not
easy to read in a moment of time, he folded it up
for a better opportunity, and turned a.gain to his
bride, and then leaning on the back of her chair,
told his agred mother, who was seated before him,
of the feast their good mistress had made at the
farm; while Patience held closely that treasured
book of prayer, and looked round on her new
abode. What comfort beamed upon1 her firom
every corner; and there lay the large Bible, dear
old Willy's own Bible, of which Jeni had so often
told her! She longed to look on its pages where
the old man had read, but she said nothing then;
and Jem seemed to wish to give her time to look
round: and poor old widow Jones looked so happy
on the two, that sle seemed in no hurry either to
move or to speak.
"' Well," at last Jem asked with his own cheerful smile, " Do you think it looks anything like
what you fancied, and as if you could content
yourself here?"
"Not like what I fancied!" said Patience, looking up, "you never told me how beautiful it was
inside; I never saw such a home as it is for any
like us!"
"Ah, that was all our young Squire's doing!"
said Jem, "and I don't know, but somehow a




JEM'S WEDDING DA'Y.


249


blessinlg seems to bide with it all, for it always
looks as beautiful and cheerful as can be, just as
yoa see it looks now!"
" 1But what a clock that is!" said Patience, ' do
you see that shepherd with the lamb in his arms?
and the clockl is so like ouirs at the fa.rm, it seems
quite natural to look at it!"
1 "Yes," replied Jemn, " I never was more taken
by surprise in my life tllan when it set up striking
just as we had comle in at the door! it seemed as
if it must have a word to say to us also! but I
don't seem to have thought about it vet. I can't
think," added Jem, " what that kind of grulnting
is I hear, I could almost have thought my poor
little pig that I lost had come to litb atgain, to welcome you here!"
Then old widow Jones rose up fiom her chair,
and said, "I advise you to go and see what it is,
and settle your mind about it at once!"  So Jem
opened the door into the baek-litchen, when a
loud shrill crow friom a cock burst on the ear of
Patience.
"You come and all!" said Jem  to Patience,
who ilhastened after him, the ace(l mother following-to the 1)ig-stye; tllere looked up the little
blalck pig, girunting ea,gerly again as if' quite sure
now of a feast; and then turning away fiom Jem
and Patience, looked up at widow Jones, as she,
his kind feeder, arrived at the stye.




250  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


"Why, mother, what a beauty of a pig!' ex.
claimel Jem, " however in the world did you get
it? Why, it's just like one of master's at the
farm!"
"I am not going to tell you everything ill a
moment!" said widow Jones, decidedly; while
the cook, at the sound of pleasant voices, crowed
forth a further announcement of his presence on
the premises. Jem stepped on to the shed and
opened the door, then holding it back, said in
amaze, "Patience, only you look in here!" Pa.
tience looked in; there stood the black heifer,
who at sight of Patience pulled hard at tle rope,
by which she was tied, to get to her side; there
stood the new barrow; the liens and the cock —
in the basket made by the sailor-boy Ted. "N Now,
you just listen," said *widow Jones, "and I'll tell
you all!" So Jem stood there and listened, still
all in amaze, and Patience beside himl-wllile the
black heifer was happly with her h]and which it
licked on both sides.
"I was lhere in the house tlhen," said widow
Jones, " keeping all straighllt -within;  whein, who
should I see but our master leading up tile young
heifer! Out I went; and he told me lie had
brought it f'ro(  our listress,  a present for Patience —foLr her very own, and lie said she was to
have it and sell milk to the poor: and it seemhed
to s'.e wholly a beautiful thing, that she who had




JEM'S WEDDING DAY.


251


been altogether a comfort up there, should come
here to a home and sell milk to the poor! But
that was just what our master saidl; and if you
will believe, there's the -whole concern for the
milking come too! It's all set out in the dairy;
just you come and look." B-ack widow Jones
hurried, and Patience and Jem followed after, to
see the milk-pail witll its bright rimns, the milkpans, and creamn-pot 'ald skininer, all set out in
the dairy. Then, turnling   again, widow  Jones
went on to tell all the history, not shortened the
least by her remlarlks in between tile matters of
fact tlhat she hlad to relate; how the fowls were
firom R-ose; the baslket the sailor-boy's work, and all
that thleir naster hlad said ablout it; and the barrow
for Jem, to se'rve hilm for life, in reinemlbrance of
the love of little Tim. Tlien followed the box
and all its contents-quite new to widow Jones;
the house-linen, the shawl, and the picture; till
Patience could bear up no longer against such
tokens of affection and kindness, and tying on her
bonnet, she said, "I tell you what, Jem, before
ever we do anything more I must go down to the
farmn, and you -with me, and speak about what we
found here!"   So Patience and Jemn returned
again to the farm, and going in by the back-door,
found Mrs. Smnith still busy clearing away; Pa.
tience sat down in the low-backed kitchen chair,
where she sat in tears the day little Tim first took




