PR0NTI8PIE0E. 
 
 p. 25 
 
MINISTERmG CHILDREN : 
 
 ^ Sale 
 
 DEDICATED TO CHILDHOOD- 
 
 BY 
 
 MAPJA LOUISA CHAP.LEoWOR' 
 fi 
 
 A-urnoB or 
 
 " England's yeoiten," " mixtsiry of life," " suxdat xtteekoons m 
 
 THE XURSEIIY," " COTTAGE AND ITS VISITOR," "AFRICA'S MOUK- 
 TAIN VALLEY," "THE BEAUTIFUL HOME," ETC. 
 
 "EYen a child isknoxrn by his doings, whether his work be pure, and wh«tuer ll 
 be right,'" — Pboveebs xx. 11. 
 
 "Doctrlnei are the pillars of a discourse.— Illustrations ars tha tdndowa that let la 
 tte light" 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, 
 
 No. 530 BROADWAY. 
 18G7. 
 

PREFACE. 
 
 Difficulty being sometimes felt in training chil- 
 dren to the exercise of those kindly feelings which have 
 the Poor for their object, it was thought that an illus- 
 trative tale might prove a help toward this important 
 end. It must be allowed by all, that the present is a 
 day of increased exertion in behalf of those who are in 
 need ; but much care is necessary that the temporal 
 aid extended may prove, not a moral injury, but a 
 moral benefit, to both the receiver and the communi- 
 cator of that aid. May it not be worthy of conside- 
 ration, whetheT* the most generally effective way to 
 msTje this moral benefit on both sides, would not be 
 the early calling forth and training the sympathies of 
 chiMren by personal intercourse with want and sorrow. 
 while as yet those sympathies flow spontaneously. Let 
 the truth be borne in mind, that the influence of the giver 
 far ^ixceeds that of the gift on the receiver of it ; and it 
 vCLuat surely then be admitted, that in all aid rendered 
 
 101692 
 
ir PREFACE. 
 
 to others, the calling into exercise the best feelings of 
 the heart, in both the giver and the receiver, is the 
 most important object to be kept in view. To this end 
 it is necessary that the talent of money be not suffered 
 . assume any undue supremacy in the service of 
 jjnivolence. Let children be trained, and taught, a,nd 
 led aright, and they will not be slow to learn that they 
 possess a personal influence every where ; that the first 
 principles of Divine Truth acquired by them, are a 
 means of communicating to others present comfort and 
 eternal happiness ; and that the heart of Love is the 
 only spring that can elSectually govern and direct the 
 hand of Charity. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 •*Ohl say not, dream not heavenly notes 
 
 To childish ears are vain; 
 That the young mind at random floats 
 And can not catch the strain. 
 
 Dim or unheard the words may fall, 
 
 And yet the heaven-taught mind 
 May learn the sacred air, and all 
 
 The harmony unwind." 
 
 "And this Is the confidence that we have In Him, that, if we ask any thing acoari- 
 ing to His will, He heareth us."— 1 John, v. 14. 
 
 fTlHE chimes of the great church clock in a large old town 
 -*- were playing a quarter to nine, on a bright September morn- 
 ing, when a little school-girl, shutting her mother's door, came 
 stepping down the long dark flight of stairs at the top of which 
 she lived ; she wore no shawl, or cloak, or bonnet ; a frock of 
 dark brown stufi", a little white linen apron tied roimd her waist, 
 a white linen tippet, and a little fine linen cap with a singlo 
 border crimped close round her face ; this was the little school- 
 girl's dress. Her name was Ruth : and on her arm she had 
 hung her green baize bag with her Bible and school-books. 
 
 1 
 
2 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " Good-by, mother," slie said : and shutting the door, stepped 
 slowly down the dark stair-case, while her little white figure 
 lighted up its gloom. When she reached the ground-floor of 
 the house, she heard a low faint moan, as of some child in 
 pain ; she stopped a minute to listen, and heard it again. The 
 door at the bottom of the stair-case stood a little way open, 
 and Ruth had sometimes seen the widow woman and her child 
 who had come to live in that room ; and when she heard the 
 moan again, she looked into the room, and there she saw the 
 child in bed. 
 
 " Are you ill?" asked Ruth. 
 
 " Yes," said the child ; " and my pain is so bad ! and I have 
 nobody to be with me." 
 
 " Won't your mother come ?" asked Ruth. 
 
 •' No, mother 's got a day's work ; she won't be home all 
 day ; and my pain is so bad ! I wish you would stay with 
 me." 
 
 " I must go to school," said Ruth, " but I will ask mother 
 when I come home, to let me stay with you a little." 
 
 " do ! and make haste, do make haste ! I don't like to be 
 left alone." 
 
 Ruth went on her way to school. The sun was shining 
 bright, and its warm rays beamed on her face, which was 
 almost as white as the little crimped linen cap that pressed 
 closely round it. Merry children, boys and girls, ran shouting 
 and playing past her ; but she walked slowly on her way to 
 school, and went up the high steps, and in at the school door, 
 as the great church clock was striking nine. A good mark 
 was set down in the book against her name, and she went to 
 her place on the form. 
 
 Lessons went on for an hour, and the great church clock 
 struck ten. Lessons went on for another hour, and the great 
 
I. 
 
 ^ ^ OF THE 
 
 C 
 
 MIVERSITY 
 
^ MINISTERING CHILDREN. 3 
 
 cnurcL clock struck eleven. Then a lady came into the 
 school, and called the second class to come to her. The chil- 
 dren gathered round her, and Ruth was one of them ; they 
 got their Bibles and stood before her, and little Ruth had the 
 place that was always hers, close by that lady's side. Ruth 
 did not answer so many questions as some of the other chil- 
 dren; she never spoke unless she was asked, and then she 
 answered so softly, that no one but the lady heard ; but the 
 lady always seemed to smile at Ruth when she did answer, as 
 if she had answered right. When the great church clock 
 struck twelve, the lady went away ; and the children put up 
 their books into their bags, and went to their homes. Ruth 
 could not stay with the sick child till she had asked her 
 mother ; but she thought she would just look in, and tell her 
 she was come back. Ruth looked in, and the child was ^ying 
 quite still in bed ; she did not speak, so Ruth went up and 
 stood beside her. 
 
 " Oh ! I am so glad you are come !" said the poor child ; 
 " what a long time it was you kept at school ! Oh ! I want 
 something so bad ! I can't eat this bread mother left me , it 's 
 80 hard, it hurts me when I try." 
 
 " I have not had any food to-day," said little Ruth. 
 
 "0 dear," said the sick child, " how bad it is ! what do you 
 do when you have no food ?" 
 
 " I tell Jesus," said httle Ruth. 
 
 " Who do yQu tell ?" asked the poor child. 
 
 " Jesus," said little Ruth. 
 
 " Who is Jesus ?" asked the poor child. 
 
 " What I don't you know who Jesus is ?" said little Rutli. 
 '' I thought every body knew that except the poor heathen. . He 
 Is our Saviour ?" 
 
 "Does He give you some food ?" asked the poor child. 
 
4 MINISTERING CHILDREN, 
 
 "O yes, He often sends us some food when mother haa 
 nothing : but I must go to mother now, or she will scold." 
 
 " Do ask her to let you come and stay with me," said the 
 poor child. 
 
 "Yes, I will," replied little Ruth ; and she went up the high 
 stair-case to her mother's room ; she did not run with light 
 quick steps, like children generally ; but she went up slow and 
 faint ; for it was not one day alone, but many days, that little 
 Ruth went to school without food. She had lost her own 
 father : the father she now had was not her own father, and 
 he thought only of himself and his own wicked pleasures, and 
 left his wife and her children without food. But little Ruth 
 had learned to pray ; the lady who came to the school taught 
 her from the Bible ; and she had learned to know the love of 
 God her Saviour; she loved and trusted Him, and, as she 
 said in her own words, when they had no food "she told 
 Jesus." 
 
 When Ruth went into her mother's room, she saw on the table 
 a can of steaming soup. " mother ! is that for us ?" she asked- 
 
 " Yes, to be sure it is. Miss Wilson sent it in this minute." 
 
 Miss Wilson was the lady who came to the school. Ruth 
 had not told Miss Wilson about their having no food that day *, 
 so when she saw this can of hot soup she knew it was Jesus 
 her Saviour who had put it into Miss Wilson's heart to send it 
 to them. The poor babe was asleep on the bed ; but Mary, 
 Ruth's little sister, was standing at the table crying to be fed. 
 Then the mother got a bason, and poured it full for Mary There 
 was meat, and rice, and potatoes in the nice hot soup ; and poor 
 little Mary left oflf crying directly she had her spoon and began 
 to eat. Then the mother poured out a larger bason for Ruth, 
 who stood quite patient by the table. Ruth waited a minufc€ 
 with her food before her. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 5 
 
 " What are you waiting for now ?" asked her mother ; " I 
 have nothing more for you." 
 
 " No mother ; but that widow's child is laid in bed ; she says 
 her pain is so bad, and her mother 's out working, and she wants 
 me to sit with her." 
 
 " Poor thing !" said Ruth's mother ; " well, take your dinner, 
 and then you may go a little while if you like." 
 
 " She has no food, mother, but a hard bit of bread, and she 
 says she can't eat it, because it hurts her." 
 
 " Oh ! and so you want to be after giving her some of yours, 
 do you ? here, give me yonr bason then, and you take this jug." 
 And Ruth's mother, pouring some more soup into the broken 
 jug she had taken for herself, gave it to Ruth. " There, take 
 care how you go, that you don't lose it now you have got it !" 
 said the mother. And Ruth, holding the jug in both hands, 
 went slowly and carefully down stairs. How happy was she 
 now — in her hands she held the food she so much wanted ; and 
 the poor sick child, left all alone, was to share it with her and 
 be happy also ! As she got near the bottom of the stair-case 
 she stepped quicker in her eager haste ; then, pushing open the 
 door, she went in saying, " See here, Miss Wilson sent us this 
 beautiful soup, and mother 's given me some for you !" 
 
 " dear, how nice ! how glad I am !" said the poor child. 
 
 " Have you got a bason ?" asked Ruth. 
 
 " Yes, there 's one in that closet, and a spoon too," said the 
 child. 
 
 Ruth found a small yellow bason and a spoon : she broke up 
 the child's dry bit of bread in the bason ; poured some of the 
 hot soup over it ; folded her hands, and asked a blessing in the 
 name of Jesus ; and then the two children dined together. The 
 warm nourishment brought the color to the white cheeks of 
 little Ruth, and soothed the poor, faint, weary child. " How good 
 
6 MINISTEJIING CHILDREN. 
 
 you axe to me !" slie said to Rutli. " I feel better now ; I ^ink 
 I shall go to sleep." Ruth put away the bason in the closet 
 again ; the sick child had closed her eyes, already almost slum- 
 bering ; and the little ministering girl went back to her mother. 
 
 A day or two after, as Ruth came in from school, the sick 
 child's mother was going out, and she stopped and said to Ruth, 
 " My Lucy told me how good you were to her : the God above 
 bless you for it ! She is always calling out for you ; I wish you 
 would stay a bit with her when you can, just to pacify her." 
 
 Ruth's mother gave her leave to take the babe down and 
 nurse it in the poor child's room — where she still lay on her 
 wi'etched bed, covered with a torn counterpane. Ruth walked 
 up and down to quiet the babe and get it to sleep ; she hushed 
 and hushed it, but that would not do ; so at last she began to 
 sing one of her school hymns in a low voice, 
 
 " Jesus, refuge of my soul, 
 Let me to Thy bosom fly." 
 
 The sick child listened ; the low sweet singing soothed the 
 infant to sleep, and the sick child into quiet feeling. " Is that 
 Jesus you sing about, who you ask for food ?" said the poor 
 child. 
 
 " Yes," replied Ruth, " that 's Jesus our Saviour ! I can sing 
 you something else about our Saviour, if you like." 
 
 " Yes, do," =iaid the poor child. And Ruth sang — 
 
 " "We read within the Holy "Word 
 Of how our Saviour died ; 
 And those great drops of blood, 
 He shed at eventide." 
 
 Over and over again, while she rocked the sleeping baby, she 
 Bang the same soft words. When she stopped, the sick child 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 7 
 
 Raid, " I can 't read ; I never went to scliool long enough to 
 leam.'^ 
 
 " What, can't you read the Bible ?" said Ruth. 
 
 " No, I can't read any thing ; I don't know any thing about it." 
 
 " I can tell you all about it," said Ruth. " I know such a num- 
 ber of stories out of the Bible ! Miss Wilson tells them to us, 
 and sometimes we tell them to her. And I know a great many 
 verses, and some chapters and Psalms.' 
 
 " I like stories best," said the poor child. 
 
 " Well, then, I will tell you one. Let me see, which shall I 
 tell you ? Oh ! I know, I will tell you about the little lamb ! 
 Once there was a good man, his name was David ; he was not 
 at all old, he was quite young; and he didn't live in a town 
 like this, but he lived in beautiful green fields, and on greai 
 high hills, where the flowers grow, and the trees, and where tLe 
 birds sing. He was quite young, but he loved God, and Jesus 
 our Saviour. And he prayed to God. And when he saw the 
 stars come out in the sky, he thought about Jesus our Saviour, 
 who lives up above the stars in Heaven, and he wrote about 
 Him in the Bible. He lived alone on the great high hills ; and 
 God took care of him ; and he had a great many sheep and 
 lambs, and they all ate the grass and were so happy ! and he 
 took care of them all. But one day there came a great roar- 
 ing lion ; he came so quiet ; he did not make any noise ! and 
 he too'k a little lamb in his great mouth and ran so fast away ! 
 but the little lamb cried out, and David heard the little lamb, 
 and he ran so fast that the great lion could not get away ! and 
 he caught the great lion and killed him ; and he took the little 
 lamb in his arms, and carried it quite safe back to its mother. 
 Is not that a pretty story ? And I know what Miss Wilson tells 
 OS about it !" 
 
 " What does she lell you ?" asked the })Oor child. 
 
8 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " Slio tells US, that it is just like Jesus our Saviour ; vfheu 
 Satan the great roaring lion tries to take us away, if we pray 
 to Jesus, Jesus won't let him have us ; but Jesus will take us 
 up safe in His arms, and carry us to Heaven when we die, and 
 then we shall be so happy there !" 
 
 " Will he carry me ?" asked the poor child. 
 
 " Yes, He will if you pray to Him," said little Ruth. 
 
 " I don't know how to pray," the poor child replied. 
 
 " I will teach you my prayer," said little Ruth. 
 
 " God, my Heavenly Father, give me Thy Holy Spirit to 
 teach me to know and love Thee. "Wash me from all my sins 
 in my Saviour's precious blood. Keep me from all evil, and 
 make me ready to hve with Thee for ever in Heaven. For the 
 sake of Jesus my Saviour. Amen." 
 
 " That is one of my prayers, and I can teach it to you. x 
 have taught it to our Mary, and she can't read yet." 
 
 The poor child tried to learn it, but she could not remember 
 the words; still it seemed to soothe her, to hear Ruth repeating 
 them ; at last the poor child said, " Wash me from all my sins ! 
 What are sins ?" 
 
 " That is when we do wrong," said little Ruth ; " we can't go 
 with our bad ways to Heaven, but Jesus can wash them all 
 away in His blood." 
 
 As little Ruth was coming home from school one of those 
 bright September days, she saw a poor woman sitting on a door 
 step with a basket full of small penny nosegays of autumn 
 flowers. Ruth stood still before the. basket to look and admire. 
 She had never known what it was to hunt over the meadow 
 banks in spring for violets and primroses, or gather the yellow 
 daffodil and beautiful anemone from the woods, or the sweet 
 and frail ^vild rose from its thorny stem in the hedge ; she had 
 Bometimes plucked a daisy from the grass, but this was the only 
 
. MINISTEBING CHILDREN. 9 
 
 flower that Ruth had ever gathered. And now she stood to 
 look upon the woman's basket full of nosegays of garden 
 flowers. While she stood looking, a mother and her Kttle girJ 
 passed by. 
 
 •^ Oh ! mamma," said the little girl, " look at those flowers !" 
 
 " A penny a nosegay, ma'am ; only a penny a nosegay !" said 
 the poor woman, holding out some of her flowers. 
 
 " Do you wish for a nosegay, Jane ?" asked the mother of her 
 little girl. 
 
 " Yes, if you please, mamma." 
 
 Ruth thought how happy that little girl was to have a nose- 
 gay of her own ! she watched her take it ; and then the mo- 
 ther and her little girl went on, and Ruth went slowly the other 
 way to her home. But as soon as the little girl had left the 
 basket of flowers, she said, "Mamma, did you see that poor 
 child who looked so at the flowers ?" 
 
 " Yes, Jane, do you think she wanted a nosegay ?" 
 
 " O, mamma, will you buy her one ?" 
 
 " I have not another penny with me, or I would." 
 
 " Do you think she woidd hke me to give her mine, then, 
 mamma ?" 
 
 " Yes, suppose you do ; I dare say she very seldom has a 
 flower." 
 
 " Then I will ; mamma, shall we go back ?" The little girl 
 looked back, and saw Ruth walking slowly away. 
 
 " O, mamma, she will be gone !" 
 
 The little girl did not like to leave her mother's side, so they 
 walked quickly back together, till they overtook Ruth, and then 
 the little girl gave her the flowers ; the bright color (jame into 
 the cheeks of little Ruth as she curtsied and took the flowers ; 
 and then she set oflf to run with them home; she could not 
 run far, but she walked fast, and looked at them all the way she 
 
 1^ 
 
10 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 went. " Mamma, did you see how fast that little girl ran with 
 her flowers ?" asked Jane. 
 
 " I dare say she wanted to take them home," said her mother. 
 
 And so that ministering child parted with her nosegay for 
 the little girl, who had never gathered any flower but a da\sy. 
 Ruth soon reached home with her flowers ; and first she went 
 to the poor sick child, and she said, " See what beautiful flowers 
 I have got ! A lady bought them in the street, and her little 
 girl gave them all to me ! I will give you that beauty !" And 
 Ruth pulled out the only rose from the nosegay, and put it into 
 the httle thin hand of the dying child. " how sweet it 
 smells !" said the poor sick child ; and she lay on her hard 
 pillow and the rose in her hand — the only gift she had had 
 to gladden her, except food, since she had lain ill in her bed. 
 
 " Jesus, our Saviour, made the flowers !" said Ruth. " Miss 
 Wilson says it was Jesus made every flower to grow out of the 
 ground." 
 
 " How kind He must be !" said the dying child. 
 
 Then Ruth took the rest of her flowers up to her mother, 
 and they were put in water to live many days. 
 
 Ruth used to go in often to see the poor sick child, and tell 
 her stories from the Bible, and sing her hymns when she had 
 the baby with her. But one cold November day, when she 
 came into the house from school, the poor child's mother came 
 crying from her room, and said to her, " ! I am so glad you 
 are come ! I thought I must have come after you ; my poor 
 child's d}nng, and she keeps asking for you." Ruth went in 
 and stood by the bed, and the dying child said, " Dear Ruth, I 
 am quite happy. I love you very much ; and I want you to 
 sing that about ' Those great drops of blood Jesus shed at 
 even-tide.' " Ruth sang it as well as she could, but she was 
 ready to cry 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 11 
 
 " I want you to sing it over and over, as you do to the babe," 
 said the dying child. 
 
 Euth sang it two or three times, and then she stopped ; the 
 poor child had shut her eyes, and seemed, asleep, but she soon 
 opened them again, and said, " O do sing about ' Jesus let me 
 to Thy bosom fly ;' " and while Ruth sang, and the mother 
 stood weeping by, the little child fell asleep, and died. Ruth 
 cried for her httle friend, and missed her very much. But now 
 the child's poor mother said she wanted Ruth to comfort her 
 up, as she had done her poor child ; and she begged Ruth to 
 read to her, and tell her those beautiful stories, for she coula 
 not read herself. And so Ruth became the poor widow's little 
 comforter. 
 