252  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


notice of her; she could not now speak a A ord,
but, quite overcome, she hid her fhce and Awept,
while Jem stood silent beside her. " Why, 'atience, child!" said irs. Smithll, stopping short
vwth a cloth in her hand wvith which she Awas rubbing up the tankard; " come back so soon! why,
child, what's the matter?"
"It's only your goodness, and master's too,"
sain Jem; "inIdeed it's all over too much for us
both!"
" Well now, if that's all," replied LMrs. Smith,
"you have done and said quite enough, so never
let me hear anotherl word.about thlat, nor your
master either —here he is close by to say tfle same."
"But the black heifer!" said Patience Awithout
looking up; " I am. sure I never could 1have thought
it! I thought I was leaving all the creatures behind, and then, when I got up there —why they
seemed all up there before me!"
" And where could they have been better, child,
I should like to know?" replied MLrs. Smith.
" IIaven't you and Jemn just tended therm all with
that care that nothing seemed to be lost that was
under your hand? You knowr that very well;
and though it's just what every one who has a
right principle would do, yet I was not going to
seemn as if I did not know it, for I did, and your
master no less! Aind I do say, if there's one in
the village who has more of a right than another




JEM'S WEDDING DAY.


253


to sell milkl for the poor, it's just you and Jem!
I know I hlave always taken a pleasuie in that,
and I am pretty sure you will no less; and such a
fancy as we all had for the black heifer-what
could we wish better for her than to live for serving the poor with her milk! Why I am sure I
little thought you would not get over the day
without being down here again! But it's just
your way for all that, and you may be sure I shall
soon come up and look after you; so not a word
more about anything-you remember I have said
it!" And with that Mrs. Smlith made an end of
her reply.
And now in looked Rose and Mercy, both ready
for a walk, all surprise at sight of Patience and
Jem.
"Why, here's Rose and Mercy coming off up
to you, and you not at home to receive the!
There now, be satisfied, and don't shed another
tear over that which comes only as a blessing!"
said Mrs. Smith; and then adding, " Good-bye to
you, my good girl, I don't think any the worse of
you for coming so quick down!" and with fiesh
and livelier parting words than before. Patience
again hastened back to her cottage-home with Jem.
The good mother had set out the tea all in readiness-the picture of comfort. Rose and Mercy
followed after. lRose bearing the round weddincgcake, and Mercy carrying all the white lilies in an
VOL. I1.-22




254  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


open farm-basket on her arm, and a nosegay of the
flowers in her hand. The cake was set down in
the middle of the table, and Rose would do and look
at nothing till she had covered it again with its
lilies-to the admiration of widow Jones. After
visiting all the creatures with Paltience and Mlercy
and Jem, Rose hastened back ag:lili to the fa'rm;
while Jem and his bride, anld his mrother an-d AMercy
sat down at the round cottagle-t;tble. Then Mrs.
-Clifford's letter \was brought out again: and Mercy
knew her mistress's hand- writing, and was able to
read it every word to the pleasure of the whole
party.
Now Jem began to consider how he could get
his duty and his thanks to Madam Clifford; he
consulted with Aercy whether she thoughlt he
might make bold and step up that evening and
ask to speak to the young Squire; or whether he
ought to wait till the next day. Jem's grateful
heart did not like to pass the day over without
offering his thanks; he was dressed also in his
best, which seemed suitable for going up to the
Hall on such an occasion; but still more than this,
Jem had a feeling of not liking to pass his weddilng-day over without so much as a sight of the
young Squire:-he seemed to think that all could
not go so well with him if he went over the day
without a sight of him; so it was decided that
after tea he should walk up. But while they were




JEM'S WEDDING DAY.


2 55


still,,eated round at the table, the cottage-door
wide opei., in tlhat summer afteirnoon, and Jein
seated in fill view of the road, hlie suddenly sta.rted
Ul), saying, 1 Thlere's our youlng Squi r himself at
tlhe stile!"  So Jem hastened out; there Herbert
stood, with a noble do(r waiting beside him.
'Well, Jern," slid the younmg Squire, " I could not
be thle only one not to wish -ou well in a friendly
greeting to-dclay, so I walked down- tilis way, expecting, now I should finld you at home."  Then
Jemn sent his best mnessage of duty.and gratitude
to Madamli Cliflbrd fiOr the lhalidsollest clock, Jem
said, he ever )had seen! And he asked tile young
Squire if he wnould please to walkl in and see how
it stood. Helrbert went in with Jem, and tlhere
hle saw that dwelling of comforlt and peeace; the
tall clock with tile shepllelrd-lad and the young
latmb on his arm palilnted on it; the lily-covered
cake; the aged mothler ill her new ar'ray; and
l'atieiice and lIe'c( beside hler. The young Sqluire
sat down, and the dog sat at his feet and looked
up in his face. Thei lHerbert said, " Jemi, now
you aire a rich manl, rand I thought you mnight
manage to keep a good dog. I      lhad this firom
some distamice for you, one of' the best of his kind,
I believe; lie is a lhuge fellow, but he won't cost
you more, I failcy, than you will be, willil;ng to
spend on him. What do you say to having him
for a helper?"




256   MINISTERING CHIIDREN.


" Well, sir," replied Jem, "to my thinking, he
looks to have sense enough to keep sheep by himself!"
At Jem's wit they all laughed, and the young
Squire was quite satisfied; but he said, " You
must take a little notice of him at first, or I amti
afraid he will run off to me, for I have inade a
great fkvourite of him; we must tie him up for
to night. And see here, I have brought a cord,
for I remembered that you only engaged for a pair
of hands-when I came to you supposing you
furnished with ropes for drawing up the log from
the ditch!" The young Squire went with Jem to
fasten up the dog, and then Jem showed him the
presents received that day; and to be able to show
them to him seemed to double the joy Jeln felt in
them all; and if the black heifer was a treasure
to Patience, what was not the noble shepherd's
dog to Jem-the young Squire's own gift! Then
the Squire heard how Patience was to sell milk to
the poor, and this led him to inquire why there
should be occasion for that; and then he found
from Jem that all the farmers made their milk
into cheese, and so had none to sell, except farmer
Smith; and the Squire made a note in his book
of the fact, and remembered it in years to conle.
Then he left honest Jem with his bride and his
mother in old Willy's cottage-and returned to
the Hall.




JEM'S WED)DING DAY.             257
After tea, while Patience and -Mercy cleared
aw-ay, Jem -went after flood for the creature,,; f ie
longed to tak~e his dog-, with him-, but hie co-,,Id not
venture so soon. Then the sun -went down in the
sky-; and when all the live creatures were provided for, before MINercy returned to the 11ulfl, Jem
opened 01ld Willy's B1ible, and w'hile they all sat
round, hie read the iO03d Psalm, and then. they
knelt down, and hie oftered tip the eve'ning prayer
f'rom the book Mrs. Smith hiad grivel in reinemnbrance of' little Tim. And so closed that bright
sunimer's day.




XIII.
o fl V UC I' 1.0 Tn.
"Whesn the eai heai 1, then it blessed ine; and when the eye saw, It
gave A'ittiess to me: because I delivered the poor that ericil, aInd the
fatherless, and him that bad none to help hini. The blessinig of him
that was ready to perishi caime upon me: andl I caused the widow's
heart to si ng for j oy."-Job. xxi x. 1 1-13.
SOON after the young Squire came of age, it was
necessary to appoint a fresh steward for the estate
on wh-ich he resided, to watch over and receive
tlhe rents of the farms, and for all such affairs as
belong to the office of a farmi-steward. He had
looked forward to this change, and made his ow-n
ed~oice as to who should fill this office-so important in the manner of its exercise to the comfort as
well as to the integrity of those over whomn the
steward was apjpointed to watch. No sooner was
the office vacant than William was sent for to the,
Ilall, anrd it -was offered. to him. Farmer Smnitht's
farm was not large,,and it would be easy for William still to live with his parents, asnsist his father
on the farm, and yet accomplish all that this new
employment would require of hin~i; while the
yearly salary receiv-ed, would mnake the circumistances of his family all hie could (lcsire-for it was
(258)




CONCLUSION.


259


only the difficulty of always being ready with his
rent that kept farmer Smith's mind ha-ssed by
his business. So William gratefully accepted the
offer, and was appointed farm-steward of the
estate.
A year passed peacefully over Patience in her
new abode; and when the summer came againwith its long days and refieshirv fruits, she
received a visit fromn her first master's family;
they came over to spend a day, te 'he joy of all,
-but especially of Esther, who was left for a
month's visit with Patience, till she became so
fond of all country sights and sounds-of the
black cow with its brillminl pail of white-fiothed
milk; the poor women and children coming to
buy of Patience; the wvite liens, and little chickens who flew upon her shoulders; tlle shepherd's
dog and the sheep; and even of feeding the pig
with all that Patience put by in a plate for its
food,-that she returned to her home in the town,
fully resolved on being a faLrm-house servant, and
living some day with Mrs. Smith.
Mrs. Smith had had a trying year with servants;
three times in the course of the year she had been
obliged to make a change; she tried to be patient,
and not to expect too m'uch, but it was all of no
use; she said, she found all the servant girls of
one mind-and that was idleness and finery,
instead uf real honest work! So thoughtless girli