 When we see a child dressed neat and warm in her school 
 dress, we often think she is well taken care of; but it is not 
 always so ; and sometimes the little school girl or boy is much 
 more hungry and faint, than the child who begs his food in the 
 streets. We cannot tell how it really is with poor children, or 
 poor men and women, unless we visit them in their homes. 
 Miss Wilson had often been to see little Ruth, so she knew all 
 her sorrows, and she comforted and often fed the httle girl, and 
 loved her very much. Btit there was another child who went 
 to the same school, and wore the same neat dress, and stood in 
 the same class as Ruth, but she had no comforter ; her name 
 was Patience. She lived like Ruth, in one room, up a dark 
 staircase ; but she had no mother, like Ruth ; her mother died 
 when she was an infant ; and poor Patience had never had any 
 one to love or comfort her. Her father was a bad and cruel 
 man ; Patience had been taken care of by an elder sister, but 
 her sister was gone quite away from her home, and she lived 
 alone with her father. She came to school every day, but she 
 generally came late ; she had earned to read there, but she 
 
12 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 hardly ever knew her lessons ; and she never answere 1 when 
 asked the reason. She was very small, and very thin.; and 
 thejady who came to the school never saw her laugh, or smile, 
 or cry ; she always looked upon the ground, her I'ps were 
 pressed together, and she seldom answered when spoken to. 
 Miss Wilson, the lady at the school, thought she did not care 
 about any thing ; she had never been to see her in her home, 
 she thought it was no use to go and see a child who seemed 
 not to care for any thing ; so she did not kaow the sorrows of 
 the little girl, and therefore she did not try to comfort her : 
 nothing seemed to amuse or interest her, she looked with the 
 same dull eyes on all. Poor Patience had no comforter, no 
 blessed ministering child had been yet to her. One day as Pa 
 tience was walking to school, a little companion came and 
 walked by her side — a rosy-faced child, eating bread and butter, 
 finishing her breakfast on the way to school. Poor Patience 
 had had no food that morning, she would have been so thank- 
 ful for part of the child's bread and butter ; but she did not ask 
 for any, and when they reached the school, the child threw all 
 she had left of it to a fat black goat who lived at a stable close 
 by. The black goat tossed his head, and eat it up. Then pool 
 Patience said, " Nancy, how glad I should be of the food you 
 waste !" and she stood watching the black goat eating up the 
 bread and butter. But Nancy was not like little Ruth, she was 
 not a ministering child, and she ran up the steps into the 
 school, and thought no more of her bread and butter, and hei 
 little hungry school-fellow. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 **AEd If til ere be any other commandment, it is briefly comprehended in till* Bay- 
 ing, namely, Tliou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." — ^Kom. xiii. 9. 
 
 TT was a large old town in wliich little Ruth and Patience 
 -*- dwelt ; there were streets broad and narrow, long winding 
 streets, and short ones that cut across from one long one to 
 another ; old churches stood about the town, and new ones 
 were built among the new-built houses ; there was a busy 
 market, a town-hall, and shops large and small ; to which 
 the country people came from far and near. In one of the 
 broad streets, at the comer of a short and narrow one, there 
 stood a large grocer's shop. Tea and coffee, white sugar 
 and brown, dried fruits and spices, candles and sugar-candy — 
 all sorts of things that grocers sell, were sold at that cor- 
 ner-shop. Mr. Mansfield was the grocer's name ; and many 
 a step passed in at that shop-door when no purchase was to 
 be made, for there was no good cause in all the town that 
 had not some interest in Mr. Mansfield's heart — and, for the 
 most part, in his shop also, where gold and silver found a ready 
 way out as well as in. The rule of weight in that shop 
 seemed to be, ""Good measure, pressed down, and shaken to- 
 gether, and running over." The poor people from far and 
 near, had all a fancy for that corner-shop ; no one ever asked 
 why ; perhap? there was no need, where every one felt the 
 same. 
 
14 M1NISTERI^G CHILDREN. 
 
 Behind tlie shop there was a parlor, where Mrs. Mansfield 
 usually sat, because it was easy for Mr. Mansfield to step in 
 there, and rest himself a little when opportunity ofiered. It 
 was Mrs. Mansfield and her little daughter Jane who passed 
 by, when Ruth was looking at the flowers. Jane was the 
 ministering child who had made little Ruth so happy with 
 her nosegay. Little Jane had several -brothers and a baby 
 Bister. Their nurse was a tall, grave woman ; she never played 
 with them, never sang to the baby, and yet they were all as 
 merry and happy as children could wish to be ; their hap- 
 piness was her happiness, and their infant troubles her care to 
 Boothe ; and just at the right time she could always think of 
 and say the right thing. The nurse did not undertake to teach 
 the children in her charge any lessons out of books ; her own 
 reading was not of the most perfect kind ; but they learnt 
 some lessons from her heart and life, no after-time could eflface. 
 One lesson that they learned from their nurse was, reverence 
 for old age. How quick those little children were to see an 
 old man or an old woman coming down the street, when they 
 were walking out ; to step ofi" the narrow pavement to leave 
 them room, while they would look up at them with kindness 
 and interest, and be sure to see in a moment if any thing 
 could be done to help them. Another lesson these little chil- 
 dren learned from their nurse, was truth ; their nurse had 
 never any thing to conceal ; she always did and said the same 
 in their mother's absence as in her presence, so that the 
 children always believed their mother and their nurse to have 
 one way in every thing. And the children were all familiar 
 with the sight of the large Bible with its buckram cover, from 
 which their nurse sat to read — learning, with earnest care, the 
 way to heaven. 
 
 Some hours of every day little Jane passed with her mother, 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 15 
 
 .earning to read and work. One day, when the reading was 
 done, before the work-box was opened, Mrs. Mansfield said 
 to Jane, " I must go out to attend a penny-club meeting ; 
 would you like to go with me ?" Jane was delighted to 
 go, and ran up to nurse to put on her things. " I don't 
 know where mamma is going," said Jane ; " I could not un- 
 derstand." " I know," replied nurse ; " it 's the penny-club 
 meeting to-day ; that 's where your mamma is going." " What 
 is that ?" asked Jane. " It 's for the poor," replied nurse. 
 Kow little Jane had so often heard her parents speaking of the 
 poor, and seen her mother working hard ; and when^ she asked 
 her, " Why do you work so long, mamma ?" she would say, 
 " For the poor ;" that Jane had no doubt the poor belonged 
 to her parents ; and, therefore, that they belonged also to her ; 
 and she always listened with interest to all that was said about 
 them. 
 
 " Are you going for the poor, mamma ?" asked little Jane, 
 as she set out with her hand in her mother's. "Yes, my 
 dear," replied Mrs. Mansfield ; " your parents can buy you 
 all the clothes you want, but there are a great many poor 
 people who can hardly tell how to feed their children, and 
 they can not possibly buy them warm clothing ; so some 
 richer people said, that if these poor people would lay by 
 one penny a week, for a whole year, they would put another 
 penny to it ; and then, at the end of the year, these poor peo- 
 ple would have all these pennies put together, which would 
 make many shillings for them to take to the shop and buy 
 warm clothes for their poor little children. But this is the Town 
 Hall, where we are going, and you must try and listen to what 
 is said." 
 
 Jane sat on a step at the top of the room, by the bench where 
 her mother was seated, and she looked up at the speaker, and 
 
16 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 listened to all he said. Before the speaker had done, he looked 
 down to where little Jane was sitting, and said, " Perhaps there 
 are some children here who could lay by one penny a week, to 
 clothe some poor little boy or girl, who has no warm dress like 
 their own. Would it not give them more pleasure than spend- 
 ing their money on themselves ?" Jane heard and understood 
 what the speaker was saying, and she thought it was exactly 
 what she could do, because she received from her mother a 
 penny every Saturday to spend as she hked best ; but she did 
 not say any thing then to her mother, because she had been 
 told at other meetings, that she must sit still and not speak. 
 
 After the meeting, Mrs. Mansfield talked long with the ladies 
 present ; little Jane held fast by her mother's hand, which she 
 tried to draw with secret impatience towards the door ; at last 
 Mrs. Mansfield said, " Good morning," to the ladies, and went 
 down the Town Hall steps alone with her little girl. 
 
 " mamma ! mamma ! would not my penny do for the poor ?'' 
 asked Jane. 
 
 " Not one penny, dear ; one penny would not do much in 
 clothing a child." 
 
 " No, mamma, not one penny ; but one penny every week for 
 a whole year, like what you told me as we came." 
 
 " Yes, that would meet some poor mother's penny, and clothe 
 her child." 
 
 " May I give it then, mamma ?" 
 
 " I am afraid you would wish for it, after a little while ; — you 
 could buy no ribbons for your doll, or sweatmeats and cakes for 
 a feast ; nor could you go to the toy-shop for a whole year, and 
 a year is a long time." 
 
 " No, mamma ; but the httle child who has no warm clothes !" 
 
 " Yes, y Du would make the poor child warm and happy ; you 
 would be able to help buy new flannel, and white calico, and 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. • 17 
 
 pretty blue print with wMte spots upoi- it, and the poor mother 
 would see her child rim about warm and neat, as I see you." 
 
 " 0, mamma, I wish Saturday was come !" 
 
 " But what if you grow tired, Jane, and begin to want the 
 things you have been used to buy for play ? I can not help 
 you ; your father and I have taken all the penny tickets we 
 can afford ; if you begin you must go on, or you must disap- 
 point the child 1" 
 
 " I do not want any more toys or sweetmeats, mamma, I will 
 not disappoint the child ; may I try ?" 
 
 " Yes ; indeed you shall if you wish. I hoped to have found 
 some lady at the Town Hall who would have been able to help 
 a poor old woman who came to me yesterday to ask for her 
 little grand-daughter, when all my tickets were promised, but 
 now it seems my own little girl will be her friend !" 
 
 " yes, mamma, how glad I am, shall I see the little girl, 
 does she live in the town ?" 
 
 " No, she lives in a village seven miles off ; she is a little 
 orphan, her father and mother are both dead, and her poor old 
 grandmother has taken her home to live with her. Her grand- 
 mother said she was coming into the town to-morrow, and I 
 told her to call on me, for I hoped to get her a ticket, so you 
 can see her ; I do not know whether the little girl will be with 
 her." 
 
 " Do you know what the little girl's name is, mamma ?" 
 
 " No, but we can ask her grandmother to-morrow. Now I 
 B,m going into this shop to buy you some winter stockings :" 
 Six pair of lamb's-wool stockings — how warm they looked 1 
 
 " Mamma," said little Jane, when they left the sh^p, " may L 
 give my old socks to the little girl ?" 
 
 " I am afraid they would not be large enough," replied Mrs. 
 Mansfield, " but I have some worsted stockings of your brcthei 
 
18 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 Eklward's tliat would be sure to fit her : if you like to spend a 
 little of your play-time every day in mending them neatly 
 enough to be worn, then you shall have them to give to the 
 little girl." 
 
 "Do you not think her grandmother could mend them, 
 mamma, as you do for us ?" 
 
 " Yes, I dare say she could, but she is sure to have plenty of 
 other things to do, and I could not let you give to the poor that 
 which you had taken no pains to have ready for use and com- 
 fort." 
 
 " But I do not know how to mend stockings, mamma." 
 
 " It is not very difficult ; you could soon learn how to do it, 
 and I think you would be very happy working for the poor little 
 orphan girl." 
 
 " Yes, I should, is it as hard as stitching, do you think ?" 
 
 " No, the threads are not so fine." 
 
 " Shall I begin to-day, mamma ?" 
 
 " Yes, if you like, I will find the stockings for you as soon as 
 I go home." 
 
 " Nurse ! nurse !" said little Jane, running in, " I am going to 
 help buy warm clothes for a poor little girl with my penny every 
 week ; and mamma is going to give me all Edward's old warm 
 stockings, if I mend them up quite neat." 
 
 " Well, that 's a good beginning," said nurse, " if you do but 
 hold fast to it." 
 
 And so, in one short hour, little Jane had stepped into a world 
 of thought and feeling that seemed at first to hide from sight 
 much that before had power to please ; it was but at first — the 
 lighter tones of childhood's merriment soon blended with the 
 deeper echoes of the heart's responsive sympathy — and her life 
 yielded their mingled harmony. 
 
 That afternoon little Jane began the stocking-mending in he/ 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN, 19 
 
 play nours, seated at her mother's side. Affeei a while she 
 sighed and said, " It is rather hard at first, mamma." 
 
 " So are many good things at first, my child ; would you like 
 to give up doing them, and learn when you are a little older 
 to mend stockings for yourself, instead of learning now for the 
 poor ?" 
 
 " no, mamma ! how nice it will be when I have done one 
 pair ! May I keep them in my own box ?" 
 
 " Yes, you may have each pair as you finish them. You 
 shall fold them up and keep them yourself; but if you get tired 
 and wish to give up doing them, you have only to tell me ; I 
 could not let you give up if I were teaching you for yourself^ 
 but no one should work unwillingly for the poor." 
 
 " I shall never like to give it up, mamma ; I do not mind if it 
 Is a little hard." 
 
 And Jane worked busily, on, till her mother said, " Now you 
 have done quite enough for one day, and quite as well as I 
 could expect ; you can go to the nursery and play with your 
 brother till tea." And merry were the shouts of the happy 
 child as she ran, fresh from her self-chosen service of love, 
 across the nursery-floor with her httle brother at play. 
 
 At tea Mr. Mansfield heard what Jane intended to do with 
 her pennies — he quite approved ; but when she climbed upon 
 his knee, before her mother took her to bed, he smiled and said, 
 *' Perhaps my little daughter thinks her father can find her can- 
 dies without pennies to buy them ?" 
 
 " O no, papa, I don't want any more ; I shall be so happy 
 when I have made the little girl quite warm !" 
 
 " So you will, my Jane, and so is every one happy who tries 
 from the heart to help the poor and needy;" and with his 
 blessing he sent her to her rest. Jane went to her pillow full 
 of thoughts of her little unknown friend. Already she loved 
 
20 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 the oi-phan her hand was helping to clothe ; she longed ibr the 
 next day, that she might get on with the warm stockings for 
 her feet, and then she remembered she was to see the old grand- 
 mother who would put the penny to meet her penny ; her hap- 
 py thoughts blended in bright confusion, till, like folded flowers 
 at night, they closed their leaves, and all were lost in deep and 
 gentle slumber. 
 
 The next morning Jane gave many a look from the nursery 
 window on the street below, and nurse was often called to see 
 whether any one of those who came in sight could be the 
 grandmother. At last a knock at the street-door, then her 
 mother's call to her, and Jane came down, stopping a minute at 
 the parlor-door, it stood open a little way, and Jane could see 
 the old woman and the little girl. Jane ventured slowly in and 
 stood close by her mother's side. 
 
 " Well, Jane," said her mother, " this is your little friend. It 
 is my little daughter, Mrs. Jones, who wishes to put her penny 
 to meet yours. What is your grand-daughter's name ?" 
 
 " Mercy, ma'am, Mercy Jones. Make a curtsey, Mercy, to 
 the young lady, and say. Thank you." 
 
 Jane hid her face behind her mother, and hoped nobody 
 would say any more to her ; till after a time her mother said, 
 " Now you may go back to the nursery, Jane." Jane stole a 
 look at little Mercy, as she went slowly out, and she felt as if 
 she cared more about that poor little girl than all her play ; 
 and, going back to the nursery, she watched till they went 
 away — the tall old woman and the little girl. Then the sound 
 of' her brother at his play broke again upon her ear, and she 
 ran to join him. 
 
 In two days more the first pair of stockings were mended. 
 Jane learned how to fold them up ; then she carried them 
 safely to her own little trunk — all her treasures were taken out, 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 21 
 
 and the stockings put in first, safe on one side of the box, 
 plenty of room was left for the other five pair near them, and 
 then the other contents of the box were piled on its other side ; 
 and when at last Jane had shut the lid and turned away, ske 
 came back once more to see again how nice they looked — all 
 ready for the orphan child ! It was the first labor of her 
 hands for the poor and needy ; a child's large feeling on so 
 small occasion may win a smile ; but the occasion had, for the 
 first time, touched the deep chord of human sympathy within 
 her heart, and the vibration was long and full. 
 
 Weeks passed away, and when the snow of New Year's day 
 lay thick upon the ground, the stockings were all done — six 
 folded pairs of mended stockings in Jane's own trunk, all ready 
 for the orphan child. Then came another visit from the old 
 grandmother, but not from the little Mercy. " Bless you. Miss," 
 said the old grandmother, as she took the piled-up stockings 
 from Jane's trembling hands, " would not Mercy have hked to 
 come ! but her poor feet are so bad with the chilblains, she 
 can 't put them to the ground ; but won 't they soon be well 
 when she has run* about a bit in these warm stockings ! why, 
 they are the most beautiful stockings that ever I saw, and 
 enough of tliem to last her almost till she grows an old 
 woman !" 
 
 " They would not fit her then," said Httle Jane. 
 
 " No, dear, no more they would, but I can biggen them a bit 
 when they get too small ; I understand all that sort of thing ; I 
 was always brought up to it." 
 
 " Will they really make her feet well ?" asked Jane, remem- 
 bering the old woman's words to that eflfect. 
 
 " Yes, dear, that they will, the sight of them almost I think, 
 for she has hardly had a bit of stocking under her boots all this 
 hard winter ; and the boots ai*e got stiff, and her feet are tender, 
 
12 MINISTEBTNG CHILDREN. 
 
 for when her poor father was alive she was well clothed. I do 
 all I can for her, and she never complains, but I am often afraid 
 she feels the difference." 
 
 " They are all mended," said Jane ; " Mamma says they will 
 do quite well ; I did not know how to mend stockings before." 
 
 " Well, dear, it will be none the worse for you that you 
 learned it for the poor and fatherless. I think I see the look 
 of my Mercy when I show them to her ! I know her first 
 word will be, ' O grandmother, now I can soon go to the 
 Sunday school again !' She is wonderfully fond of her school 
 since Miss Clifibrd came to teach in it, and Miss Clifford takes 
 a wonderful deal of notice of her, and has been to see her ; she 
 did not know the poor dear had not a stocking to her foot, 
 or that would soon have been there." 
 
 " Could you not have told her ?" asked Jane. 
 
 " Why, no. Miss, I never tell ; I say always, if it comes it 
 oomes, and I know where it comes 'from ; but if I asked, why 
 it might be another thing !" 
 
 Mrs. Mansfield, who had left little Jane alone with the old 
 woman, came back just in time to hear this last sentence, and 
 to see the earnest inquiring look June fixed on the old woman, 
 whose reply she had not been able to understand. Mrs. Jones 
 shortly after took her leave, and Jane was left alone with 
 her mother. 
 
 " Did you understand what Mrs. Jones was saying when I 
 came in, Jane ?" 
 
 " No, mamma, what did she mean ? why did she not tell the 
 lady about her little grand-daughter having no stockings ?" 
 
 " 1 think you will understand her meaning if I put it in my 
 words. Poor Mrs. Jones meant that she told her wants only 
 to God, and then if help came to relieve those wants, she knew 
 that it was God who sent it to her, by some earthly friend 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 23 
 
 The honest aiid industrious poor, who have been accustomed to 
 earn all they receive, do not often like to ask of any one but God.'' 
 
 " But, mamma, if they do not tell, how can it be known?" 
 
 " We must ask God to teach us to know the wants of the 
 poor. And if we really wish to help and comfort them, God 
 will put it into our hearts to supply the wants He knows they 
 have. You did not know that little Mercy Jones had no stock- 
 ings, but you wished to help and comfort her, and you were 
 led to prepare the very thing she wanted most. God knows 
 all the wants of the poor, and He can put the thought into our 
 hearts of that which He knows will be best for them." 
 
 little Jane was silent, lost in the thrilling awe of one who 
 felt herself to have been chosen and taught of God to supply the 
 want she had not known. Her mother knew the power such 
 first impressions have to train the heart's young faith, and with 
 her arm round little Jane, she sat in silence too. 
 
 " Then, mamma," at last said Jane, " I can never know unless 
 God teaches me ?" 
 
 " God is your heavenly Father, Jane, and He will teach you 
 all He wishes you to know if you love to learn of Him." 
 
 " But how will He teach me to help the poor, mamma ?" 
 