260   MINISTERING CHIIDREN.


came and left a situation, where Patience had
stayed to earn the favor of all. MIrs. Smith \was
quite in despair, and said she saw no help for it
but doing the work herself with Rose, for such
servants were more tr al than all their service was
worth. Patience often came down to the farm on
baking-days, or churning-days, or wasshing-days,
and stayed for some hours to help; alnd these were
pleasant times both to her mistress and herself.
One lay while Patience was busy taking out the
bread from the large brick oven at the farm, Mrs.
Smith being then without a servant, a pleasantlooking woman came up to the door, and asked if
Mrs. Smith were within.
"L Yes," said Patience, and she went to let her
mistress know.
" I daresay it's only a girl after the place!" said
Mis. Smith.
" No, she looks over age to be after that," replied Patience. So Mrs. Smith came down to the
back-kitchen where the woman waited. Mrs.
Smith looked at her for a moment as she stood
there before her, then exclaimed, " Why, Molly!
is it you?"
" Yes, that it is!" replied Molly, " I heard you
were unsettled, and I thought perhaps you would
not be against my coming back to you again, for
I have never made a home in any place since I left
you; and I think if I could but get back here, I




CONCLUSION.


261


should fee1 settled again. I am sure I htave often
repented tlhat I gave up as I did instead of' trying
on a little longer, but I hope I should be wiser for
the future!"
"Well, AMolly!" said Mrs. Smith, " I alw-ats f:elt
I was to blame for your leaving; but I hope
things are better now in some respec(ts, than thley
were; though the child is gone!-you know tllat,
I suppose?"
" Yes," replied MIolly, " I vexed sadly for hiIn;
it cut me up more tlhan anything to have left hiln:
but I hope it was all for the best for him, by what
I heard."
" Vell, Molly, I know you, and you know the
place, and if your mind is to come back, I am sure
my mind is the same, and your master's I can
answer for as well as my own, and therefore there's
no need to say any more words about it."  So
MIolly came back to the f:arm, a more patient servant, to find a more patient mistress; and comlfort
was once more restored to Mtrs. Smith's household
arrangements.
Another pleasant event of this summer was
the  return of the   sailor-boy from  his first
long voyage, fiull of vigor and bodily spirits.
Sun-burnt, and laden with his gifts of love-he
came to (ladden the hearts of all; to shake heartily
every friendly hland-and none were foes with
him; to 'isit every fanmiliar spot; to hold dis



262   M1NISTERING CHILDREN.


course with all the men of village-trade on the nse
he lhad made, or was likely to make, of their arts
-though he had. yet known no shipwreck; to
le:.trn again fromn the lips of thle Minister-to tell
hiln wall:t he had seen and lleard and lone, alld to
listen to his advice for the future.  -e Inmade no
little stir both in the fhrm and village; and then,
hav'ing formed a stirong firiendship with Jemn's
noble dog(, confborted his mnother, and satisfied his
father and William, he went off again-light and
swift, as a bird of 1).sslage, to be tossed once more
on the free crested waves.
Anotlier year passed by, and wheni the next
autmlnn caine, the young Squire had completed his
colle(e liie, and satisfied the i-est hopes of hlis l)oyhood's tntor, and it was underlstood in thle village
that he was going albroad again with his mother.
These tidings gave great disappointment to the
hlopes of those who haltd looked to the comfort of
his residence ainong, them; but having assenmbled
his tenalltry, he told( them that he believed his absence would not be for more than six months, and
that hle hoped to retiurn and live among tllem for
the future. He had no sooner left, tllhan repairs
and alterations were begun at the Hall; and the
mansion, far' firom looking desolate and deserted as
before, was a scene of perpetual life and activity.
Two years of unclouded comifoit lPatience had
enjoyed in her cottage-homie. Jem's aged Inother,




CON CL USU ION.


263


relievld firom all care and toil, had regained fresh
vigo ir and spirits-she was al ways busy in little
ways, alwvays at hand, all-ways reflecting the brighltness of thiat briglt cottage-home. But the winter
of the Squire's absence proved a severe one, and
tile cold seenled suddenly to snap the old wonman's
feeble stemi of life, and she laid down on her bed
to die! 1Patience could not believe, when the
doctor told iher that her mother's death was near.
"Why, it was but a week ago," she said, "rmy
imother w'as up and as cheerful and well as ever
I have known her to be!"  The doctor replied,
"It might be so, but her hours are numbered
now!"   Still P'atience could not believe; she
thought it must be a sudden chill, and that
warmth and care would restore her. She lighted
and kept up, day and night, a bright little fire in
the small glate up-stairs; she made cordials, and
Mrs. Smith calne up ilore th~an once in the clday;
but the old womlan smiled on theml and said, " It's
just sweet to mny old heart to feel you all bent to
keep me still, if you could! but I aml going where
I shall be fatr better off even thllll here-e hough
my last d~ays have been imy best days!" Tnen,
looking up at Patience, slhe said, " You have just
been my evening star, lighting me bomIe-for I
have gathered mlore knowledge these two years
withl you, than I hlad in my whole life before. Let
the thought of' tllat comfort you as long as you




264  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


live! Tem, my son," she added, turning to himn,
"you have been your mother's staff all through
the weariest of her way —which lay on this side
your poor father's grave. God grant your mother's blessing may fEll upon you in the hour of
your need! I know you will take care of IAercy;
she is not fit to stand in this rourgh world alone, it
would soon break her dow-n; but the God of the
orphan will not let H-Iis promise f:lil. It is not
darkness to me; the li(ghlt that has but glimmered
before me so long, shines all lbright around me
now; and I hear the voice of lim liwhlo says,
"Come unto me, and I will give you rest!" So
the widow departed, ancd her chlildren mourned for
her. Miercy was far awa;y witlhl Lrs. Clifolrd in a
foreign land; but tears were shed for old widow
Jones by the eyes of tllose -who owned no tie of
kindr'ed with her. The snow lay deep upon the
ground, and Patience, ill firom tle anlxiety of nursing and the shock of so sudden a loss —having als;o
her infant child to tend-was little fit to venture
to the grave. Jem earnestly persuaded her inot to
go, but Patience would not be persuaded; she
said it was the only respect she could now slhew
to one who had been all a mother couldl be to he;
and to have lost her so sud(lenly-was a trial she
had never so muchl as thought upon! Jeml gave
way, and Patience followed their aged mother to
the grave by his side. But she took c( Id as might




CONCLUSION.


265


have been expected, and was soon confined to her
bed. Rose now came and tended Patience and
the infant, day by day, with gentlest care; and
Mrs. Smith was continually contriving in every
way to minister to her comfort; but, notwithstanding all this care, and Jem's ceaseless anxiety,
the spring was approaching before Patience was
able to leave her bed and sit down stairs in old
Willy's arm-chair.
But the cheering spring advanced-the frost
gave way before the sun's warm beams, the flowers
raised their heads above theirs wintry graves, the
birds looked down from tree and hedge and sang
a welcome to them; new life and vigour came
slowly back to Patience, and comfort to the heart
of Jem. Patience had not yet milked her cow
since her illness, nor stood in her dairy to help
the poor people who came, nor walked down once
to the farm; but the spring had set foot on the
Earth, and the Earth was rejoicing at its presence,
and Iatience felt that her life was reviving. And
now all her anxiety was to go to the Church for
the Sunday's service; she said she knew when she
had once been there she would seem to be well
again, and able to milk her cow and attend to all
her home-work. But Jem was firm now, he had
sorely repented having suffered Patience to attend
their mother's funeral, and he now resolved to act
prudently. At length, as May was giving place
VOL. I.-23




266  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


to June, the very last Sunday in the month da,vned
as soft and lovely a day as the spring-time ever
beheld. Jerm could not refuse Patience her wish
on such a day; so, wrapped up, and leaning on
the arm of her husband, with steps more feeble
than she had expected them to be, while Rose
stayed with tle infant in the cottage, Patience
went to the afternoon service in the Church.
The Minister-their own M3inister, preached a
Missonary sermon; -ind wheni lie told of the poor
heathen without God-because without Christ,
and therefore without hope in the world, Patience
thought she could feel something of wlhat it must
be to live, sicken and die, without one glinmpse of
Heaven, one hope of entering there! Shle thought
of her dying mother's peace, she thoughtt of her
husband's Christian life, she thought of her child
baptised in her Saviour's Name, she thought of
her own faith and hope-and she longed to do
something for the poor heathen as a token of her
thankfulness to God, and her pity for them. But
what could she do? Their mother's funeral, and
the doctor's long attendance on her, had taken all
Jem's savings. Jem's last week's wages were all
spent on the Saturday except one shilling, which
he had in his pocket, and that she would not ask
him for, because perhaps he might be thinking of
giving it himself. If Patience had known of the
collection, she would have tried to save something




CONCLUSIO ON.


267


back for it on the Saturday; lut Jem had not told
her - most likely he had forgotten it himself.
What could she do? Patience had still one treasure, a possession in money that she always kept
with her. She had kept it through want and distress, through trouble and sickness, thr( ugh prosperity and comfort: she had thought to keep it
through life, and that nothing would ever win it
fiom her-it was the Lady's half-crown, the first
gift she had ever received from the hand of love;
her first knowledge of tenderness was bound up
with that gift; and she had kept it, as her treasured possession, througl  all her life's changes.
But now the call to part with it entered her heart
-it seemed to come fiom    Heaven, and Earth
seemed to repeat the same call-" Is it too much
for you to give up, to send the Name of your
Saviour to those who never heard the blessed
sound of pardon and Heaven through Jesus
Christ?" Patience felt the question deep within
her heart, and she resolved - "No, I will part
with it for that!"  But now a trial of her resolution came, Jem crossed fiom the men's benches,
after service, to her and slipped their remaining
shilling into her hand, saying, "It's all we have,
so you must give it!"
"No," replied Patience, ';I have something
besides, you must give that '" Jem looked at her,
as if thinking she must be mistaken, but seeing hef