 " God will teach you sometimes by putting the thought in 
 your heart ; but He will also teach you in other ways : has He 
 not given you an eye and an ear ?" 
 
 "Yes, mamma." 
 
 " Then He meant you to use them ; do you not often find 
 out what I want without my having to tell you ?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma, because I live with you." 
 
 " I am afraid I might get many little girls, and grown up 
 people also, to live with me, and they would not find out the 
 things I often want, without my asking, as you do. Is it only 
 because you live with me I" 
 
24 MINISTERING CHILDRSN. 
 
 " 0, no, mamma, it is because I love you as weL !" 
 
 " Yes, dear Jane, this is tlie secret : you love me, and tlier^' 
 fore you find out my wishes and wants as far as your power 
 permits ; and if you love God, you will quickly learn how to 
 serve Him, according to His holy will ; and if you love the 
 poor, you will be sure to find out their wants and how to com- 
 fort them." 
 
 The clock struck eleven. " mamma," exclaimed Jane, " I 
 have not done my lessons, and it is eleven o'clock !" 
 
 "Never mind that to-day, my dear ; perhaps we have been 
 learning what lesson-books could not teach us ; you can do 
 your writing now." And well it was for that young mind not 
 at once to be pressed with lessons. It had felt and thought 
 enough for one morning of its early years, and writing was 
 meiital rest. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 1/ ye love Me, keep my commandments."— John xIy. 1& 
 
 rpHE village where Mercy lived with her grandmother wag 
 -*- seven miles distant from the town where Mr. Mansfield 
 lived and Httle Jane, where also Hved Patience and little Ruth. 
 The village church stood on a hill, and close beside it the cler- 
 gyman's dwelling, hid among trees. There was a large and 
 beautiful house in the village, called the Hall, where the Squire 
 lived ; and Miss Clifford, httle Mercy's friend, was the Squire's 
 daughter. Miss Clifford loved the poor who lived around her 
 house ; she had known and loved them from the time when she 
 was but a Httle child, and they loved her ; for the heart of the 
 poor can give as pure a response to hallowed interest and love 
 as the heart of the rich. Miss Clifford had a white pony named 
 Snowflake ; when a little child, she often rode out with her 
 father, and called with him at the fanns, and sometimes at the 
 cottages. And when she grew older, she had a groom of her 
 own to ride out with her every day, and then she often went 
 alone to the houses of the poor. She used to carry her little 
 Bible with her, and read to the poor old people who could not 
 read for themselves : the very sound of her voice seemed to com- 
 fort them, and still more the blessed words that she read ; and 
 feeble old people, and little children just able to run alone, would 
 learn from her lips the holy words of the Bible — those precious 
 words which lead all who love them to heaven. It was not Mrs, 
 
26 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 Clifford who had taught her Uttle daughter to visit- the poor. 
 Mrs. CHfford felt for the poor, and sent them gifts at Christmas ; 
 but she did not know what it was to love the poor and be loved 
 by them, for she had never been among them herself ; but Mrs. 
 Clifford loved the word of God, and she knew what was written 
 there ; so she was happy that her child should early tread the 
 blessed path that leads amongst the homes of the poor, though 
 she felt unable to visit them herself. The visits, when a child, 
 to the farm-houses, and sometimes to the cottages, with her 
 father, might have been one means of leading Miss Clifford to 
 think about and love the poor ; but that could not have been 
 the only or the chief reason. The poor people, who had no one 
 else to teach them as she did, believed that God had put it into 
 her heart to be their comforter ; and this reason for her visits 
 to them, and her care and love for them, no doubt was the true 
 one. Miss Clifford had no sister, but she had a brother some 
 few years younger than herself; he was a wild, high-spirited 
 boy, with a generous disposition ; but a long habit of pleasing 
 himself had made him selfish and too often disobedient. Mr 
 Clifford was a very indulgent father ; he allowed Herbert — for 
 Herbert was the boy's name — to amuse himself just as he 
 pleased, to spend his money as he liked, and he provided for 
 him every gratification suitable to his age and circumstances. 
 But, with all this indulgence, Herbert was never allowed in a 
 single act of disobedience, nor was he ever allowed to break 
 through any rule or principle of justice toward others. Herbert 
 knew that if the lessons that his tutor required him to prepare 
 were neglected, his father would never admit any idle excuse. 
 The rules to which Herbert was subjected by his father were 
 but few ; but, such as they were, they might never be broken ; 
 this Herbert knew ; but his wild spirits, and his haste after 
 amusement, led him sometimes to forget ; and then he would 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 27 
 
 fancy that not to be disobedience wliicli proved to be so, whei. 
 tried by the rule of his kind but firm parent. Herbert liac 
 never yet known what it was to be a ministering child. 
 
 Mr. Clifford w^as a <]^reat favorite amono^ his tenants. He was 
 no less firm as a landlord than be was as a father ; but thee 
 he was as kind and considerate as he was firm. No rule he 
 made was allowed to be trilled with ; but his rules were simple 
 and few, and known by all who dwelt on his estate ;, and his 
 tenants, both farmers and laborers, learned at last to know that 
 he made their interest one with his own. His feeling wa5> 
 strong of tlie common brotherhood uniting the whole human 
 family, and made itself manifest, whether occasion led him to 
 speak to the stone-breaker on the road, or the poorest cottage- 
 child. Even with the lowest and most debased, he never lost 
 the feeling of a common manhood, with all that it involved and 
 demanded. It is ever those who best know, and best fill their 
 own position, who can most readily and effectually keep all with 
 whom they have intercourse, each one in his own .place. Li 
 retaining ourselves, and regarding in others the simple standing 
 that God has given, there is a native dignity, a moral elevation, 
 which, while it tends to set aside the false assumptions of pride, 
 makes a constant demand on the efibrt to maintain that integ- 
 rity, both in ourselves and others, without which none can fill 
 he earthly position to which God has called them. 
 
 All the farms in the village were the property of Mr. Cliftord, 
 except one occupied by a farmer named Smith, whose father 
 and gi-andfather had rented the same farm before him. Farmer 
 Smith's fields were kept like a garden for neatness ; and every 
 ear of the wheat that waved on them in the golden harvest- 
 time was sown by the hands of the village children. When 
 brown and soft October came to mellow earth and sky, whei 
 tihe plow had turned the fields' rich mold, and the heavy roll 
 
28 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 had pressed the long ridges flat, and the wide-spreading rake 
 had broken the hard clods, then went the sowers forth — fathers 
 with their merry children, girls and boys, all whose little feet 
 could pace the fields backward and forward, and not grow 
 weary, whose fingers could drop the precious grain from the 
 little wooden basket held on their left arm, three grains into 
 each hole, all these might go ; two lines following their fathers, 
 who, walking backward, made two holes at every step with iron 
 rods in their hands : following as fast as they could their fa- 
 ther's fast steps, and stooping low as they followed, they dropped 
 in the grain with their little fingers — thus the bread that was to 
 feed thousands, was sown by the hands of little children. While 
 the robin sung beside them on the yellow branches of the faded 
 maple-tree, and, as the children passed it by, fiew on higher up 
 in the hedge-row, and perched again beside them, as if to cheer 
 their work with its song, or to win the ear of childhood for its 
 strain of gentle mirth.. But wheat-sowing, like all other things 
 on earth, has its wintry days ; and when November proves damp 
 and cold, the wet land gets heavy, and the children suffer. 
 This had been little Mercy's first year of dropping wheat. "When 
 her parents were living, Mercy never thought of being among 
 the little droppers ; but they had both died of fever in ono 
 year, and left their orphan child to earn her bread under the 
 care of her kind old grandmother, and her uncle Jem — hei 
 grandmother's only son, who lived with his mother. Mercy had 
 lived three years with her grandmother, and now she thought 
 it a pleasant thing to go and work under the blue sky in the 
 fresh-plowed fields ; and so it was ; but when the wintry rains 
 came, the work grew heavy for her slight strength; her boots 
 became stiff with the wet land, the chilblains settled in her feet, 
 and when the dropping-time was over, little Mercy was laid up, 
 unable to walk ; her greatest sorrow being, as her grandmother. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 29 
 
 had stated, that she could not get to the Sunday-scho( where 
 Miss Clifford now taught. 
 
 The eldest of Farmer Smith's family was a son named Wil- 
 liam. William seemed to know and love every foot of land 
 on the farm, every tree and every living creature there ; but 
 the chief favorites were a dog called Rover, and a young horse 
 named Black Beauty. Black Beauty was born and reared on 
 the farm ; when a foal he followed William like a dog, and now 
 he was committed to AVilliam's care, and, though only lately 
 broken in and full of spirit, William could manage him, without 
 whip' or rein, by the sound of his voice. The horse was a beau- 
 tiful creature, and Farmer Smith would say sometimes that if 
 the children had not all been so fond of the horse, he must 
 have taken one of the many high ojSfers he had had for him ; 
 but, as it was, he made his children's affection for the creature 
 a cover for his own, and a fair excuse for keeping him. Besides 
 which, Farmer Smith knew that the last thing Mrs. Smith would 
 approve, would be to see the horse led away ; and so, in conse- 
 quence of all these reasons taken together. Black Beauty led an 
 easy life, with none but familiar and kindly voices falling on his 
 sensitive ears. Mr. Smith's next son, Joseph, called by the fam> 
 ily Joe, was very quick at his books ; therefore, his father kept 
 him a year longer than he would otherwise have done, as a 
 boarder at a school in the town ; but it was considered that he 
 had now learned sufficient, and he was put to work on the farm. 
 The younger boys were Samson and Ted. Rose, the only girl, 
 was the treasure of her father's heart, and the light of his life ; 
 he had her named Rose, for that had been his moth sr's name, 
 and he said, " May be, if she has the name, she may take after 
 the nature too, and my mother was one of the best of women — 
 ask the poor if that is n't true, and I will always trust them for 
 knowing what any body is !" Little Rose grew up among the 
 
80 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 com, aud the barley, and the sweet-scented beans — for hex band 
 was mostly in her father's, and her feet trotting by his side ; 
 she hunted the red-cup moss in the muddy ditch, her little feet 
 at the top, while her father stood at the bottom ; hers were the 
 fii'st rosy nuts gathered from the hazel-tree, when glowing au- 
 tumn came to ripen the fruits ; she called the wild birds all her 
 own, and her displeasure fell on any one who dai'ed to take the 
 warm, soft nest from tree or hedge. Rose went, when very 
 young, to the village day-school ; there she formed a friendship 
 with little Mercy, and was learning quite enough to satisfy her 
 father ; but Mrs. Smith was not so easily satisfied. Mi-s. Smith 
 said they had but one girl, and she should always consider that 
 they had been very much to blame if they did not give her a 
 good education, and a boarding-school was the place to which 
 she ought to be sent ; that if she were willing to part with the 
 child, she did not see why Mr. Smith should object. Mr. Smith 
 felt as if the sunbeam would pass from every thing, if his little 
 Rose were taken from his home ; but he never opposed any 
 thing on which his wife was resolved ; so Mrs. Smith made all 
 the arrangements, and William drove Rose with Chestnut, the 
 gig-horse, to her boarding-school. 
 
 The strange faces and stiflf ways of ine towns-people, and the 
 long streets, instead of wild lanes and trees, were very dull to 
 the country child ; but she learned her lessons, worked a sam- 
 pler which was put in a frame, and came home at midsummer 
 like a bird free from its cage. On reaching her home, Rose 
 sprung from the gig into her father's arms, — her young broth- 
 ers, Samson and Ted, came out with their welcome ; Rose 
 kissed them, mshed up the staircase to her mother, who had 
 not expected her so soon ; then down again to speak to Molly ; 
 then into the farm-yai'd, where she stroked Rover, and all 
 the cows, who were reposing in the straw till the cow-hous€ 
 
MINISTERING ^JUILDREN. 81 
 
 door sliould be opened ; then into the stable, where she threw 
 her arms round Black Beauty's neck ; and, finally, was attempt- 
 ing to count the fowls, which baffled her skill, by running one 
 among another, when out came her mother at the back-door, 
 saying, " Why, child ! you run about like wild ; come in to tea, 
 do." And Eose was soon in her old place by her father's side 
 at tea. 
 
 But this Christmas time, her second holidays. Rose had come 
 Tfith graver thoughts. A Httle school-fellow had died, and the 
 sense of separation and death had passed, for the first time, over 
 her heart. Rose did not say any thing about it, she did not know 
 very well what to say ; her mother was a person of but few words, 
 and these few were mostly quick ones ; and Rose hardly knew 
 that a change had passed over her which others might obsen^e. 
 Her mother saw that she had lost her wild spirits, but still she 
 was often meny, and she ran about and made snow-balls with 
 her brothers ; but at other times she would sit thinking alone in 
 the chimney-corner, watching the burning wood and the flame 
 creeping up the great log^. She wondered where her little school- 
 fellow might be ; she knew that she was somewhere — not where 
 her body was laid, in the dark grave — where then was ?he ? Rose 
 knew there were two worlds beyond the grave, one the only 
 heaven, and another the dreadful hell ; to which then was her 
 little school-fellow gone ? Rose cou I not tell. And then came 
 the thought — If I should die like he , where should I go ? Rose 
 felt she did not know ; and then s! e thought upon the words 
 their minister had said, whose serm( as she heard at school — ser- 
 mons which even a child could unc erstand and remember ; and 
 she wished that she could think oi all he had oreached about, 
 and do as he had said that all who had God for their Heavenly 
 Father should do ; and all these thoughts made her gravt 
 
 On the last day of "^he -^ear Mrs. Smith was busy iroi mg : 
 
82 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 ■Rose had finislied the little things her mother had given her to 
 do, and was seated on the stool by the fire, where she remained 
 for some time, quite silent. 
 
 " What are you thinking of, child ?" at last said her mother 
 
 " Why, I was thinking, mother, that I wished our ministe* 
 here preached hke the one where I go to school. I can't under- 
 stand any thing here." 
 
 " How does your minister preach ?" 
 
 " He preaches about our Saviour, and he speaks it so plain, I 
 am never tired of listening. I wish he were here." 
 
 " And if he were here, you would not hear him half so often ; 
 you have three times as many Sundays at school as you have at 
 home ; I am sure I would not trouble about that." 
 
 " No, mother ; but if he were here, then you and father 
 would hear him too." 
 
 " And I suppose it 's that you always sit thinking of?" 
 
 ".No, mother, not of that." 
 
 " What is it, then ?" 
 
 " Why, the last Sunday before I came away from school, oul 
 minister preached about, ' Feed my sheep,' and ' Feed my lambs ; 
 he said that our Saviour had told us to do so, and that it meant 
 doing all we could for others — to help them for this world, and 
 that good place where good people go ; and I have been think- 
 ing that I don't do any thing to help others." 
 
 " Well, child, I am sure I don't know, for I never heard that 
 plain way of preaching that one could understand ; but I can't 
 see that it can belong to the like of you to be after doing for 
 others. I think if you mind your lessons at school, and do 
 what I set you to do at home, you may very well play between 
 whiles, and take it easy too." 
 
 " But, mother, so many people do think about helping others, 
 it 's only I that do nothing !" 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 33 
 
 " So many people, child ! what do you mean ? I think every 
 body is for self — that is the beginning and the end, with most 
 that I see." 
 
 " That's how it is with me, mother, but it is not so t\ ith all I 
 When I went to spend the day with aunt Mackenzie at the 
 Uall, she put up the prettiest little apple-pudding in a basin 
 with a cloth over it, and sent it up to Miss Chfford ; and 1 
 asked her if Miss Clifford was not well, for I thought that must 
 V her dinner sent up to her ; and aunt Mackenzie laughed 
 and said, that was not the way to serve up ladies' dinners ; and 
 then she told me that there was a poor old woman near, dying 
 of old age, and that Miss Clifford went to carry her a little pud- 
 ding, which the old woman liked better than meat. I said, I 
 wondered Miss Chfford did not send it, when she had so many 
 sen-ants ! and aunt Mackenzie said. It was Miss Clifford's taking 
 it that made the best part of it. She feeds herself ! and she 
 said, none could think what her hand and her voice could do 
 for sickness, that had not known it as she had." 
 
 " Well, child, but you don't think you could do like Miss 
 Clifford, I suppose ?" 
 
 " No, mother, but you know you ofi*^n do send something to 
 sick people ; and I thought if I took it to them, perhaps they 
 might like it all the better, and then I shou^^ be trying to do as 
 our minister said." 
 
 " Well, I don't know but what they would, if you are bent on 
 being like Miss Clifford !" 
 
 " No, mother, I could never be like Miss Clifford ; but I do 
 sometimes think if Miss Clifford did but teach me, as she teaches 
 Mercy, I might learn more of what our minister at school says." 
 
 " Well, child, it's all verj' well for Miss Clifford to be thinking 
 about every body else, but, as I say. Miss Clifford is no rule £nt 
 you, that I can see." 
 
 2* 
 
84 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " No, mother, but there is Miss Mansfield in the town ; neigh- 
 bor Jones says that she has put Mercy into the penny club 
 this year, and Miss Mansfield is younger than I am." 
 
 " I dare say that was her mother's doing ; and selling tea no 
 doubt is better than sowing wheat, for it was not much of it that 
 was likely to come up if the weather had held so wet as it was !" 
 
 " But then, mother, there is Mercy herself — when I was at 
 home last midsummer, and you sent me to ask how dame Clark 
 was — there was Mercy, upon the table by the window, all alone, 
 with the Bible on her knee; and I asked her why she was 
 there ? and she said, dame Clark had just fallen asleep, and she 
 had come down to watch, for the people made such a knocking 
 on the door when they wanted any thing, she w^as afraid they 
 would wake her. And I asked her who set her to nurse dame 
 Clark ? and she said, nobody set her, but that she liked to do 
 it. And I asked her if it was not very dull ? and she said, that 
 it was not dull at all ; that dame Clark Hked her to read chap- 
 ters and verses to her, and to hear her sing ; and she said 
 dame Clark called her Comfort !" 
 
 "I always did say that Mercy was the best child in the 
 parish," replied Mrs. Smith ; " I never look twice after her, let 
 her be doing what she will up here." 
 
 " But, mother, I don't do any thing for others." 
 
 " Well, child, what would you do 1" 
 
 " Why, yesterday, ^vidow Lambert told me that little Johnnie 
 could not leave his bed, with the chilblains in his feet ; she 
 said he had quite outgrown and worn up his socks, and she 
 eould not make the money to buy him any more ; and I thought 
 if I might but have a little of our worsted, I could knit him a 
 pair of socks in my play-time." 
 
 " Well, I have no objection, I am sure," replied Mrs. Smith, 
 ** but what's the use of one pair ?" 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 85 
 
 " 0, mother, I could make hi)n two pair, if I might !** 
 
 " Well, to be sure, two is better than one any day !" 
 
 " May I begin to-day, then, mother "?" 
 
 "I thought your pins were set fast with your father's stock- 
 mgs, and you won't do much more than finish them of evenings, 
 these short holidays ; but if you wish to be after the socks in 
 the day, I will lend you mine, when I have finished the pair I 
 am after now for Ted — but I am only in the fiist sock yet." 
 
 A cloud passed over the joyous look that had kindled on 
 the face of little Rose, at her mother's leave to make two pair 
 of socks — when she found that she must wait days for pins ! 
 but still her heart felt lighter — t^he had talked with her mother 
 about it, and it was not so bad as she expected. 
 
 When Rose was gone to her pillow that night, Mrs. Smith 
 said, " I have found out what ails the child — she wants to be 
 after the poor, doing for them !" 
 
 " Don 't say a word against it," replied Mr. Smith ; '* let the 
 child have her way, it's just like my mother ! she took to read- 
 ing her Bible and caring for the poor, when she was quite 
 young ; I have heard my grandfather say so ; and she made 
 one of the best of women ; I hoped the child would take aftei 
 her grandmother, when I named her Rose." 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 • Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not ; for of snch {s tha 
 kingdom of heaven." — ^Makk x. 14. 
 