268  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


decided, he took the shilling, and put it himself
into the plate as he passed out. Patience followed
slowly, and dropped her half-crown into the same
plate, then, as if in a moment, her heart seemed
lightened and her steps strengthened. -Her husband was waiting for her outside the door, and
she walked home by his side.
The sky that Sabbath afternoon was beautiful
before them as they descended the hill. VWhen
they reached their peaceful cottage the door stood
partly open, and they heard the voice of Rose
singing to their infant; she ]lad reached the last
verse of the " Cradle IHymn," and the parents
heard her clear voice breathing their hearts' desire
and hers over the infant sleeping in her arms," May'st thou live to know and fear Him,
Trust and love Him all thy days;
Then go dwell for ever near Iim,
See His face and sing His praise!"
The father and mother entered their cottage;
the kettle was boiling on tlhe wood-fire, the tea
was set ready on the round table, and all looked
the picture of repose. Rose hastened back to tlhe
farm; and Jem-with lighter heart and brighter
face than he had had for many a day —at down
with Patience to their cheerful tea. No cloud of
troubled feeling hung over Patience-the personal
sacrifice that is made to God gives a present as




CON C LUSION.


269


well as a future reward; and Jem could scarcely
believe the change for the better he saw in her.
It seemed as if the Lady's piece of money-that
gift of tendcrness,-true to the feeling which
bestowed it, was not only to possess a power to
soothe through years of trial, but, when at last
parted from, was to yield more present comfort
and peace, even than when possessed; wHile the
endless fiture alone can make manifest the results
of what is so given, as this treasured possession
of Patience-in love, and faith, and prayer!
From that first Sabbath at Church, Patience improved daily in health. Their infant, little Peace
by name, grew strong and merry when more with
its mother in the open air. Patience could not at
once recover her strength, yet the home of Jem
again wore its cheerful aspect.
When May had given place to June, the preparations at the Hall were completed. All that was
the work of the builder's art had been renewed,
or fresh adorned; only one room had been left
unentered by the repairer's step-it was the room
that had been his sister's which Herbert had made
his own, affection invested the faded adornments
of that room with more attraction than any power
of art could have imparted. Around the mansion,
the stately trees and verdant slopes wore as fresh
an aspect as when they first put on the emerald
brightness of the spring. Tidings had arrived in
VOL. n.-23*




270  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


the village, of the Squire having been married
abroad: and now the day was fixed for his return,
with his bride and mother, to the Hall.
The appointed day arrived, and the early stir
of preparation was general. No gifts had been
ordered by the Squire to celebrate the event;
well he knew that his presence-his heart, and
mind, his eye, and voice-would be a gift more
prized than any, by villagers whose affections had
grown around him fiom his boyhood. But orders
were given by him for all the park-gate, to be
opened, that those who wished might receive him,
on his return to reside among them, there, where
he first had parted from them at his father's side.
None were slow to go forth to the welcome-all
dressed in festal garments, with the look of expectant gladness, they waited and watched. The
tenantry had gone forward on horseback, a few
miles; while William, steward of the farms,
mounted on Black Beauty, stood at the grand
entrance-gate. Four had been named as the hour;
and now it struck from the great stable-clock.
Then the scattered groups stood up fiomn the
greensward; and children took their parents'
hands in questioning excitement. William rode
on Black Beauty-wvho chafed at his long holding
in-once down the broad walks of the Park, and
shouted a request that all would stand off at the
arrival, then back agair quickly to his post at the




CON C LUSIO N.


271


great entrance-gate. Ringers had been stationed
by William in the first village-church where the
Squire had property, anrd as soon as the long line
of tenantry returning and escorting the Squire
were seen fiom that village-steeple, the bells were
to stlrike up a peal. A watcher was set on the
tower of the next village-church, and as soon as
he hleard the signal of approach, the solitary bell
in that tower was to send on the tidingrs-over
hill and valley, over the green waving corn and
the yet unniown grass-to a watcher on the tower
of their own village-church, then were their own
bells to ring out the welcome heard from flr.
All hushed their breath to listen for the first
distant sound-too impatient to wait for nearer
tidings, trusting to catch from their firiendly hills
an echo to the first joyous peal. And who could
wonder? Had not he, who now drew near, made
their sorrows and joys their welftare and hlappiness,
his own?-not by general dispensations of kindness, but by that frank and personal intercourse,
which binds the heart with the tie of devoted
aibection-a tie far stronger, far higher and deeper,
than that of mere pelsonal gratitude for favours
received. Had they not seen his warm feeling
gush fortlh,-seen his active sympathy spring to
the surface at the sighIt or hearing of trouble or
sorrow of theirs? Was not the quick glance of
his boyhood's eye, his generous utterance, familia,




272  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


to many assembled there? Who would not come
forth to receive in his manhood, the boy who had
toiled in the ditch over old Willy's log, —wvo had
climbed the thatcher's ladder to lay in an armful
of straw, in the eager gladness of his heart at
effacing the neglect of the poor man's oppressor!
The whole village might have received gifts on
some stately occasion, in some stately manner, by
the boy provided with the means for the large
bestowment; but it would not have bound thd
heart of the village to that boy like one free sponstaneous effort-such as Herbert's had been, bearing witness to his self-forgetfulness in the poor
man's distress. And was he not the brother of
her who, to them, had seemed an angel upon
Earth? Had he not followed in her gentle steps
with his manly power-when once aroused to a
sense of their blessedness; and had not the light
of her life shone reflected on them? Then might
the deep well-spring of feeling that had followed
her to Heaven, break forth again to welcome his
return to his home! True loyalty is happily a
contagious emotion, and many a heart beat quicker,
and many a cheek glowed with feeling that day,
in those that did but estimate the event by the
expectation of others.
The servants had now gathered to the door;
the men, in their livery of dark blue and white,
stood in two lines extending one on each side the




CON CLUSION.


273


steps; while the maids stood assembled in the
entrance-hall. Again and again some eager listener
said, "I heard the bells strike up-I am pretty
sure I did!"  But, no, it could not have been, for
their own village tower stood still silent. At
length William, the iarl-m-steward, turned Black
Beauty's head round, and( facing the people and
the servants, waved his hat above his head, then
replacing it, turned instantly back again, standing
sideways by the gate —he had caught the sound
of the distant peal! BIre:tlhlessly the people now
listened, and in a few minutes more their own village chime struck full on the ear, then the throng
pressed side by side, as near as might be to the
broad carriage sweep, while on pealed the bells;
till the sound of many trampling hoofs was heard
along the road. Still on they rang, till fill in
sight came the travelling-carriage, with its four
horses and blue postilions; then the people raised
a shout, and the tenantry who followed lifted their
hats and joined the welcome cheers; through the
great gate the carriage dashed, and William held
his hat above his head, scarcely able to restrain
Black Beauty's excited spirit; and his eye glanced
up from his master's face, to where young Mercy
sat behind-the village maiden back from the
foreign land, pale with her own deep feeling, and
the sound of that thrilling welcome. The carriage
stopped at the Hall-door, and the tenantry dis.




274  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


mounted and held their horses in hand. The
Squire stepped from the carriage, and led his
mother in to the care of her faithful servants;
then returning handed out his Lady, and waving
his hand to the people, led her within. William
riding up, dismounted, and slipping Black Beauty's
bridle over his arm, tool down the orphan Mercy
fiom the carriage with a brother's softened welconme-she wore mourning for the grandmother
lost in her absence, who had filled the place of both
parents to her, and her eyes were filled with the
tears of mingled feelings. Then a servant brought
a message to William from the -Tall, and he instantly mounted Black Beauty again, and riding down
the walks shouted, "The Squire begs you will be
seated on the grass."  Servants quickly appeared
bearing between them trays of cake, and baskets
filled with bottles of wine, all prepared by the
Squire's orders in readiness beforehand. Then
rising, the people breathed-not with a shout'but in a low murmur, a blessing on the head they
had seen from its childhood uncovered beneath
their roofs and among them; a blessing on the
Squire's Lady; and a blessing on his mother.
The Squire stood at the open window looking
down upon them and hearing the thrice-repeated
blessing; and his Lady at his side; and his heart
filled with thankfulness that his tenants and de.
pendants were his friends. Then the Squire turned




CONCLUSION.


275


away from the window, and the pe 5ple took their
refreshment all seated on the grass, till the Squire
came out, and his Lady on his arm; they stood
on the first Iall-step, and the people rose in
silence, and he said in a voice not loud but clear
-a voice whose tones were all familiar, "God
bless you, my fiiends, and enable us to retain
your affection. We thank you for your welcome."
And then he came down with his Lady; and he
passed slowly among the people with his friendly
greeting, and his Lady at his side-and all the
time the village-bells rang out the same glad
peal.
The eye of the Squire soon sought out Jem,
well he knew his heart would be among the first
to welcome him there, but he could nowhere discover his figure. At last he saw him, with his
dog close behind him, his infant on his arm, and
Patience at his side, at the farther edge of the
assembly, so lie made his way up to him. The
dog knew the Squire, and sprang forward to greet
him, and leaped up licking his hand, and the Squire
earessed him as he passed on to Jem, and said in
his kind cheerful tone, " Well, Jem, do you pre.
tend to be the last to welcome home your fiiend?"
hIis beatifitl Lady stood beside the Squire, and
said with a smile, " I know the name of Jem! Is
this your wife and child?" When Patience heard
hei speak she looked up at her face, then falling