 TpVERY one was up early who had any thing to do on Mr. 
 -^ Smith's farm. Mr. Smith set all his men to work, and then 
 was ready for breakfast by seven o'clock. It was the last day of 
 the year on which Rose had talked to her mother about making 
 the socks for little Johnnie, and on the new year's morning, while 
 setting the breakfast table by caadle-light, she heard widow 
 Jones speaking to her mother at the back-door. Rose guessed 
 that widow Jones was going off to the town ; and she was riglit, 
 it was the very day on which widow Jones received the stockings 
 for Mercy from little Jane, O, thought Rose, if I had but 
 two pence, neighbor Jones would buy me a set of pins ! but I 
 dare not ask mother, she would think it all w^aste to have two 
 sets, when I can not use both at once. O, if father would but 
 come, he would give me two pence, and then mother would not 
 mind, if father had given me the money for my own ! Rose 
 looked from the front door out into the snowy morning ; far into 
 the darkness her blight eyes searched, but no father was in 
 sight. Could she ask her mother ? No ; she dare not. Y&t 
 perhaps her mother would for once let her have another set, as 
 she was going so soon back to school ? but while she stood full 
 of doubt between hope and fear, she heard her mother's quick 
 FOice say, "Well, good day, neighbor;" and the back door 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 37 
 
 • 
 
 shut, and poor Rose's hope was gone. William, and Rover, 
 William's dog, had just come in, both were white with the fall- 
 ing snow, but Rose stooped down and threw her arms round 
 Rover to hide her tears. William's quick eye saw that his lit- 
 tle sister was in trouble. " What are you telling Rover about, 
 hey, Rose ? Come, look up and tell me, there 's no good in hid- 
 ing it all in Rover's snowy ears ; and there 's nobody by but me." 
 " Oh, it 's nothing now, William," replied Rose. " What was it 
 then ?" asked the kind brother. " It was only that I did so 
 want a set of pins, and neighbor Jones has just gone to the 
 town, but they cost two pence, and I was afraid to ask mother, 
 because I have one set, but they are fast with father's stockings, 
 arid mother said she would lend me her's when Ted's socks are 
 done ; but I am afraid that won't be in time for what I want 
 before I go to school ; and father did n't come in sight, though 
 I looked for him all the time that neighbor Jones stood at the 
 door ! " I should hke to know why you could not have asked 
 me," said William. " I should think I might have done as well 
 as father for once, and better than Rover, but never mind now, 
 I dare say it will all come right in the end." And Rose had 
 wiped away her tears with William's red pocket-handkerchief, 
 just as she heai'd her father shaking the snow from his feet out- 
 side the door. 
 
 While Rose was sitting between her father and William at 
 breakfast, a thought came into her mind ; she knew that Mercy 
 had a set of pins, and that it was very seldom that poor widow 
 J )nes could buy any worsted to put them in use ; perhaps she 
 might not have any use for them now, and if not, she knew 
 that Mercy would lend them to her ; so after dinner that day. 
 Rose said, " Mother, it 's fine now, may I go and call on Mercy, 
 I have not seen her for a whole week ?" " Yes," replied her 
 Daotiiei, " if you have a mind, only take care and keep out of 
 
88 MINISTERING CHILDREN, 
 
 the snow-drifts." So off set Rose, with the eAger step of hope 
 an J •expectation; the sky was cloudless blue, and all the snow 
 looked sparkling diamonds : Rose liked to feel it under her little 
 feet, and the ministering child left the track of her footsteps in 
 that pure untrodden snow. 
 
 Rose knocked at widow Jones's door, and Mercy said, " Como 
 in." Rose opened the door, and there sat little Mercy in her 
 grandmother's old arm-chair, with her feet in another chair 
 wrapped up in a thin old blanket ; a few coals were left close 
 by her side to keep the little fire in, a table with a cup and plate 
 from which she had taken, her dinner stood near her; on the 
 table lay her little Bible ; her hymn-book was in her hand. 
 
 " Why ! Mercy, are you ill ?" asked Rose, going up to her. 
 
 " No, only my feet got worse with the chilblains. I have 
 kept my bed nearly a week; but 'grandmother's gone to the 
 town to-day, so uncle Jem carried me down before she went, 
 that I might not feel so lonesome with no one in the house." 
 
 " I wish I had known it," said Rose ; " are they very bad ?" 
 
 " No, they are getting better now, and since I have been kept 
 in-doors, I have learned a whole chapter out of the Bible, and 
 three short Psalms, and two hymns, and Miss Clifford came to 
 see me, and then I said some of them to her ; and grandmother 
 said that was as good as going to school. I have been thinking, 
 perhaps Miss Clifford will come to-day, it 's almost a week 
 since she was here, and the weather has broken out so fine !" 
 
 " Do you really think Miss Clifford will come to-day ?" asked 
 Rose. 
 
 " I seem to think she will," replied little Mercy, " only I don'l 
 know ; but I have learnt another Psalm, perfect every word — 
 and a hymn too." 
 
 " Do you like going to the Sunday-school very much ?" asked 
 Rose. 
 
p. sa 
 
MINISTERING CniLDREN. 89 
 
 " Yes, that I do ! and so would any one if they did but once 
 get into Miss CHifoiv^'s class," rephed Mercy. 
 
 " I should like it, I am sure," said Rose. 
 
 Just then they caught a sight of the black pony of Miss 
 ChfFord's gi'oom passing the window, and the hearts of both 
 the little girls beat quick as the lady entered. Miss Cliflford 
 spoke kindly to Rose as well as to Mercy, saying as she made 
 Rose sit down beside her, " I am afraid I have stopped some 
 pleasant talk." 
 
 " No, ma'am," replied Mercy, " Rose was only saying how she 
 would like to gO to the Sunday-school." 
 
 " Do you really wish to come to the Sunday-school ?" asked 
 Miss Clifford looking at Rose. 
 
 " I go to a boarding-school, ma'am and I am afraid mother 
 would not let me," replied Rose. 
 
 " What made you wish it ?" asked Miss Clifford ; " Come and 
 tell me." 
 
 Rose came within the arm so kindly opened to receive her, 
 but she did not speak. 
 
 " If you could tell me why you wished it," said Miss Clifford, 
 " perhaps I could find some other way to help you, if your 
 mother objects to your coming to the Sunday-school." 
 
 Rose answered in a low voice, " Because I want to do as our 
 Minister at school tells every body they must ; and I don't know 
 how." 
 
 " What is it that your Minister tells you to do ?" asked Miss 
 Clifford. 
 
 " He says. Every body must come to Jesus — and I don't 
 know how," Rose answered ; and the child's large tear fell 
 upon the hand that held her, and the tears of answering feel- 
 ing gathered in Miss Clifford's eyes. When Mercy saw the tears 
 in Miss Clifford's eyes, and on the cheek of Rose, she cried 
 
40 MINISTERINa CHILDREN. 
 
 too, she knew not why, except because she saw the tearo of 
 those she loved — and that alone is often cause enough for child- 
 hood's weeping ; a purer, higher cause than some that after years 
 too often ofter. 
 
 " Does not your Minister tell you how to come to Jesus ?'* 
 asked Miss Clifford. 
 
 " I don't know," repHed Rose, " because I can't remember 
 only a little of what he says." 
 
 " Will you listen to me, then, and try and understand, if I 
 tell you ?" Miss Clifford asked. 
 
 Rose looked up in the lady's face, and that look was assurance 
 enough. 
 
 " Who have you come to now, while you are standing here ?" 
 asked Miss Clifford. 
 
 " To you !" answered Rose. 
 
 " Yes, you have come to me ; and you have been telling me 
 what you want ; and I am going to give you, if I can, the 
 knowledge that you tell me you want. Now, just as you have 
 come close to me, and told me w^^^* you want, so you must 
 come to the Lord Jesus and tell Him. I hear you now, be- 
 cause I am near you ; but Jesus is always near to you. He 
 hears every word ; and A^henever you speak to Him, He stoops 
 down and listens to p you say ; and He can teach you all you 
 want to know, and give you all you ask Him for. Do you pray 
 to Him ?" 
 
 " I say, * Our Father which art in Heaven,' " replied Rose : 
 " our governess said I ought : and sometimes I say other things, 
 when I want them very much. Our Minister said we might ask 
 for all we wanted when we pray, only governess does not know 
 w^hen I do that." 
 
 " Do you tell our Saviour that you want to come to him ?" 
 
 " No, I don't know how." 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 41 
 
 " If I write you a short prayer, do you think you could read 
 it?" 
 
 " yes ; I can read writing a little." 
 
 " Then go to the door, and ask the groom foi my basket ; I 
 have ink and paper there." 
 
 Rose brought the basket, and Miss Clifford wrote in a plain 
 hand : — 
 
 "O God, my Heavenly Father, I ask Thee to bow down 
 thine ear and hsten to my prayer. I am a little, sinful, help- 
 Jess child ; and I want to come to Jesus, that I may be safe 
 and happy for ever. O lead me to Jesus my Saviour ! Let 
 me come to Him, that I may know and love Him and keep 
 His commandments. Let me be washed from all my sins in 
 the precious blood of Jesus my Saviour. And give me the 
 Spirit of Jesus to dwell in my heart, that I may be Thy child, 
 and hve with Thee for ever. Thou hast said Thou wilt do this, if 
 we ask ; and I ask Thee to do it for me, my Heavenly Father, 
 for the sake of my Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen." 
 
 Miss Clifford heard Rose read the paper, then folded it 
 up and gave it to her ; making her sit down by her, while she 
 talked to Mercy. After a little conversation. Miss Clifford 
 heard Mercy repeat her Psalm, which was said without one 
 mistake ; then Mercy repeated her hymn, and Rose thought, 
 as she listened, that certainly the hymn would please her 
 father. After this, Miss Clifford took leave of the children, 
 saying to Rose, " I have a class of farmers' daughters every 
 Monday afternoon, at three o'clock, in my house. You are 
 younger than any here, but if you would hke to come, and 
 your mother has no objections, I shall be very happy to receive 
 you ; do you think you would like to come 1" 
 
 "Oh, yes, ma'am, very much," said Rose with brightening 
 color. 
 
42 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " Perhaps you would like me best to ask your mother about 
 
 itr 
 
 " Yes, if you please, ma'am." 
 
 " Then I will ride round that way to-day, so you will not be 
 kept long in suspense," said Miss Clifford, smiling at the eager 
 look on the face of Rose ; and then, with her kind " Good- 
 by !" to both children, the lady mounted her white pony, and 
 was soon far away. 
 
 " How glad I am that Miss Clifford did come," said Mercy, " I 
 thought she would !" 
 
 " How very kind she is," said Rose. " If mother will but let 
 me go, how glad I shall be ! How I wish I knew that piece 
 of poetry you said, Mercy." 
 
 " It 's a hymn," rep-lied Mercy ; " have you got a book 
 like mine ?" 
 
 " No, I wish I had ; I learnt some pieces of poetry at our 
 school ; but father says they are too fine for him, and I dare 
 not try mother ; but I think father would like what you said. 
 Is it very hard to learn 1" 
 
 " No, it is not hard at all ; shall I lend you my book for a 
 little while ? Only I must learn another before Miss Clifford 
 comes again." 
 
 " If you will let me have it," said Rose, " I will try and learn 
 it to-moiTow, and then you shall be sure to have it back again." 
 So Mercy lent her little treasure hymn-book ; Rose put it safe 
 in her pocket ; then tucking the folded prayer down deep into 
 her bosom, she remembered how long she had stayed. She 
 had quite forgotten the pins, and no wonder — there had been 
 enough in that call on Mercy to fill her young heart ; and now 
 seeing the fire almost out, she stooped down to put on the 
 shovel of coals that stood beside it ; Mercy guessed her inten- 
 ion, and exclaimed, " Oh, no, not all those, only one or two. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 43 
 
 just to keep it in till grandmother comes ; that is all the coal 
 there is, and there won't be any warmth left for grand- 
 mother !" 
 
 " But, Mercy, you will be froze ; you look as cold as the snow 
 now." 
 
 " That is only because the door stands opeu ; it goes so bad, 
 it won't shut from outside, except by those that know how to 
 humor it." 
 
 " Not shut from outside !" said Rose ; " why don't you have a 
 new one ?" 
 
 " That is the new door," replied Mercy : " the old one was all to 
 pieces ; grandmother went backward and forward to steward 
 Jacobs about it till she gave up hope ; and then she dreaded 
 the winter so bad, with only that old door to keep it out, that 
 she went all that way to Squire LofFt himself; she only saw 
 the ladies, but they came over in their carriage, and looked at 
 the door ; and then they went to steward Jacobs and gave the 
 order ; and steward Jacobs was angered to think grandmother 
 should have been to Squire Lofft, and the door was made of 
 gi'een wood, and it shrank all round, and now there is no keeping 
 warm any how ; but Miss Clifford has found it out, and she says 
 there are more ways than one of setting that right." 
 
 " What will she do ?" asked Rose. 
 
 "I don't know," replied Mercy; "but grandmother says that 
 now it 's once in Miss Clifford's hands it 's sure to come out 
 right." 
 
 " Then you won't be cold long ?" said Rose earnestly — forget- 
 ting all but the slight shiver of little Mercy. " I '11 see if I can't 
 make the door shut outside for me ! Only I wish I had some 
 of our logs, just to make up the fire fit to be seen. But I must 
 go now, or mother will scold. Come now, door, you shall shut 
 for me !" Rose gave a hard pull, b Mt back again went the door ; 
 
tf4 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 then a gentle pull, but the moment she had let go, it flew opea 
 " Was there ever such a door ?" said Rose in despair. 
 
 " Never mind !" said little Mercy from within, " never mind 
 trying it any more : there 's nobody but grandmother and uncle 
 Jem can shut it from outside." But in the heat of her dis- 
 pleasure with the door, and the man who had made it, and dis- 
 tress at leaving the helpless little Mer(iy exposed to the cold 
 evening air, Rose pulled and shook the door, but pulled and 
 shook in vain. Horse's feet came down the lane, but Rose 
 was still contending with the door, and did not hear them. 
 It was William on Black Beauty. 
 
 " Hey day, little miss ! are you breaking into neighbor 
 Jones's while she is away? She will soon be home to find 
 you out." 
 
 " Oh, William !" said Rose, ready to cry with her vain effoi-ts ; 
 *' I am so glad it is you ! There is poor Mercy — she can't put 
 her feet to the ground with the chilblains, and not a bit of 
 warmth in the fire, and I can't shut the door !" 
 
 " It 's no more use to lose patience with a door, than it is with 
 a donkey," said William, getting down from his horse. 
 
 " Oh, do try to shut it !" said Rose ; " and speak to poor 
 Mercy first." 
 
 " Well, Mercy," said William, going in ; " why I guess you 
 could not go dropping now. Poor thing ! and is that all the 
 fire you can give New-year's day ?" 
 
 " No, I have some coals, but I am keeping them till grand- 
 mother comes in." 
 
 " Let me see them. Well, to be sure — they would about fill 
 the sugar-basin ! I left Jem riving wood hard enough to-day, 
 and he shall feel a little of the weight of it home before long ; 
 80 don't save up that poor handful ; there — it is all gone ! That's 
 the first coal I have put on neighbor Jones's fire ; and I think 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 4.1 
 
 I have known her years enough to have done it sooner. Now 
 for the door. Well, 'tis a fashion of flitting, to be sure ! I fancy 
 he that made it would learn to work bettei', if he had just one 
 night behind it this January weather ! A bit of string is the 
 only thing that will do it." "William took from his pocket a 
 ball of string ; slipping the string round the latch within, he 
 drew the door quite close, and tied the string tight round the 
 hook that fastened ba^k the shutter without. Then, lifting Rose 
 on Black Beauty, he gave her the rein ; the little maiden, seated 
 sideways on her brother's saddle, well at ease, pondered on past 
 events, and felt to see her folded paper was quite safe, while 
 William kept even pace by her side. 
 
 Rose was soon seated before the warm wood-fire, making the 
 ioast for tea, and wondering how William could manage about 
 getting some logs for Mercy's fire, when William came into th« 
 kitchen, and said, " Rose, look here !" 
 
 Rose ran to his side at the window ; there, over the cold snow, 
 which lay white beneath the darkness, Jem was making his way 
 bome from the farm, with one of the deep farm-baskets on his 
 shoulder, piled up with logs of wood. 
 
 " Is all that for neighbor Jones ?" asked Rose, her face beam- 
 ing with delight. 
 
 " Yes, that it is," replied WiUiam, " it was father piled it up 
 like that ; I found him, and I told him how the poor thing sat 
 shivering there, and he said he should never forgive himself if 
 tliat orphan child perished with cold. I will say it is a pleas- 
 ant thing to see father give ! I told him about the state of 
 things I had found, and he went at once to Jem and said, ' I 
 suppose you would not be much against carrjdng half-a-dozen 
 of these logs home with you to-night V Jem shook his head 
 with a smile ; he never took it the least that father was in 
 earnest, but father had piled up the basket with his own hands 
 
46 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 in no time, and then lie set it tlie next minute on Jem's tthoui- 
 der, and said, ' There, now make the best of your way home, and 
 tell your good mother I would give any lad on my farm such a 
 load as that is, if I could find any to trust as I can her son !' 
 and then father was off, as he always is when he thinks he haa 
 done." Rose listened, and as she listened she slipped her hand 
 into her brother's. William felt this silent expression of the 
 new-formed link between them ; he had met his little sister in 
 her heart's young sympathy, she felt she could turn to and de- 
 pend on his aid, and it seemed to her he stood the nearest to her 
 in the new world of feeling and effort her trembling steps had 
 entered. Jem was out of sight, but Rose still watched from the 
 window — as if she thought to see the dying embers on Mercy's 
 cold heai'th blaze up around the new-year's logs ; William still 
 stood by his little sister, and felt and shared her joy ; the flick- 
 ering fire-light showed the elder and the younger face — both 
 beaming with the glow of blessed charity. 
 
 " Where 's Jem ?" asked Mrs. Smith, in a loud voice ; " ler' 
 him know I want him before he 's off to-night." 
 
 " He is oft* already, mother," said William ; " what did you 
 want ?" 
 
 " How vexing !" exclaimed Mrs. Smith ; " that is always the 
 way — people are off just when you want them most ! Here I 
 had a bottle of beer put up all ready fctr him to take home 
 to his mother ; for how she will toil through the lanes in this 
 deep snow, I can't think." 
 
 " Never mind, mother," said William, " I '11 run after him ; 
 don't wait tea for me if father comes in." WiUiam's hat was 
 on, and away he ran, and Rose still stood at the window, watch- 
 ing her brother through the darkness, by the light of the snow. 
 
 " Tell Mercy to have a little heated right not, and let hei 
 grandmother go warm *o rest," shouted Mrs. Smith after Wil- 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 47 
 
 Ham " Yes, mother," William shouted back as he ran. " Ah !" 
 thought little Rose, " what would have been the use of mother 
 sending that message, if William and I had not seen to the fire !" 
 William overtook Jem almost at the cottage-door, and deliver 
 ing the bottle of beer and the message, he returned to the farm. 
 Jem, with a thankful heart, stowed away the wood, made up 
 the fire, set little Mercy carefully in another chair, that his 
 mother's might look ready for her to sit down in at once ; set 
 out the frugal meal, put the tin mug in readiness to heat the 
 beer, and then, sitting down upon the stool, which was his usual 
 seat, took little Mercy's feet carefully on his knees ; that, as he 
 said, they might feel a bit of comfort from the fire too. 
 
 Meanwhile poor widow Jones was toiling along the snowy 
 lanes ; turning at last the longed-for corner, she suddenly caught 
 sight of the ruddy glow, cast by the blazing wood-fire through 
 the large casement on the snow. " And what 's the matter now ?'* 
 said widow Jones to herself, as she hastened on with quicker 
 steps and beating heart ; " sure the child has not set herself 
 afire and the old place too !" — the thought of a warm glowing 
 hearth having been kindled up was too great an improbability 
 to enter widow Jones's mind. At last her hand was on the 
 latch, and in a moment more she saw the picture of comfort — 
 the two she loved more than life, the logs of burning wood, the 
 arm-chair waiting for her, the little supper-table set ready ! 
 
 " There 's mother !" said Jem, and starting up, he laid little 
 Mercy's feet gently upon the stool where he had been nursing 
 them, and took his mother's old umbrella and basket from her 
 hand. Widow Jones, overcome with fatigue, exhaustion, and 
 surprise, sank down into her arm-chair, while Jem poured some 
 beer from the black bottle into the tin mug, and set it on the 
 side of the burning log to heat, and cutting off a piece of bread, 
 he knelt down before the fire to make some toast to put into it, 
 
48 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " Well, I never thought to find the like of this," said widov» 
 Jones, at last. " Where in the world did you manage to get 
 firewood and beer ?" 
 
 " That 's all master's and mistress' goodness," replied Jem ; 
 " but never mind that, mother, till you have taken a sip of beer, 
 and got a little life into you." 
 
 But widow Jones could not wait. " Bless them for it !" she 
 said, fervently ; and then, taking up her basket from the table 
 where Jem had set it down, she went on to say, in a livelier 
 tone, " Here, Mercy, child, I have a rare surprise for you ; if you 
 are not to run about with warm feet at last, I don't know who 
 is ; look you here !" And pair after pair of warm stockings, all 
 mended and folded, and given by the hand of httle Jane, were 
 piled up on widow Jones's knee. 
 
 " Oh, granny ! what, all for me ?" said Mercy, as she stretched 
 out both hands to receive one pair, and feel its warnith. And 
 then, while she imfolded pair after pair, widow Jones told the 
 history of all : Jem opened both his eyes and mouth to listen, 
 saying, as his mother ended, " Why ! the world is warm all over 
 to-day, out here in the country, and down there in the town !" 
 
 But the beer in the tin mug began to boil, and the toast to 
 put into it had long been made ; so widow Jones and her son 
 Jem and her little grand-daughter began, with thankful hearta 
 and hungry appetites, to partake of their simple fare. 
 
 At the farm, Mr. Smith had come in by the back door, and 
 William returned by the front, and they all sat down to tea. 
 
 " What 's this ?" asked Rose, as she took a long, thin parcel 
 from under her plate. 
 
 " You had better look and see," said William ; " it seems you 
 have the best right to it." 
 
 " There is no direction upon it," said Rose. " Mother, shaU 
 I open it?" 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 49 
 
 "Well, I suppose there is not much use in keeping it shut/* 
 replied Mrs. Smith. 
 
 Rose opened it slowly and carefully ; " my pins ! my pins !** 
 she exclaimed, " mother, was it you ? Did you tell neighbor 
 Jones?" 
 
 " Tell neighbor Jones — no ; what should I have to tell her ?" 
 
 " You had better ask Rover," whispered William, " he knows 
 more about it than mother." Rose laughed at this : " 0, Wil- 
 liam, how glad I am ! did you tell neighbor Jones ?" 
 
 " No, not I. You seem to think no one has the sense to buy 
 a set of pins but neighbor Jones ?" 
 
 " You did not go after them yourself, did you ?" asked Rose. 
 
 " You had better ask Rover about it," replied William, " he 
 has the most right to answer, seeing you told him jfirst in the 
 morning." So Rose was provided with her set of pins — four 
 bright steel pins — and to-morrow she could begin little 
 Johnnie's socks. 
 
 Rose had now only one anxiety, and that one was, to know 
 whether her mother had given leave for her to go up to Miss 
 Clifibrd's class of farmers' daughters at the Hall ; but she could 
 not venture to ask ; so she took the long stocking she was 
 knitting for her father, and sat down on her stool in the chimney 
 corner to her evening's work ; William went out to see after the 
 cattle, Mr. Smith sat down to rest by the fire in his old-fashioned 
 arm-chair, Mrs. Smith took her knitting at the table, Joe sat by 
 the same table deeply occupied with a book of travels he had 
 lately met with, and Samson sat down in the opposite chimney- 
 corner to Rose ; Httle Ted was gone to rest for the night. 
 
 At last Mr. Smith said, " Did I see Miss Cliflbrd cross the 
 drift this afternoon ?" 
 
 " She was there," replied Mrs. Smith, " whether you saw her 
 or not." 
 
 3 
 
, 50 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 •• She did not call, I suppose, did slie ?" again inquired Mr. 
 Smith. Rose looked up, unable to knit another stitch from 
 anxiety. 
 
 " Yes, that she did," replied Mrs. Smith, " she came to ask 
 Rose to a class of farmers' daughters held at the Hall. I told 
 her that I thanked her all the same, but I always had kept my- 
 self to myself, and I meant that Rose should do the same." 
 
 " Must not I go then, mother ?" asked Rose." 
 
 " No, child ; I told Miss Chfford so, and she does not expect 
 it now." 
 
 Rose laid down her knitting, and hiding her face in her 
 pinafore, cried and sobbed. 
 
 Mr. Smith did not say a word, but he got up, took his hat, 
 and went out for his last round in the farm-yard, unable to bear 
 the sight of the child's grief which he felt he could not com- 
 fort. Mrs. Smith knitted on, and Rose went on crying, while 
 Samson spread out both his hands nearer and nearer over the 
 fire, as if he did not quite know what he was doing. 
 
 " There, child, leave off crying, do !" at last said Mrs. Smith. 
 " What 's the use of taking on so because you can not go up to 
 the Hall ? What 's the use of a boarding-school, I should like 
 to know, if you have not lessons enough there, without going 
 up to the Hall after them ?" But poor Rose was in no readi- 
 ness to explain any feeling just then to her mother, she only 
 cried on. 
 
 " Now, Rose, leave off crying directly !'' said hei motner. 
 Rose iiied to keep back her tears, and went on slowly witli her 
 knitting; meanwhile, Samson had slipped out, and in a few 
 minutes William came in and took Samson's place in the 
 opposite chimney-corner to Rose. He stretched out his wet feet 
 and cold hands to the fire, and said in a low tone, " Rose I have 
 a secret to tell you," but poor Rose did not look up. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 61 
 
 " 0, I see how it is," said William, " there is nobody but 
 Rover will do, you began with him this morning, and by what 
 I can pee you mean to end the same. Here, Rover, go to Rose, 
 ihe has something to tell you, I guess she is for sending poor 
 neighbor Jones off for some worsted to the town, but she will 
 tell you all about it ; go, sir, go." Rover looked up at his mas- 
 ter, wagging his tail, and then went and looked up at Rose — as 
 if by way of inquiry. " O, William, how can you talk so !" 
 said Rose, too full of sorrow still to laugh, " I don't want you, 
 Rover, go away." 
 
 Poor little Rose ! her day had begun with tears, and for 
 awhile it seemed hkely to end with the same ; and so it often 
 is, that when we try to walk in the narrow way that leadeth to 
 everlasting life, we find that tears are there as well as smiles — 
 but the tears in that narrow way water its fair flowers, and 
 make them grow the faster. After awhile, Mr. Smith came in 
 again, Rose knew it was almost her bed-time, and she thought 
 it would be pleasant just to hear what Williarc's secret w^as, so 
 she went nearer to him and said, " What secret do you know 
 William ?" " Why," said William, " I have thought of a way 
 to keep up the fire on neighbor Jones's hearth all this whole 
 winter !" 
 
 " O, Will, have you ? what is it ?" 
 
 " Why, it was only this morning that father was asking me 
 who he should give a job of hedging and ditching to. I said 
 then, ' We had better think who we can best spare to take it ;' 
 but I have been thinking this evening, that it would be as well 
 to consider who stands most in need of it, and I am pretty sui'e 
 that will be Jem ; and then he will have all tiie wood he cuta 
 away, and that will go far to keep a fire on their hearth all the 
 winter." 
 
 " Do you think father is sure to let him have it ?" asked Rose. 
 
62 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " Yes, I am sure he will, if I Say only two words about it. 
 Jem has not been put to it before, but I never saw the ''thing 
 yet that he did not finish off as well as a man, and better than 
 many men, because his mind is always in the thing he is after." 
 
 So little Rose went to her pillow with thoughts of Jem hedg- 
 ing and ditching, and the blazing fire kept up on widow Jones's 
 hearth, and sympathy's warm light drank up the mist of sad- 
 ness, and, having offered up the lady's prayer, she laid down her 
 head and was soon asleep. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 "So then &itL cometh by hearing, and hearing by the word of God."— Eon. x. IT. 
 
 rriHE next morning, Rose thought again of Miss Clifford, and 
 -*- her lost hope of going to the class at the Hall ; she sighed 
 once or twice while she was dressing ; but she had her little 
 treasured prayer, and that comforted her; she had also her 
 pins, and Mercy's hymn-book, from which to learn the hymn 
 that she thought would please her father ; so she ran down 
 stairs with a cheerful step, and was soon engaged preparing the 
 breakfast. After breakfast, the boys helped clear the table ; 
 Mrs. Smith went off to the dairy ; and Rose began her morn- 
 ing's work. First, she made up the fire ; then she washed the 
 cups and saucers, mugs and plates, from the breakfast-table, and 
 put them away ; after this, she swept up the farm-house kitchen, 
 the room they always occupied ; and then, with her little can of 
 wheat, went out to feed the fowls ; — quite unconcerned at snow 
 or freezing wind, she stood in the stone-yard, which was always 
 swept early, and scattered the grain round her, while the hun- 
 gry fowls came flying over the low wall at the sound of her 
 voice to pick it up ; and the little birds peeped down from the 
 bare branches of the old ash-tree that stood beside the low wall, 
 watching till Rose should throw them a distant handful, 
 which she never failed to do, looking up with a special call 
 meant only for them — and then down flew on lighter wing the 
 little birds of the air, while Rose stood a watcher between them 
 
54 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 and the fowls of the farm, guarding the rights of both. After 
 thisj Rose went mth her mother to set the upper rooms iji or- 
 der ; and then, tor the most part, her household work was done ; 
 but, on churning days, and baking days, and washing days, and 
 ironing days, there was more to be accomplished, and sometimes 
 Kose was busy with her mother nearly the whole day ; but this 
 was neither churning, nor baking, nor washing, nor ironing day, 
 and Rose had done all, and put on her clean pinafore, by a little 
 after eleven o'clock. 
 
 And now her time was her own, to employ as she liked ; and 
 she might begin her socks ; but she must ask her mother for 
 the promised worsted ; and, she thought, perhaps her mother 
 might be angry with her still, for crying the night before ; but 
 if she did not ask, she could not begin poor little Johnnie's 
 socks. Had she not better learn her hymn out of Mercy's 
 book, and then she need not ask her mother at present ? Yes, 
 but Rose knew that when she had set her sock on, and counted 
 the stitches, she could knit and learn too ; and poor Johnnie had 
 no socks to his feet ; so she went to her mother, and asked, 
 " Mother, may I have that worsted for Johnnie Lambert's socks 
 now ?" Mrs. Smith had looked many times at her little daugh- 
 ter ; she had seen her pale with the last night's crying, yet busy 
 all the morning, a little grave, but pleasant still in all she did 
 or said ; she remembered how the child had wished she could 
 learn of Mks Clifford, and she began to think whether she had 
 done right in refusing ; but Mrs. Smith never liked to give up 
 her o^vn way, and she had yet to learn that " a man's pride shall 
 bring him low, while honor shall uphold the humble in spirit ;" 
 but when her little girl asked in fear and trembling for the 
 worsted, Mrs. Smith replied, " Yes, child, to be sure, did n't I 
 tell you you might ? It 's in the drawer ; you may take what 
 you want, and wind it at once " 
 
AI I N J 5 T E R I N G CHILDREN. 56 
 
 ** May I make two pair then, motlier ?" asked Rose, gathering 
 courage. 
 
 " Yes, to be sure, if you make one ; one pair is n't much use 
 alone." 
 
 So Rose ran off for her worsted ; she knew exactly the riglit 
 size, and how many stitches to set on ; she opened Mercy's little 
 hymn-book on the chimney-corner, hung the skein on the back 
 of her father's arm-chair, and was just beginning to wind her 
 worsted and learn her hymn, when her father passed the window 
 and came in at the front door ; he took otY his great coat and 
 hat, all white with the fresh-falling snow, and came in for a rest 
 and a warm. 
 
 " Well, little girl, busy as possible ; that 's all right ; never 
 mind being tired with work, so long as you are never tired with 
 idleness ; work well, and rest well, that 's my maxim ; but idle 
 work, and idle rest, I should like to know what 's the good they 
 ever did to any body ? What are you after now ?" 
 
 " O, father, you can hold, my worsted, while I wind ; it gets 
 tangled up on the chair. I am going to make some socks for 
 poor little Johnnie Lambert ; he has not a bit of sock to his 
 feet ; mother says I may make him two pair." 
 
 " That won't do you, nor mother, nor Johnnie Lambert any 
 harm, I guess ! What book have you got open there ? Are 
 you so hard put to it for time that you must do two things at 
 once ? That is not, for the most part, the best way." 
 
 " No, father, but that is Mercy's book ; she lent it to me to 
 learn a hymn, and she wants the book ; so I told her I would 
 learn it to-day, if I could, and take it back to her." 
 
 " And have you not books enough without Mercy's ! I should 
 have thc'Ught yoM might ; I know I paid eleven shillings down 
 this last half-year for books and such like things, and yet it 
 seems you have to come to Mercy after all — whose schooling 
 
66 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 never cost a single bit of gold ; that is what comes of boarding- 
 school expense?, I see." 
 
 " 'No, father , but what I learn at school are pieces of poetry 
 that are not any use at home, because you say they are too fine 
 for you ; so I thought I would just learn such a beautiful hymn, 
 that Mercy said out of her book to Miss Clifford, and see if yoii 
 did not like that ; only you hear it, father !" Rose took up the 
 book, and, standing at her father's knee, she read ; — 
 
 " By cool Siloam's shady rill, 
 How sweet the lily grows 1 
 How sweet the breath beneath the hill 
 Of Sharon's dewy rose I 
 
 "Lol such the child whose early feet 
 The paths of peace have trod ; 
 Whose secret heart, with influence sweet, 
 Is upward drawn to God 1 
 
 " By cool Siloam's shady rill, 
 The lily must decay ; 
 The rose that blooms beneath the hill 
 Must shortly fade away. 
 
 " Thou, whose early feet were found 
 
 "Within Thy Father's slirine — 
 Whose years with changeless virtue crowned 
 Were all alike divine ; — 
 
 " Dependent on Thy bounteous breath — 
 We seek Thy grace alone ; 
 In childhood, manhood, age, and death, 
 To keep us still Thine own." 
 
 The father listened, then took the book and said, " Let me 
 Bee it ;" and, looking at the first verse, read aloud the wordfi, 
 " ' Of Sharon's dewy rose !' — that was what your grandmothei 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 57 
 
 would often speak about wlien any one took notice of hei 
 name." 
 
 " I know, father, for our Minister preached about that, and 
 governess always makes us learn the text when we come home ; 
 It 's in the Bible, ' I am the rose of Sharon, and the hly of the 
 valley ;' and our Minister said it meant our Saviour." 
 
 " Oh, child, how like you are to my mother ! I never knew 
 that was in the Bible, though I have heard her speak about it 
 so often ! I suppose I did not take so much notice then ; she 
 would have been pleased enough if I had thought about some 
 of her words then as I do now ; but I can not remember many 
 of them now, only I would give any thing to have you like 
 her. Do you think you could find where that is in the Bible 
 about the rose of Sharon ?" 
 
 " No, father, I can't tell where to find any thing in the Bible, 
 because I have not got one. Mercy has one of her own." 
 
 " What then did I pay down that eleven shillings for, if you 
 have not so much as got a Bible ?" 
 
 " I did ask our governess, father, but she said that it was not 
 her business to get rne a Bible ; — that if I wanted one, I 
 must ask you for that, and I thought I would before I went to 
 school again." 
 
 "Sure enough you shall have one ! -I don't know that my 
 mother ever had any books except her Bible and her prayer- 
 book, and she had learning enough to make her one of the best 
 of women, and how should you ever be hke her if you have not 
 so much as a Bible to look into ! I will see to it next market- 
 day, you may rest sure of that, and now I must be off again." 
 
 And the happy child sat down to her knitting, and her hymn ; 
 but how often did she cease to murmur the sweet words, while 
 her thoughts were gone to her promised Bible. 
 
 " Ther^, child," said her mother, coming in with a couple of 
 
58 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 pair of old socks in her hand, " if you take my advice, you will 
 inend up those old soft socks first for widow Lambert's boy , 
 they won 't be so stiff to his feet ; if they are as bad as you say, 
 he would hardly bear the new ones for a time yet." 
 
 " O yes, mother ; and then if I mend them on this snowy day I 
 can take them to-morrow !" So when dinner was over, and cleared 
 away. Rose still went on darning, and learning, till the light of 
 the short day began to fade, and it was time to set the tea. 
 
 Rose whispered to William in the evening, " What did father 
 say about Jem ?" 
 
 " 0, it 's all right enough," replied William ; " Jem's to begin 
 to-morrow, and he looks as great as a prince about it. I called 
 in this morning to hear how neighbor Jones was, after her 
 walk in the snow ; Mercy was on her feet ; Miss Mansfield had 
 sent her some warm stockings that had set her up again. Jem 
 had been in to tell his mother the news about his getting the 
 hedging and ditching, and she said she was thankful enough, 
 but she knew it was all that blessed child's doing, who would 
 not rest while the widow and the orphan were cold !" 
 
 " Who did she mean, Will ?" 
 
 " Why, you, to be sure !" 
 
 " But it was not I ; it was you. Will, that did that." 
 
 " No, Rose, I am aft aid I should never have thought of it, had 
 it not been for your taking on so about Mercy's fire ; but now 
 we have begun 'tis likely to go on well for them, I hope." 
 
 The next was a bright winter's day, the heavens were clear, 
 and all the earth looked white and beautiful ; within the house 
 Rose was as busy as a bee among the flowers of spring. This 
 was baking-morning ; Rose peeled apples for pies and turnovers, 
 filled little round tartlets with jam, and washed over the tops 
 of the loaves with a feather dipped in beer, to make them brown 
 and shining. No play-time, no wo-k for Johnnie Lambert that 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 59 
 
 morning, but Rose had finished darning the soft socks the day 
 ])efore. When baking was over, her mother gave her two large 
 rosy apples, but she slipped them both into her pocket — one for 
 Mercy, and one for little Johnnie Lambert. 
 
 After dinner. Rose had her mother's leave to take the socks 
 she had mended to Johnnie Lambert. "Are you going any 
 where else, child ?" asked her mother. 
 
 " Only to take Mercy back her hymn-book, mother." 
 
 " I thought it was hkely you were going there ; you may take 
 her one of those apple turnovers you made this morning, if you 
 have a mind ; I dare say she gets little more than bread, and not 
 too much of that ; it must be a hard matter for the old woman 
 to make out this winter time." Rose lifted her beaming face to 
 her mother, who stuffed turnover and socks into a basket ; and 
 off set the ministering child, pressing with light step the soft 
 and sparkling snow. 
 
 First to Johnnie Lambert's, under the hill. His mother was 
 seated at work, patching up Johnnie's frock, while the poor little 
 fellow was wrapped up in her cloak by the fire. Rose found 
 ready entrance. " Look, Johnnie, see ! I have brought you 
 two pair of soft wai'iu socks ; won 't you soon nin about now ?" 
 
 "Well, I am sure ! who would have thought of seeing socks 
 on you, Johnnie ?" said his mother. 
 
 " I am knitting him new ones, and they will be done before 
 I go to school," said Rose. "And there's an apple for ycu, 
 Johnnie !" 
 
 " Look, mother, look !" said little Johnnie, who understood 
 the pleasure of an apple, more than the comfort of warm socks 
 — to which his little feet had been strangers quite long enough 
 for him to forget them. Many a sweet golden apple had Rose 
 gathered ft'om their orchard-trees, but never one before had 
 OTven her so much pleasure as this — while she lookerl at the 
 
6C MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 little cliilblain prisoner, wrapped up in his mother's cloat his 
 face all one glad smile at this autumn treasure come in winter's 
 depth to cheer him. 
 
 Then on went the happy child — ^lightly along the snowy lanes 
 as the bird that glides over the summer lawn, her basket in her 
 hand, her little shawl pinned round her, and her face glowing 
 with the healthful breath of the frosty air ; up the hill side, then 
 along the winding lane, to widow Jones's door. At the door she 
 stood still in amazement ; it was new all over^ and fitted so close 
 that not one cold blast of wind could possibly make its way in, 
 to get itself a warm at the winter fire. At last Rose knocked 
 with some hesitation, but the new door was quickly opened, and 
 Mercy stood before her. 
 