276  MINISTERING CIILDREN.


on her knee, she caught hold of that Lady's dress
and, pressing it to her lips, looked up again into
her face, exclaiming, " 0 dearest Lady!"-It was
the Lady Gertrude! And fiint with long standing and overcome with feeling, poor Patience fell
back upon the arm of Jem, who laid her gently
on the grass, and knelt beside her. The Squire
said, "Bringw water! And fetch the gamekeeper's
light cart to carry her home!" And Jem looked
up and said, " She has been ill for months, and
was but just getting over it, only I persuaded her
to come with me to-day,-but it's been all over
too much for her!"   And the Lady Gertrude
looked on the pale face of Patience-pale with
her late long illness, but she saw no trace there
of that early misery, that had left its impression
so strongly in her heart-she did not know her to
have been that child! Women had gathered
round, Mrs. Smith and Rose were by this time
with Patience, and the Squire and his Lady passed
on; but as they returned towards the Iall, the
Lady Gertrude said to the Squire, " They are still
there, let us ask how Jeni's wife is now;" so they
stopped and the little close-gathered circle opened,
and the Lady Gertrude said, " How is she now?"
Patience was still seated on the grass, leaning oni
the arm of Jem, but she had revived, and now
seeing their Lady again, she said, "0, Jem, she
is not gone! ask if I may speak to her?"  And




CON CLUSION.


277


the Lady Gertrude heard the words, and saw the
flush suffuse the cheek of Patience, and kneeling
on one knee upon the grass, beside her, she laid
her hand upon the clasped hands of Patience, and
said, " You are better now, you will soon recover
this!" But Patience looking up said, " 0, forgive
me dearest Lady! I was that pool child you comforted! it was you that first put feeling into my
froze-up heart! and I thought I should never have
seen you again, and then to see you stand thereit wholly overcame me!" Tears came to that
Lady's eyes, and she said, "Are yoa indeed the
same? then I am come to live near you now, and
and as I saw you in sorrow, so I hope I shall often
see you in joy! You may be sure I shall soon
come to your cottage!"
Jem had heard all about the love of Patience
for that heavenly child that had come to her in
her misery, and he looked upon that beautiful
Lady kneeling there, with eyes of reverence and
wonder; and tears were in the Squire's eyes as
he stood there-but he did not speak a word; and
Mrs. Smith and Rose with little Peace in her arms,
and the women standing round-looked on astonished; but the light cart drove up, and the Squire
returned with his Lady to the Hall, and Patience
was taken back to her home, and so her heart's
long desire was fulfilled-beyond all she had ever
thought; and she quickly recovered strength, and
VOL.:I.-24




278  MINISTERING CHILDREN.


the voice of joy and health was heard again in het
dwelling.
Waggons and carts carried home the rejoicing
people; and those near at hand returned on foot.
And now the sun went down, and the long soft
shadows fell over lawn and wood. Mrs. Clifford
stood at the window with her children, and gazed
on the slopes where the welcoming throng hao
been, and said, " It was too much for me to looupon, but not too much to feel the deepest thank
fillness for!" and her son looked on her in answer
ing tenderness. And then the Squire asked his
Lady, if she missed the mountains fiom the landscape, that she had been used to fiom her childhood! And she replied, " 0, human hearts are
better than the hills, and stronger too in their encircling power! I know not where on Earth I
could be so happy as here. And meeting, the
first thing, with that poor child, whom I have
thought of in her sorrow through so many years.,
seems to me a bright earnest of good." The sun
went down, and the fervent feelings of that day
reposed in the quiet of' night's restful hours.
And now we must take leave of our ministering
children,-who have all outgrown their childhood;
-to write of and for childhood being all that we
promised fiom the beginning. We have only to
ask the children who read this story, whether they




CONC LUSION.


279


are also ministering children? This story has
been written to show, as in a pictilre, what ministering children are. There is no child upon Earth,
who may not be a ministering child: because the
Holy Spirit of God, even the blessed Comforter
Himself, will come to every one who aks for Him.
Even the beloved Son of God, when lIe cane
down fiom Heaven to earth, came to minister to
those who were in need-HIe IHimself tells us so.
And God sends Iis holy angels down to Earth to
be ministering spirits here. The youngest child
of God who is able to understand anything, can
learn to be a ministering child! therefore, all who
plray to God as their HIeavenly Father, nmust try
in every way they can to minister to others; and
then one day they will go where there is no want,
and no sorrow, and no sin, but only fullness oi
joy and pleasures for evermore-in their Ieavenly
Father's presence in glory; and there they will
see those whom they comforted, and taught to
know the love of God their Saviour upon Earth.
" And so shall they be ever with the Lord;" "and
God shall wip)e away all tears from their eyes;
and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow,
nor crying, neither slhall there be any more pain;
for the former things will be passed away."  Rev.
xxi. 4.


END OF VOL. II.








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