 " Why, Mercy, how quick you have got a new door ! Did 
 Miss Cliiford do that ?" 
 
 " Yes, that she did ; it 's hardly been up an hour yet, and it 
 goes as well as a door can go ; and grandmother's out, and she 
 does not know a word about it, and I have had nobody to tell. 
 1 am so glad you 're come ! Grandmother will be so surpiised, 
 she won't know the place ; just you come and feel how warm it 
 is by the fire now ; and look here, only look !" and Mercy's little 
 hand drew out to view a dark crimson curtain, hung by rings 
 on a strong cord, behind widow Jones' old arm-chair, between 
 the fire and the back door. Rose looked in silent admiration 
 from the new door to the thick sheltering curtain, then back 
 again to the new door. 
 
 " But Miss Clifford could not biing the door ?" said Rose, un- 
 able still to take the mystery in. 
 
 " no, I will tell you all about it. I was sitting here all 
 alone, so warm on one side by the fire you made us ; and so 
 cold the other, for the wind drove in piercing ; and I heard a 
 great lumbering outside, so I went to look, and there was car- 
 
p. 60. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 61 
 
 penter Masou with liis man and cart, and this new door. He 
 said he heard that there was some little fault about the other, 
 and so he brought a new one ; and while he was doing it Miss 
 Cliflbrd came, and carpenter Mason took great notice of the 
 least word she said ; and she asked him to drive those two big 
 hooks into the wall ; and he took a deal of pains, and said he 
 had made them both fast in a beam ; and that beautiful cmlain 
 was rolled up on the groom's saddle, and carpenter Mason hung 
 it up, and drew it himself behind grandmother's chair ; and 
 when he was gone, Miss Clifford said that I might tell grand- 
 mother that the curtain came from her room — where some new 
 ones had been put up. I am sure I can't think what grand- 
 mother and uncle Jem will say when they come home ? The 
 draught from that back-door used to blow the candle-flame all on 
 one side, so that it was no use to try and bum one on windy even- 
 ings ; but now, what with the new door, and the curtain, and the 
 warm fire, we shall not know how to be comfortable enough !" 
 
 After a little more admiration and conversation, Rose opened 
 her basket, and said, " See what mother has sent you ! We 
 baked to-day, and I made that turnover, and I brought you that 
 big apple ! Shall we set the table together ?" 
 
 Mercy willingly agreed and the small round table was set out 
 to the best effect, the turnover in the middle ; then Mercy also 
 agreed that Rose should put on another log, to make a real good 
 fire for once ; and Rose filled the kettle, and hung it over the 
 fire to boil — ^for little Mercy was still lame ; and then the chil- 
 dren looked round on all with eatire satisfaction, and, saj^ng 
 " Good by" to each other, Mercy waited within, in glad expecta- 
 tion of the happy surpiise of her grandmother, and uncle Jem ; 
 while Rose ran swiftly home to tell them all the welcome tidings 
 of the new door and the wanii curtain. 
 
 The next day farmer Smith and his son William went off to 
 
82 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 tlie market ; and all day long Rose thought upon the promised 
 Bible ; the hour for her father's return came, but Rose could not 
 watch, she must pi'epare the tea and make the toast ; but pres- 
 ently she heard his cheerful voice in the back kitchen, saying, 
 *' Well, wife, it 's cold enough !" and then his hat was hung on 
 the peg in the passage, and the whip set down in the corner by 
 the hat, and his next step was in at the kitchen door , down 
 went the toast, and Rose was at her father's side. 
 
 " Well, my little girl," said her father, with his kindest smile, 
 " all safe and right — Chestnut, and William, and father, and 
 Bible, and all !" and he drew the precious book from his inside- 
 pocket, and placed it in the hands of his child. Rose took it 
 with trembling joy, the gilt edges of its leaves all sparkled in 
 the fire-light blaze. " Oh father, is this mine ?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes, to be sure it is," said her father ; and then, lajdng hia 
 hand upon her head, he said in the solemn, tone of prayer, " Mv 
 mother's God give thee his blessing with it !" 
 
 The past excitement of hope and expectation through the day. 
 and now her hope fulfilled, and the voice of prayer — heard for 
 the first time by Rose from her father's lips — prayer of which 
 her Minister at school had said so much ! all these mingled feel- 
 ings overcame the little girl ; she threw her arms round her 
 father's neck and sobbed : he pressed her to his heart, and the 
 first tear he had shed since he had wept for his mother, fell on 
 the head of his child. 
 
 Rose heard her mother's step, and at the sound her arms un- 
 clasped from her father's neck, she folded up her precious Bible, 
 and sat down again to finish the toast. William smiled a know- 
 ing smile at her when he came in, and whispered, " It was I 
 who helped father to choose you such a beauty of a book !" 
 But it was not its purple cover, it was not its gilt edges, that 
 had made the hand of little Rose tremble with joy. No, it waa 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 63 
 
 that she held at last her own Bible — the Book from which she 
 had heard the Minister preach such ' sweet words — words that 
 had already taught her to know and love her Saviour. Before 
 i«a, Rose showed her treasure to her mother, who said, she 
 hoped Rose was not going to take such a book as that to bo 
 worn shabby at school ! But her father replied, that he bought 
 it for her to have always with her ; for that, he beheved, was 
 the use of a Bible ! So Mrs. Smith said no more, and Rose, 
 relieved from all apprehension of separation, carried her treasure 
 up with her that night to bed. 
 
 The next day was Sunday, and after breakfast, while Mrs. 
 Smith was still busy in the back-kitchen, Rose sat down on her 
 father's knee by the fire. She had been thinking of how her 
 father had said, when he gave her the Bible, " My mother's 
 God give thee His blessing !" and now, putting her arm round 
 his neck, she asked, " Father, why did you say, My mother's 
 God — is not God jour God !" 
 
 " I don't know. Rose," replied her father. 
 
 " Then, father, won't you ask God to be your God ? Our 
 Minister says, that God will do all good things that we ask Him 
 for ; and I know it is so, because I asked Him that mother 
 might let me do something to help others, as our Minister said 
 we should, and then mother did. And I asked that I might 
 have a Bible of my own, and now I have. So, won't you ask, 
 father?" 
 
 " Yes, Rose, I hope I shall. I don't feel comfortable never 
 reading the Bible with you children. I should like to have 
 family prayers as my mother used, but I don't know what has 
 become of the book of prayers she used ; I am afraid it 's alto- 
 gether lost : and our Minister here is not one that you can speak 
 to about that sort of tl: ing, for he has never spoken a word to 
 me about it himseK!" 
 
64 MINISTERING CHILDREN 
 
 " Oh, but father, our Minister at school says that we may pray 
 to God in words from om' own hearts ; and I tried, and I found 
 it was right !" 
 
 " Well, Rose, I don't know, for I have not tried it yet ; but 
 I do know it 's the thinor that ouo^ht to be done, and I will talk 
 to your mother ; for there is nothing like to-day. My mother 
 used to say, * To-day, "William, not to-morrow !' I have found 
 it a good rule for this world, and it is not likely to be worse for 
 the next." 
 
 " No, father, to-day must be right, for that is what we say 
 every Sunday in the Psalm at church, ' To-day if ye will hear 
 His voice, harden not your hearts !' " 
 
 As they walked to church that morning, their children being 
 on before, Mr. Smith said to his wife, " Do you know where my 
 mother's Bible is ?" 
 
 " Yes, to be sure, I locked it up to keep it safe from the chil- 
 dren." 
 
 " I wish you would look it out then ; for I feel I have been 
 very wrong to neglect it so : a locked-up Bible is a bad witness 
 against me. I should wish we should read it every day with 
 the children — have family prayers I mean, morning and even- 
 ing, as they do at the Hall, for I know there is but one Way 
 alike for all." 
 
 " Well, I think it was a pity you did not consider of it from 
 the first ; I never can see the use of changes — it 's nothing more 
 than saying, We have been wi'ong all along before !" 
 
 " And so we have, wife, and all the shame lies in the wrong 
 thing — not in tiying to do the right : and are we not always 
 telling our people that they must make a change, and do better 
 by us? And if they never see us take a step in the good way 
 they may well think what 's the need for them to change ? for 
 you may be sure they are well aware we are not all we ought to 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 65 
 
 be yet ; but if they see us doing better than before, may be lliey 
 will think it time to begin to consider their own ways, before it 
 be too late." 
 
 " Well, I am sure I don't understand it, so you must do as you 
 please ; that is all I have to say." 
 
 That afternoon when Mr. Smith went into his little parlor, 
 his mother's Bible had been laid, by his wife, on the table : he 
 took it in his hand — the lamp that had lighted his steps to the 
 kingdom of Heaven ! — he opened it — he saw the well-worn 
 leaves — he could not read the words, for his eyes were dim with 
 tears ; but kneeling down, he took it for his own — his lamp in 
 life — his guide to Heaven. 
 
 That evening, when they were all assembled, farmer Smith 
 sent Rose to the parlor to fetch her grandmother's Bible ; he 
 took it from her hands and said, " My boys, you don't know this 
 Bible, but I know it well ; it was your grandmother's, and it has 
 been my sin that you have not known it as long as you have 
 known any thing. It guided your grandmother to Heaven ; she 
 never looked on any thing as she looked on this book. I have 
 heard her talk to it and say, " My blessed Bible, my comforter, 
 my guide to Heaven's gate — how I thank God for you !" and 
 then she would say to me, ' My son, bind the words of this book 
 as chains about thy neck, write them on thine heart.' Ah ! my 
 mother, I have not done so ! but I trust, by God's help, I shall ; 
 and see to it, my boys, that you lay up its words in your hearts, 
 that it may lead you to a better world than this." 
 
 Then Molly was called in, and took her seat, and farmer Smith 
 read the first Psalm. " Let us pray," then said the father, and 
 all knelt down, while, with a trembling voice, he offered up his 
 prayer. 
 
 " O God, pardon our manifold sins. Pardon, God, our neg- 
 lect of Thy Word. May the Bible be from this time our de 
 
66 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 ligtt. We thank Thee for Thy mercy ; we thank Thee fol 
 Thy patience ; we thank Thee for Thy goodness. O God, bless 
 GUI children ; bless our servants ; and take care of us this night, 
 for tlie love of Thine only Son our Saviour Jesus Christ. Amen." 
 
 The next morning, when farmer Smith came in to breakfrist, 
 Mrs. Smith had laid the Bible ready for him. Molly was called 
 in ; the yard-boy was set in the back kitchen, that no one might 
 make a disturbance, and Mrs. Smith failed not to say to him, 
 " You may keep near the passage here ; you will be none the 
 worse for hearing!" The father read the second Psalm, and 
 prayed again. 
 
 " O God, we thank Thee for the night : we thank Thee for 
 safety and rest. God, take care of us this day ; keep us from 
 all evil ; teach us to please Thee. O God, bless us all ; and 
 make us to remember and love Thy Word, through Jesus Christ 
 our Saviour. Amen." 
 
 From that day, morning and evening prayers were always 
 heard in farmer Smith's dwelling. 
 
 Rose could not finish the socks for little Johnnie Lambert till 
 the day before that on which she was to return to school ; she 
 could not hope to be spared to take them, because it was time 
 for her things to be packed up ; so after dinner she said, " Mo- 
 ther, I have finished little Johnnie's last sock ; will you please 
 give them to widow Lambert when you see her ?" 
 
 " And why not take them yourself, child ?" 
 
 " I thought you would want me, mother, for packing my 
 clothes." 
 
 " 0, 1 can see to that ; it is n't likely when you have worked 
 up all your playtime into socks for a barefoot child, that I should 
 hinder you from the sight of them on his feet. I have found 
 yo'i up an old pair of Ted's boots, for I dare say the child's are 
 a8 much to pieces as they are together, and there 's no use in his 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 67 
 
 wearing out your work as soon as you have done it, for want of 
 a pail of boots to cover it." 
 
 So away went the ministering child, with her own hand to 
 draw on the socks of the fatherless boy, and to see him stoop 
 down and feel them with his little fingers, while the tear of 
 thankfulness glistened in his mother's eye. Rose took a fare- 
 well of Mercy, and then hastened home. And when she turned 
 the corner of the road, there, on the top of the green slope at the 
 garden-gate of the farm, was Miss Clifford on her white pony, 
 and David her groom holding his black pony at her side. Rose 
 longed to run home for fear Miss Clifford should be gone ; but 
 she did not like Miss Clifford to see her running, so she walked 
 down the hill to the bridge, and then began as fast as she could 
 to climb the green slope. Miss Clifford was talking to Mrs. 
 Smith, but she saw Rose coming, and wishing Mrs. Smith 
 " Good day," she rode down the slope and met the child. 
 
 " I heard from Mercy that you were going back to school," 
 said Miss Clifford, " so I called to wish you good-by, and to 
 bring you a Kttle hymn-book like Mercy's, for she tells me that 
 you have no hymn-book, and were pleased with her's ; there it 
 is, I have written your name and mine in it ; so now there will 
 be no fear of forgetting each other — will there ?" Rose took 
 the book from Miss Clifford's hand, and curtsied to the very 
 ground, while her eyes told her young heart's gladness. Then 
 with a parting smile on the little girl, Miss Clifford raised Snow- 
 flake's rein, and in a moment more she was cantering up the 
 opposite hill, while Rose ran with her treasure to her mother, 
 Mrs. Smith was greatly pleased at Miss Clifford's call and pres- 
 ent to Rose, aftei her refusal about the class ; and the last 
 evening of the little girl's holidays was soothed by the tender- 
 ness of all in her home, and so went the ministering child back 
 again to her school in the town. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 '*How much better is It to get wisdom than gold? and to get underetandlng rather 
 to be chosen than silver." — Peovekbs xvi. 16. 
 
 " TTTHERE is Herbert ?" asked Mr. Clifford, on sitting down to 
 * ' the dinner-table one day, as the month of January was 
 drawing to a close. " Mr. Herbert came in late, sir, and will soon 
 be down," said a servant in waiting. Herbert quickly entered, 
 with glowing cheeks, " I am very soriy to be late, mamma, but 
 papa will not mind when I tell him what has hindered me ! I 
 know, papa, you thought I never should be charitable, but I 
 shall ; I have taken up with it at last, and capital fun it is 1" 
 " Indeed," replied Mr. Clifford, " Charity, havicg to do with the 
 wants, and often with the sorrows of others, is not generally 
 associated with fun ; but it is always pleasant to hear of charity, 
 so after dinner we* shall call on you for an account." 
 
 " 0, papa ! you take things in such a serious way, it puts out 
 all the fun in no time ! but I will tell you, papa, and I am sure 
 you will say I could not but do as I did." So when the dessert 
 was on the table, Herbert began. " Now, papa, for my story. 
 I had been skating, and I thought I should be late home, so to 
 save myself the corner of the road, I just cut across old Willy 
 Green's garden. I leaped the ditch, and as I stopped a minute 
 to recover breath, I saw Willy Green sitting on a trunk of a 
 tree, on the edge of his garden ditch, a little lower down. I 
 thought, as he had seen me come in, in that sort of way, I must 
 stop and speak to him ; so I said, well, Willy, you won't take 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. Qd 
 
 me up for trespassing, you know at least I am an honest lad ! 
 but he did not speak a word, he only shook his head, and sat 
 panting for breath. I was frightened enough then, for I be- 
 lieved he was going to die, and I alone with him there ! So I 
 said. Do you feel ill, Willy ? After a minute he managed to 
 speak, and then he said, ' O, master, I been after riving a bit of 
 ^rewood, and I thought my breath would never come again !' 
 And there was his hatchet wedged in the old tree, and he had 
 not had the strength to get it out again. I soon pulled it out 
 for him, and then I asked him how he could think of trying at 
 what he had no strength for ? and he said he had been perished 
 with cold the last night, and laid shivering for houi-s ; so he 
 thought he would try after a few chips, just to make a blaze 
 and get a little warmth into him, but that it had almost cost 
 him his life's end." Herbert saw the tears fill his sister's eyes, 
 so he made haste to what he thought the best part of the stoiy. 
 " Well, papa, I had spent the last of my money on a new- 
 fashioned riding-whip, but I remembered that my next month's 
 allowance would be mine in a week, and a week would be quite 
 soon enough to pay for some coals, if I had them sent in to old 
 Willy to-morrow ; and I thought, papa, you would not mind 
 my giving a promise in such a case ; so I said to old Willy, 
 who was standing by me, Never mind, Willy ; you shall not be 
 tempted to kill yourself over an old log ; and I gave a desperate 
 push, and sent the old tree down into the ditch, for, being hol- 
 low, it was not so heavy as it looked ; but the poor old fellow 
 called out as if it had been his barn of a cottage blown down. 
 It was such fun, because I knew how I meant to surprise him ! 
 So I said, Don't break your heart after the old log ; you shall 
 see plenty of shining black coal at your stile to-morrow ! I 
 thought he would be as pleased as possible at this ; but I sup- 
 pose it seemed to him too good to be true, for he only shook 
 
70 M NISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 his head, and said, ' I thfink you, master, but I fear there 's no 
 good comes of casting away the least of God's creatures.' But 
 I shall show him what I mean when to-morrow comes. I could 
 not have done better ; could I, papa ?" 
 
 " Indeed, Herbert, I am afraid you will find youi-self in a seri- 
 ous difficulty : you seem to have thrown my rule, as to your 
 monthly allowance, overboard, with old Willy's log. It can be 
 hardly necessary for me to remind you of what I have repeated 
 to you year by year, that I never allow you to anticipate your 
 allowance by any debt or promise. I give you what is amply 
 sufficient for you, mouth by month, and while I am spared to 
 watch over you, I never will allow you to acquire the habit of 
 making the expenditure of the present a debt upon the future." 
 
 " But, papa, it was only one week beforehand, and it was for 
 charity !" 
 
 " Whatever the length of time, or whatever the object, your 
 father's rule, my boy, was the same, and you can not break the 
 mle without incurring the penalty. Your next month's allow- 
 ance is forfeited, as I always told you it would be if my rule was 
 broken by you." 
 
 " But, papa, I promised !" 
 
 " You promised what you had no right to engage for, and 
 have no power to perform : if you learn by this lesson to avoid 
 a too hasty promise through life, it will be well for you ; and 
 this was a promise made in direct infringement of my rule, and 
 therefore the sorrow of recalling the promise must be yours. 
 If you had not wasted your money, you would not have found 
 yourself without any, when a real want came before you." 
 
 " Then, papa, I must leave old Willy to perish with cold, and 
 the only bit of firewood he has, in the ditch !" 
 
 " God forbid, Herbert, that you should have a heart, &nd I a 
 «on, capable of such an act ! K you can render no aid to the 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 1l 
 
 fleedy without your purse, then you put your moLey before youi 
 powers of heart, and mind, and body ; and this is a base substi- 
 tution, and proves that, for your own sake, you have need, in* 
 deed, to be separated from your purse for a time." 
 
 Herbert said no more ; he saw his father was resolved, and 
 tliat all appeal was hopeless : he tried to restrain his feelings 
 while his father was present, but when Mr. Clifford retired to 
 his study after dinner, poor Herbert's despair broke forth. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, you will help me, will you not ?" 
 
 " What can I do for you, Herbert ?" 
 
 " Will you send as much coal as would last out that old log ?" 
 
 " No, dear Herbert, I can not do that ; the work is yours, and 
 I must not take it out of your hands. Try to look at it calmly, 
 it is your first real difficulty in life, and all your future will be 
 influenced by it." 
 
 " It is not any use to think about it, mamma ; if you will not 
 help me, I shall never get out of it. And perhaps old Willy 
 will die with the cold, and the whole village will say it was I 
 who robbed him of his firewood ; they will think I did it for 
 mischief, and never meant to give him any thing better ; and 
 then, mamma, I shall hate the place, and never be able to bear 
 it !" And Herbert hid his face in his hands in a passion of 
 tears. Mrs. Clifford remained silent ; and his sister's face grew 
 pale, but she did not speak. Looking up at last, Herbert said, 
 " Mamma, do you think that if I asked papa, he would let me 
 have a man to get the log out of the ditch ? If I could but 
 once right old Willy, I would never meddle with charity again !'* 
 
 " You can ask your papa, if you think it likely," replied Mrs. 
 Clifford, sorrowfully, without looking at her son. 
 
 " But, mamma, if papa does not, what am I to do ? Is it not 
 dreadful to be in such a state ? It seems the worst thing in the 
 world — to have gone and robbed that poor old fellow of his log;, 
 
72 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 and then leave him to perish with cold ; that is what he will 
 think, and all the village will think — it drives me wild ! will you 
 not give me a word of advice, mamma ?" 
 
 " I will tell you something, dear Herbert, if you will listen 
 to me." 
 
 " Yes, mamma, I will listen to any thing ; I seem to have no 
 thoughts, only one dreadful blank of dead hopeless cold in me." 
 And Herbert came and stood by his mother's chair, and put his 
 arm around her neck ; the storm of his passion had spent itself, 
 but it was with a face expressive of utter hopelessness that he 
 stood prepared to listen. 
 
 " When you were a little child, Herbert, and when you loved 
 the Bible you so seldom look at now, you were standing one 
 day at my knee, having tried long and patiently to learn that 
 beautiful verse, * Unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given, 
 and the government shall be upon His shoulder ; and His name 
 shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The mighty God, The 
 Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.' When I had ex- 
 plained it a little to you, I said, ' Herbert, will you make that 
 blessed Saviour, God's beloved Son, your Counselor ?' You 
 looked very thoughtful, and said, * I don't know, mamma.' I 
 replied, *He is your papa's Counselor, Herbert; your papa 
 goes to ask Him in every difficulty, to teach him what to do ; 
 and so do I : if you do not, you can not walk with us in the 
 narrow way to heaven — for none can walk in that way without 
 His help.' Then you looked up, and said, 'I will, mamma; 
 I will do as you and papa do, and go to heaven with you.' 
 Oh ! Herbert, how earnestly your mother prayed for you, that 
 your infant words might not fall to the ground, but might be 
 fulfilled from your early years. And now comes the trial, wheth- 
 er you will forsake Him whom you chose as the Guide of your 
 youth, or whether you will turn to that Heavenly Counselor, 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 7S 
 
 and seek for direction in your present trouble where none ever 
 tsought it aright and in vain." 
 
 " But, mamma, it is so long since I have really prayed — if I 
 ever did." 
 
 " Perhaps it is to lead you back to prayer, dear Herbert, that 
 you have been suffered to fall into this difficulty." 
 
 " But, mamma, what use is it to pray, when, if papa will not 
 let me have any money, it is not possible to get out of this 
 trouble 1" 
 
 " Do you think, Herbert, that God who made you, made you 
 to be dependent upon money ? or that if you truly turn to Him, 
 acknowledging your fault, and asking His forgiveness and help, 
 He could not aid, and would not pity you ?" 
 
 " Well, mamma, I will try, but indeed it is very hard to look 
 out into the dark where I can not see as if any light could 
 come." 
 
 " Only try, dear Herbert, and it may be your glad sui-prise 
 will prove the first beginning in your heart of a blessed life of 
 prayer and praise." 
 
 " My head aches, mamma, and I have not begun to prepare 
 for my tutor, to-morrow, and he never will hear of an excuse 
 unless papa speaks for me, and I am sure papa will not do that 
 now ; so I shall not have time to come down again this even- 
 ing." 
 
 Herbert wished his mother good night ; and then went to 
 the sofa where his sister had been silently listening to ali, and 
 as he stooped to kiss her, she said, " Have you never watched 
 till you have seen the first bright star shine through the dark 
 cloud at night ?" 
 
 " Yes, I have seen that,!' replied Herbert. 
 
 " There is no darkness upon earth, dear Herbert," said his 
 sister, "that God can not lighten. Prayer is sure at last to 
 
 4 
 
74 
 
 NISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 bring a star in the dark cloud, if you do not give it up ;" and 
 Herbert looked at her sweet smile, and the first ray of peace- 
 ful hope seemed to steal into his heart. 
 
 Herbert went round by his father's study, and on being ad* 
 mitted, he went up to his parent and said, " Will you forgive 
 me, papa, for my disobedience ? I am very sorry for it." 
 
 " Yes, my dear boy, you have my full forgiveness. I sull«. r as 
 well as you, while I leave you unaided in what looks to you so 
 hard a lesson ; and it is a hard one if you try i in any way bul 
 the right way ; do you know that one right way, Herbert 1" 
 
 " Yes, papa, I think I do." 
 
 " If so, my boy, it may prove the best lesson you have ever 
 learned, and sad would be the act that should deprive you of 
 the need to acquire a knowledge so blessed !" 
 
 " But, papa, if I get out of this, I can never try charity again !" 
 
 " I think that depends upon -jvhether you get out of this 
 trouble on the right side or the wrong. The after-efiect of all 
 our troubles depends upon whether we scramble out of them a» 
 best we can on this world's side, and by its way ; or whether 
 we ask our Saviour to give us His hand in the deep waters, and 
 help us out on the side nearest heaven, on which none can get 
 out without Him. Suppose I ask you to give me back that many- 
 bladed knife I gave you on your last birth-day, because, the first 
 time you opened it you cut your fingers with it ? Do you wish 
 for that reason to part with it ?" 
 
 " no, papa, that was only the first time, and I am sure any 
 one might have done the same ! I soon learned to know the 
 different springs." 
 
 " And even so with blessed charity, my boy — it is a finely- 
 tempered instrument, and many there are who wound both 
 themselves and others for want of sldll in using it. None but 
 the God who creates it in man can ever teach us to manage it 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 75 
 
 ariglit. You have wounded yourself, and risked ine injuring 
 another, by a mistaken use of it ; but if you once learn how to 
 use it, you will be willing to part with your purse, yes, with 
 every earthly possession, rather than with it. And now, good 
 night, and God bless you, my child, and pour into your heart 
 that most excellent gift of chanty, the very bond of peace and 
 of all virtues, without which, whosoever liveth is counted dead 
 before Him — even true love to God and man." 
 
 Herbert went slowly and sorrowfully to his room to take his 
 mother's counsel ; the hope that for a moment had soothed him, 
 reflected from his sister's smile and words of assurance, was 
 gone again ; his head was heavy and his prayer was heavy, it 
 did not seem to rise to heaven or bring him any light. He sat 
 down to prepare his lessons ; but all attempts at study wero 
 vain, his thoughts still wandered to that shivering old man and 
 his wasted log in the ditch ; he was learning a deeper lesson, in 
 which his books of human learning could not aid him, and his 
 mind refused to turn to studies which yielded no sympathy in 
 his pressing need. Weary with the vain struggle of feeling, he 
 thought he would lie down on his pillow and try to lose him- 
 self and his trouble in sleep — but he could only wake to find 
 all the same as he had left it. Then his sister's words came 
 back upon his heart — " Prayer is sure at last to bring a star in 
 the dark cloud — if you do not give it up," so kneeling down 
 again he tried to lift the same heavy heart and heavy prayer to 
 heaven. He rose and drew back his curtain, and standing 
 within it looked up to the sunless sky; the heavy clouds wore 
 chasing each other across the low horizon, and not a star was 
 visible. Yet, thought Herbert, the stars are still the same, and 
 perhaps to-morrow night the sky will be cloudless ; but I shall 
 have no comfort, for no stars* lie for me behind my trouble ! He 
 turned back asjain into his room ; he had placed his lamp m a 
 
70 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 further corner wheu lie went to tlie window, and now as b«3 
 looked toward it, its light fell on the crimson cover of his 
 Bible, and he remembered his mother's words, " that Bible, 
 Herbert, you so seldom look at now !" He went and t:)ok it 
 sorrowfully and hopelessly down, but still he took it — ^li<i took 
 the Book whose words are spirit and life — he took the Book 
 whose words can wake the dead, can turn darkness into light, 
 and warm the heart, and nerve the spirit, with a living energy 
 that death itself has no power to destroy — Herbert took his 
 Bible, and sitting down, he opened it at the first chapter of the 
 book of James, and there alone beside his lamp, his elbow rest- 
 ing on the table, and his heavy head upon his hand, he looked 
 upon the sacred p;'ge and read till he came to the words — " If 
 any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all 
 men liberally, and upbraideth not ; and it shall be given him ; 
 but let him ask in faith, nothing wavering." He read no fur- 
 ther ; the sacred word had spoken to him, it knew his need, 
 and answered to that need, with a voice that searched far deep- 
 er than any other words had done. His mother had told him 
 to pray ; but his Bible had told him how, even with " faith" — 
 believing that God would hear and answer ; his sister had told 
 him that whatever our dark trouble might be, prayer could 
 bring a bright star shining through it ; but his Bible men- 
 tioned the very star he wanted, even " wisdom" — the light of 
 wisdom to show him what to do. And now once more he 
 knelt to ask with hope in God, whose word of promise his 
 heart had found in his time of need. He asked again that he 
 might be able to find some right way out of his trouble. And 
 then his thoughts wandered over the \'illage. Always bent on 
 his own amusement, he had taken no interest in the wants or 
 the comforts of any one there, no eye had looked in grateful 
 love upon him, no voice had blessed him. He knew not how 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 77 
 
 jO ^k the aid of those of whose comfort he had proved him- 
 self regardless. Then the rich boy felt his true position, not 
 allowed now to fall back on the aid of any in his father's ser- 
 vice, he did not know one to whom he could turn for help in 
 his trouble — ^it was as a lightning-flash that pierced through 
 the tinsel of wealth and showed him his personal poverty, in all 
 save that which a hasty word had the power to deprive him of. 
 But while thinking on all who dwelt around him, among whom 
 he could not see one whose love he had won, one on whose 
 wilhng aid he had any right to depend ; suddenly he saw again 
 in memory the son of widow Jones, " honest Jem," as he had 
 seen him in reahty a few days before, feeding farmer Smith's 
 sheep, the sheep all gathering round him, eating sometimes 
 from the turnips at his feet, and when they failed there, looking 
 up to his hand which reached them out a supply, while one 
 httle weakly lamb, held safe under his arm, nibbled a turnip 
 held for it in his left hand. The scene on the snowy field was 
 so pretty that old Jenks the coachman had driven slowly by, 
 saying to Herbert, who was on the coach-box at his side, "I 
 would trust that lad, if I were in want of a friend, as soon as 
 I would any man in the parish !" And the thought came into 
 Herbert's mind, that if Jenks would trust the shepherd-lad to 
 be his friend, he might trust him too. The remembrance of 
 the young shepherd brought so much relief to Herbert, that he 
 gave thanks, and said his evening prayer with a more cheerful 
 heart, and then lay down on his pillow and fell asleep. 
 
 His anxious mother came into his room, and thought, as she 
 looked at her sleeping child, "Has then sleep such power to 
 restore peace to the troubled brow ? how deep the repose of his 
 expression now ! Alas, poor boy, will he awake to the same 
 dijti'ess ? that some light may break upon him, some true 
 thought guide him !" While still his mother lingered, Heiberl 
 
78 MINISTERINC+ CHILDREN. 
 
 opened liis eyes, his mother stooped down to him, and he thre^ 
 his arms round her neck. 
 
 " ! mamma, you were ^uite right, quite right ! I thought 
 it was all no use, but then that young shepherd of farmer 
 Smith's came into my mind ; you know who I mean, mamma ; 
 they call him in the vdllage ' honest Jem ;' — he is the only 
 person I could ask to do a kindness for me now that I have no 
 money to pay them. I think every one else would expect me 
 to pay them, but I don't think that he would, from what Jenks 
 said the other day. Do you think that w^ould do, mamma ? 
 Do you think papa would mind my asking him ?" 
 
 " No, I think you have fixed upon quite the right person. I 
 have heard your sister speak in his praise, and your father only 
 feels it right not to furnish you with help from any resources 
 of his own ; he wishes you to find a remedy of yourself and 
 independent of your home ; that you may both learn and re- 
 member the lesson he hopes that this trial may teach you." 
 
 " But, then, mamma, I have no doubt he is off by six o'clock to 
 the sheep, and he would say he could not give his master's time 
 to me, so I must be up and off by five o'clock, or sooner than that, 
 to give time to drag the old log up again. O, I do think I shall 
 have it up by to-morrow night, and it makes me so thankful !" 
 
 " And does nothing else make you thankful, my child ?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma, because I know where the thought came 
 from ! and it was my Bible that first seemed really to comfort 
 me, and help me to pray." 
 
 " And then, Herbert, when you have taken this first step in the 
 narrow way — that way which is only entered by prayer, shall you 
 wish to leave it again, and forget all that has helped you now ?" 
 
 "No, I hope I should not wish to leave it, mamma, but 
 I don't know whether I shall be able to walk in it : do you 
 think it would all be so hai'd as this has been ?" 
 
MINIBTEltlNG CHILDREN 79 
 
 " What was it tliat made tliis hard, can you tell me that ?" 
 
 " Why, it was my own ftmlt, mamma, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes, God does not willingly afflict or grieve : His ways are 
 pleasantness, and His paths peace." 
 
 " But then, mamma, I am always getting into trouble, so that 
 I should soon be in another, I am afraid I" 
 
 " And if you are, dear Herbert, would it be no comfort to 
 you to have the same Heavenly Father, who has answered you 
 now, to go to as your Guide in every diflSculty ? and might you 
 not hope to cleanse your way from its present so frequent faults, 
 by taking heed thereto according to His Word ?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma, perhaps I might ; I do hope I shall try, for I 
 feel very different to-night to what I did before." 
 
 And so the mother blessed her child and left him to his rest. 
 
 Left to himself, Herbert's thoughts turned again to old Willy. 
 Was the old man then shivering in his bed ? he had not had 
 the little fire of chips he had hoped for, to warm him with, be- 
 fore he slept ! Herbert had not remembered this before, and 
 saddened again with this fresh recollection he fell asleep ; he 
 slept and dreamed. Herbert thought in his dreams, that, un- 
 able to rest, he rose from his bed, and went by night to see 
 whether old Willy were indeed lying shivering with cold. He 
 walked along the well-known road, crossed the little stile into 
 old Willy's garden, and gently opened the cottage-door : all 
 was still within the cottage, and there at the further corner of 
 the room lay old Willy sleeping in his bed; and, leaninn^ 
 where the low bed-post rose — bending over and watching old 
 Willy, a radiant angel stood. The old man was asleep ; he 
 looked full of peace, and drew his breath as gently as an infant, 
 and smiled as if he dreamed of holy things. Herbert thought 
 that he did not, feel at all afraid of the angel, and the bright angel 
 tamed his fa le of love and looked on Herbert, and said to him 
 
80 MINISTERING CHILDREN. * 
 
 " My cliild, what brings you here by night ?" 
 
 " I came," replied Herbert, " to see whether old Willy slept, or 
 whether he was lying shivering with the cold, as he told me he 
 did last night." 
 
 " He did shiver long," said the bright angel, " before he feP 
 Rs^leep, l)Ut he has slept some hours now ; I count the momenta 
 wliile he sleeps, for when he wakes he must feel the cold of this 
 house and shiver again." 
 
 " Can not you keep old Willy from feeling the cold when he 
 wakes ?" asked Herbert. 
 
 '* jSTo," replied the angel gravely, " I can not do that ; that work 
 of love is yours. You could not do my work, and I can not do 
 yours." 
 
 " What is your work ?" asked Herbert. 
 
 " You could not understand my work if I were to tell you, be- 
 cause it is only an angel's work ; but you can understand your own, 
 because your God and our God has taught you in His Word. 
 
 " I did mean to have made old Willy warm," said Herbert, 
 '' but I have no money now." 
 
 " Poor child ! can you do nothing without money ?" asked 
 the radiant angel. " Do you wish to help any — pray for them, 
 and you will soon find you are taught how to help them. You 
 must hearken to the voice of God's Word — that is how holy 
 angels learned their work in Heaven, and that is how you must 
 learn yours on earth." 
 
 Then the bright angel turned and looked again on old Willy, and 
 Herbert awoke from his sleep. At first he wondered where he was, 
 but he heard the ticking of his watch, and starting up he lit his 
 candle and looked at the time ; it was nearly five o'clock ; so 
 Iiaving dressed, and offered up his morning prayer, he crept softly 
 down stairs, let himself out, and went forth into the darkness. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 'Pleasant •vrords are as a honey-comb, sweet to the soul, and Lealth to the 
 bones."— Peoveebs xvL 24. 
 
 I 
 
 HAVE no doubt Jem is used to logs, and knows how to 
 manage them," thought Herbert, as he walked along. " I 
 did not bring a cord with me, but he is sure, I should think, t< 
 have cords at his cottage ; people who have to do with work 
 must always be wanting such things." The road was longer than 
 Herbert had supposed, and though he ran and walked by turns, 
 yet the time went on apace, and Jem's cottage was still distant 
 At last he saw the dim beginning of the lane, and a figure come 
 up it and turn the corner of another road. " Hallo ! stop there !" 
 cried Herbert, and running on, he found the figure, now stand- 
 ing still, to be none other than Jem himself, with his bill-hook 
 hanging from his hand, and his hatchjt over his shoulder. Jem 
 knew the young Squire by sight, and exclaimed, " Why, Mr. 
 Clifford, sir ! I hope there 's nothing happened !" 
 
 " Nothing, I hope, but what you can set right," replied Her- 
 bert, " if you will have the kindness to come to my help." 
 
 " If you please, sir, I am ready right away," said Jem, still 
 in a maze of astonishment at what could have befallen the 
 young Squire at such an hour in the morning. 
 
 " I 'm afraid it 's later than I thought, or you are earlier : 
 how are you off for time ?" asked Herbert. 
 
 " Why, as to that, sir, I am my own master now for a bit, as 
 the saying is." 
 
 ♦* 
 
82 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " How is that ? I thought you kept the sheep on Farmei 
 Smith's farm ?" 
 
 " So I do, sir ; but just as this year came in, master gave me 
 a job of hedging and ditching ; and now he has been so good 
 as to let me have another turn of it ; and master has set the 
 man Billy Warren for the time to look after my sheep ; so you 
 see, sir, the hour is nothing particular, because, as I take it by 
 the job, master don't mind an hour one way or the other — so 
 there 's no need to be looking after that." 
 
 Herbert felt the light of hope, that had led him to Jem, 
 brighten, at the words of the kind-nearted lad, and was about to 
 turn round for old Willy's, when ne remembered the cord. 
 
 " I am afraid we shall want a cord," said Herbert, " and I did 
 not bring one. I suppose you keep such things always at hand 
 in your house ?" 
 
 " Dear me, no, sir ! it is not much we have to turn to, save a 
 pair of hands and feet, thanks be to Heaven for them, and the 
 notion how to use them ; but if a cord be the want, I can soon 
 fetch one down from master's at the farm." 
 
 " There is nothing can be done in this job without it," replied 
 Herbert, v/ho felt that now he must come to a confession. " The 
 mischief is, that yesterday I found old Willy Green killing him- 
 self almost, over an old trunk of a tree, and I hoped to have 
 been able to send him in some coals to-day, so I tumbled the old 
 log down into his ditch ; but I had forgotten myself when 1 
 promised the coal, and now I find I can not keep my word, and 
 I have been almost distracted about it ; and I want to get the 
 old log up again, and I did not know who to ask to stand ray 
 friend and help me, but I thought perhaps you would ; but if 
 you take a look at it first, you will better know what we shall 
 want to get it up with." 
 
 " As, you please, sir," said Jem, and he turned and followed 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 83 
 
 at Herbert's side. The two walked in silence on, tlie pnnt of 
 Herbert's light foot fell side by side in the snow with the 
 impress of the heavy tread of Jem's step of toil and strength. 
 Herbert thought to himself, " Jem does not like the job, I am 
 sure, or he would have said something more than, ' As you 
 please, sir.' I wish I could find out what he feels abou', help- 
 ing me in it ; it is so wretched not to know ! I must make 
 him say something." " I am afraid, Jem," said Herbert, " you 
 are thinking you don t like the business ; but if you could 
 just help me through with it, I should always teel grateful to 
 you !" 
 
 Now, Jem understood that he was expected to speak, and 
 when once he understood that, he Avas always ready, and his 
 words were sure, when they did come, to come warm with 
 the glow of his kind, true heart : he replied, " Well, master, 
 I was just thinking I ought to have been at it alone, instead of 
 your being waked up before so much as a mouse has oped 
 its eye ; and if I had but known, sure enough I would, and 
 I might have known, if I had had half a thought — as the say- 
 ing is." 
 
 " You could not have known," replied Herbert ; " it was only 
 yesterday I did it." 
 
 " Well, sir, that may be, but I might have known that poor 
 old man would come to the want of firewood, such weather as 
 this has been ; instead of leaving him, who has no more 
 strength than a child, nor yet so much, to be hacking at that 
 old stump ; and then it was I set it down so near the ditch, I 
 thought to leave it out of the way ; but may bo it 's all for the 
 best, as mother is so often saying." And, with Jem's last word, 
 they stopped at the stile. Herbert sprang over, with a heart 
 almost as light as his step, for its heavy weight had melted 
 away under the sunshine of Jem's kind words. Jem followed 
 
84 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 after liim, and tliey were soon at the edge of the ditch, both 
 looking down in the dim gray twilight of morning on the old 
 stump below. 
 
 There stood the poor boy, with hatchet over his shoulder, 
 and bill-hook in his hand, surveying the log from above — ^his 
 was the strength to aid, his the skill to devise how, his the 
 willing mind ; and there stood Herbert by his side in helpless 
 dependence, with eyes of hope and fear now fixed on Jem — 
 then on the log below. Jem stood in silence a few moments, 
 then down he laid his bill-hook, and, springing into the ditch, 
 planted his feet upon the log, and, raising his hatchet with 
 both hands above his head, fetched a stroke which clave a slit, 
 where it entered the wood, about twice the length of the blade 
 " That 's the job, sir," said Jem, looking up to Herbert from 
 below ; " it 's not a bit of use for us to be thinking We could 
 haul the old log up again ; why, a horse could not do it ! But 
 a few such strokes as that will bring it up in a right sort of a 
 way — all ready for use !" A second time the ponderous hatchet, 
 raised by those strong arms and firm and honest hands, fell 
 with unerring aim, splitting the wood beside one of the hard 
 knots of the old trunk. " That 's kind, now," said Jem, in a 
 conciliating tone, to the old log ; " that 's just doing as you 
 should, 9,nd splitting right away as I meant !" Herbert laughed 
 at Jem's soliloquy to the log ; a happy laugh, for bright 
 thoughts were breaking in on his heart — thoughts of raising 
 the log all ready for old Willy's use, and seeing it raised by 
 hands that seemed to love the labor — ^thoughts that broke on 
 Herbert's trouble like the gleams of the sun now shining across 
 the darkened sky of night. Str jke followed stroke, without an- 
 other pause, till the first log, severed from the parent • trunk, 
 lay at the feet of honest Jem ; down sprang Herbert into mud 
 and mire, seized it in his hands, and, scrambling up again. 
 
|.. 84. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 85 
 
 lifted the log above his head, and gave a loud " Hurrah !" 
 Never did shout of triumph ring more joyfully after the past 
 trial of despair, than this from Herbert's lips : he shouted it 
 with voice as loud and clear as if he thought to reach the ears 
 of love within his home, with this his first glad utterance since 
 his trouble had begun : but his parents heard it not — fpr joy, 
 in our obstructed atmosphere, heavy with sin and with sorrow, 
 stiJ pauses on the wing, and waits a messenger to bear her on 
 her way — not so in Heaven, where sin and where sorrow are 
 not ! But though the note of triumph reached not the hearts 
 that would have echoed back its gladness, it did Ml on old 
 Willy's ear, and roused him from his slumber — to him it 
 was a signal of surprise and fear. He opened the little case- 
 ment above his bed, and looked in terror from it, expecting to 
 see a company of thieves stealing his early vegetables. Her- 
 bert heard the little window open, and saw the old man's 
 troubled face — " It 's no thief, Willy, we will keep watch !" but 
 old Willy still looked out into the dim light, anxious and fear- 
 ful. " Never fear, daddy, it 's I ! " said Jem. And Herbert saw 
 the change that passed across the face of the old man at that 
 true-hearted voice, as he shut his little window to lie down 
 again and sleep; while Herbert turned gravely back, log in 
 hand, to Jem. " Old Willy is not your father, is he ?" asked 
 Herbert. " No, sir, I can't say he is, but I got in the way of 
 caUing him so when I was a child, and so I keep to it, and 
 may be it cheers him now, for he has none belonging to him 
 that have a care to see after him ; not but what he is worth a 
 dozen and more of them that neglect him ! but, by what I can 
 see, it 's the way of this world — as the saying is — to slight 
 them that are old and feeble." All the time of this reply, Jem 
 had been an-anging his pi m for a second attack upon the log, 
 and now away again went the hatchet, stroke after stroke, but 
 
86 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 tlie wood was hard, and Jem began his pacific discourse again, 
 *' ^'ell now, you had best give in at once, for I can tell you 'tis 
 your master upon you, and there 's no use in standing out, 'tis 
 only wasting your time and mine !" Whether the log took the 
 hint, or whether the hatchet took the exact grain of the wood, 
 we need not ascertain, but so it was that a capital cleft was the 
 result of the next stroke, and Jem pursued his advantage so 
 vigorously, that Herbert soon laid a second log by the side of 
 the first. 
 
 " Do you always talk to yourself in that way ?" asked Herbert. 
 
 " It 's not so much to myself I talk, sir, as to the thing I ani 
 aft^r ; it makes it seem more company-like, and gets me into s 
 bett^er humor with it ; and I am so in the way of it now I don't 
 always know how to get on without it, when may be I ought. 
 I took to it young, and that 's why it hangs to me so, I suppose ; 
 for you see, sir, my mother was left a widow when I was but a 
 few months old, and she has often said how she missed the kind 
 word of my poor father more than the money he earned her, 
 though she had to labor hard enough ; and then people spoke 
 short to her in her trouble ; and took it as a burden laid on 
 them ; as you know, sir, the wddow and the fatherless are al- 
 ways taken to be when they come on a parish ; and as long 
 back as I can remember, I have seen her fret for a rough word, 
 and then I have seen her wholly cheered up by a kind one , so 
 it came to me young enough, that good words must be among 
 the best of good things, if they do but come from the heart — 
 as the saying is, and so I tried at them myself ; and I have 
 found, times and often, that a good word will do it when % bad 
 one won't, and by reason of that I have got in the way, and 
 now I don't know as that I could get out of it ; but it 's not 
 WORDS will do ALL," added Jem, as he prepared himself for 
 u fresh onset upon the log. Stroke after stroke, stroke after 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 87 
 
 Etroke, witli good words in between, till a third and larger log 
 was separated from the trunk. Herbert laid his treasures side 
 hj side, as he would have laid fox or hare from the hunt a few 
 days before. 
 
 " Now, Jem," said Herbert, " you have given me one of the 
 best gifts, I declare, that I ever had in my life, and you must not 
 be kept here any longer. If I could but find old Willy's hatchet, 
 I would try at it myself before I go back." 
 
 " Well, sir, as for that, my time is my own ; master won't be 
 against an hour or so either way." 
 
 " No, Jem, but it 's the strength it costs you, and you must 
 not spend all you have upon me." 
 
 " Well, sir, I won't go against your word, but as for strength, 
 I 'm only getting it up by those few strokes ; there 's no fear of 
 beiug the weaker for a stroke for them that can't strike for them- 
 selves." Herbert looked inquiringly at Jem, uncertain whether 
 he meant him or old Willy by " them that can 't strike for them- 
 selves ;" but Jem in his honest simplicity understood not the 
 awakened start of the young spirit's independence ; but he did 
 understand that he was to retire, when, in a moment more, 
 Herbert flung off his coat as Jem had done, laying down his 
 hat upon it, and springing on the log, seized Jem's hatchet, and 
 raised it above his head in the act to sti-ike. " Have a care, sir, 
 for Heaven's sake, have a care '."cried Jem, entreatingly — ^as hav- 
 mg sprung on the brow of the ditch he looked down on Herbert, 
 ' That old hatchet is as sharp as any thing, and if it slips the 
 wood, it may take your feet as hke as not." Herbert paused a 
 minute while Jem gave full instructions how to place his feet, 
 now to avoid the knots of the old trunk, and to take it in the 
 grain of the wood. At last the stroke was given, a little way 
 — some poor half-inch the hatchet condescended to enter — and 
 no more. " That could not have been done better for the first T 
 
88 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 said Jem ; " but I am tliinking, sir, there are as many logs aa 
 old Willy will burn in a day : but if you have a mind to work 
 in right earnest, why he will be in want of a few chips to help 
 make the old logs burn, and it will be best to begin with them, 
 till the strength gets up a bit, and the knack of the other geta 
 known ; it 's not learned in an hour to cut up an old log, and you 
 were not bom to it, you see, sir ; so it don't come natural." 
 
 " I suppose I was born to help the poor !" said Herbert, look- 
 ing up gravely into Jem's pleading face above him — his own 
 glowing with the effort of the recent stroke, and the rays of the 
 morning sun falling like Heaven's blessing on his young un- 
 covered head. " I was born, I suppose, to help the poor !" again 
 repeated Herbert, looking thoughtfully down on the old log at 
 his feet ; " but if you think old Willy will want chips, I will 
 not be against trying at them first." 
 
 " That he will, sir, and daddy's bill-hook is not so heavy as 
 mine by half ; I can find it up in his old log-house." The bill- 
 hook was found, and springing down on the log, Jem gave Her- 
 bert a lesson in cutting chips ; and then away went honest Jem 
 to his work for the day, the risen sun gilding the sky. 
 
 Herbert toiled away at the log to his great satisf^iction, till he 
 suddenly remembered the time ; then, without further delay, he 
 carried the chips that lay scattered around him, and piled Lhem 
 up by the precious logs at old Willy's door, when sudde the 
 door opened, and the old man looked out. 
 
 " Bless you, master, what are you after now ?" said o^ Willy, 
 in a wonderment at sight of the young Squire, soiled, • i laden 
 with chips. Herbert looked up, his healthful effort shedding 
 as bright a crimson on his cheeks as the risen sun ha« but now 
 shed upon the morning sky, and laying down his b .rden close 
 beside the door, he replied, " ^\niy, Willy, I am very sorry, but 
 I promised what I could not perform. I am very sorry, WTlj, 
 
MINIBIERING CHILDREN. 89 
 
 but I can not buy so much as a shovel-full of coals. I don't 
 mind telling you, Willy, but I have forfeited my money that 1 
 have to spend for my o^vn, and so I got Jem to help me get up 
 your log again, but it was too heavy, and so he cut those logs 
 off, and I cut the chips ! Won't you be warm now, Willy 1" 
 
 " Yes, bless you !" said the old man, and his voice trembled 
 with feeling ; " warm outside and in too ! And it 's a deal bet- 
 ter than casting away one of God's good creatures, to make 
 room for another. I had wholly a dread to see the coals come 
 in, and my old log left at the bottom of the ditch. And then, 
 master, it was the hand of kindness that gave it me, and I 
 thought it seemed hard to cast it away like that." 
 
 " Who gave it you ?" asked Herbert, with a quick idea that 
 it perhaps had been Jem himself. 
 
 " Why, you see, sir. Farmer Smith has set Jem — ^my Jem, as 
 I call him — to a job of hedging and ditching, and so one day 
 he came here with his barrow and that old log in it, and he 
 said, ' Here, daddy, I have made mother a fire for many a day 
 .o come, and this old log is for you ; now, don't you be after 
 jacking on it ; I '11 set it right away against the ditch here, and 
 then, when I get a little further on in my job, I '11 take an hour 
 at it as I can, and soon have it in pieces for you.' And so it 
 just eases me that it 's not all gone for nothing, after his taking 
 that care after me. But you will catch cold, master, out in this 
 freezing air." 
 
 " no, Willy, I am not afraid of that," replied Herbert, who 
 had been listening with anxious attention to the discovery that 
 the log had been Jem's gift at the beginning ; " but," added he, 
 " I am off to breakfast now ; and be sure you get up a blaze 
 with those chips ; I shall come to look after it, so be sure you 
 do !" And Herbert was off, while the old man, leaning on hia 
 stick with one hand, and shading his eyes with the other from 
 
90 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 tlie radiance of the eastern sky, watched hira out of sight ; then 
 turning back into his cottage, began to light up his fire and pre- 
 "oarc his frugal meal. 
 
 " Well, Herbert, my boy, is all right ?" said his father, as he 
 gave him his morning embrace. 
 
 " Yes, papa, getting right, I hope. I am sure, mamma, that 
 thouo'ht of Jem was rio^ht enouojh, for he is the best fellow I 
 ever saw ; he was just all that I wanted ! And we are not 
 going to drag up the old log, but cut it all to pieces down 
 there in the ditch, and get it up ready for use — is not that capi- 
 tal, papa ? And I cut the chips, and I am to cut some logs an- 
 other time ; and I made up such a pile at old Willy's door ! I 
 mean to go down after my lessons, and see what sort of a fire 
 he has. And only think, mamma ! it was Jem himself who had 
 carried the log for old Willy's fire, and meant to cut it up for 
 him ; old Willy told me so. But, if you had seen old Willy, 
 papa, when he opened his bit of a window at the end of his cot- 
 tage, and took us for thieves ! He did not look the least more 
 satisfied when he found it was me, than if I had been a down- 
 right thief; but the moment Jem spoke, he looked as if he 
 thought no harm could come to him. I wonder what all the 
 village think of me ?" 
 
 " It is not what people think of us, my boy, but what we 
 really are, that we have need to inquire. Suppose you take that 
 question as an exercise for your own heart to-day. What am I ? 
 Answer it faithfully in writing, and put the date of the month 
 and year to it, and let me have it with a seal on, to lock up for 
 vou in my private desk till a year has passed away, if you should 
 live to see it." 
 
 " I will, papa, if you wish me ; but I am afraid it will be a 
 poor account." 
 
 " Better to face the truth at once ; then we may hope to be- 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 01 
 
 gin tc) reflect its likeness," replied Mr. Clifford. Then, with a 
 smile of assurance, Herbert whispered to his sister, " The star 
 did come in a cloud, and the cloud is gone now !" and hastened 
 off to prepare for encountering his tutor. 
 
 " I am very sorry, Mr. Merton, that I am not ready with mj 
 lessons," said Herbert. " I got into trouble, and it 's taken more 
 than my best thoughts to find a way out of it." Herbert's tutor 
 saw at once that it was no excuse of idleness ; and placing con- 
 fidence in his young pupil, such confidence as, if oftener used, 
 might yield its pleasant fruit, he replied, " Perhaps you have 
 been learning a better lesson than any I set you. Shall we sit 
 down to your books now, and see what we can do together ?" 
 The look of surprise, gratitude, and pleasure that instantly light- 
 ed up Herbert's face was assurance enough to his tutor that he 
 had not erred in his confidence ; and that morning's study was 
 equally pleasant to teacher and pupil. 
 
 At last Herbert was free to set off once more to the aged 
 Willy's broken-down cottage ; a wreath of smoke was curling 
 up from it to heaven — ^the happy witness of his morning's effort ; 
 he knocked Nvith his stick upon the door ; then, opening it, peep- 
 ed in. There sat old Willy, while, in the open fireplace beside 
 him, burned red and hot the logs that morning saw prepared for 
 use ; behind him a thick crimson curtain shut out the draught, 
 and shut in the warmth of the fire ; a table was drawn close to 
 him, and on it lay his open Bible. 
 
 " Well, Willy," said Herbert, " here I am, come to see how 
 the old logs burn ! What a capital fire they have made ! Did 
 you use my chips ?" 
 
 " Ye?», master, and they were greatly needed to get a heat up 
 under the logs ; but T found a sprinkling of coals, and after a 
 time I got up such a fire as I have not had for long, and the 
 othei big log is drying at the back." 
 
92 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 Herbert drew out a little stool from tlie open chimney, and 
 Bat down close by the fire, in front of old Willy. Now Herbert 
 had by no means forgotten his dream, and he looked round old 
 Willy's room with a feeling of awe. On the further side of the 
 room he saw a low bedstead, not unlike the one he had seen in 
 his dream : he wondered whether old Willy knew any thinr 
 about the angels ; he thought the best way would be to talk to 
 him a little on that subject, but he hardly knew how to begin, 
 till, remembering the open Bible which lay on the table, he 
 said — 
 
 " If you read the Bible, Willy, I suppose you know about the 
 angels ?" 
 
 " Yes, master, I read about them there, and what they do for 
 the like of me." 
 
 " Do you think that they really watch over you, Willy ?" 
 
 " Don't I know it, master ! for does it not say the very same 
 in my Book ? And is it not tKe like thoughts to that, that keep 
 me happy and praising God at night times, wh^n the wind 
 blows my old place about as if it were ready to come down and 
 bury me !" 
 
 " Do you think the angels will keep it from falling, Willy ?" 
 
 " No, I never read the like of that ; but I know they are 
 watching over me ; and I think that, if it fell, they would carry 
 me, as they did that poor beggar that 1 read of, straight up to 
 the blessed heaven above." 
 
 " But are you not afraid to sleep in this old house for fear it 
 should fall." 
 
 " No, master ; why should I be afraid ? It 's not death I am 
 afraid of ! I say, why should I be afraid ? It would only be a 
 going home ; and, somehow, I think about the bright side ; and 
 for the dark side, why should not I be leaving that all behind — 
 for why then should I think about it? And don't I know 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. \f9 
 
 He that keeps me together soul and body can keep llie place 
 that 's over my liead till He takes me up to a better ? Is not 
 that just what he spoke to poor men that looked to him for 
 comfort as I do ? ' Let not your heart be troubled : ye believe 
 in God, believe also in me. 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 and prepare a place for 
 you, I will come again and receive you unto myself; that where 
 I am, there ye may be also.' My blessed angel taught me those 
 words, before ever I could read them in my book !" 
 
 " Did the angels teach you that ?" asked Herbert, leaning for 
 ward. 
 
 " Not them that live up above, master, but that one that 's a 
 sister of yours. I always caM her so, because, to ray thinking, 
 she seemed sent right away from the holy Heaven to teach me, 
 a poor old dark sinner as I was." 
 
 " Do you know my sister ?" asked Herbert. 
 
 " Why, I knew her before I knew myself," replied old Willy, 
 with a smile. 
 
 " Now, Willy, I know you are joking, my sister is not half so 
 old as you." 
 
 " No, bless her 1" said old Willy, " she is but an infant of days 
 by the side of an old sinner like me. But I mean, that I never 
 knew myself, till she taught me what I was." 
 
 " How do you mean that she taught you, Willy ?" 
 
 " Why, you see, sir, I was a poor old ignorant sinner, that 
 had lived all my days only for this world. Well, I used to sit 
 on that settle by my door for hours in the smmner-time, when 
 I had nothing to be after, and she saw me many a time as she 
 went riding by on her white pony. Well, one day she stopped 
 and I saw her come stepping over the stile, so I rose up and 
 made my obedience to her, and she said, * Sit down again, I am 
 
94 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 come to sit a little while with you on this pleasant seat.' "Well, 
 she talked to me ; and asked me if I thought about Heaven all 
 the long hours I sat by myself on that seat at my door ; and I 
 told her I could not say that I had much understanding about 
 that. Then she asked me if I did not think about God's blessed 
 Word, that showed us the way to Heaven ; and I told her I 
 could not say that I ever had any knowledge of that. Then 
 she said, would I like to have her read to me out of her Book, 
 that I might get a knowledge and understanding of those 
 things ; so I said, if she pleased, I should take it a great favor. 
 Then she took a little book from her bag that hung on her arm, 
 and she said, ' This is the Bible, God has given it to us to show 
 us the way to Heaven.' So I bended my attention to listen ; 
 and she read me about the beggar Lazarus, and the angels that 
 bore him to Heaven. I thought that was not like the ways of 
 this world, but I did not say a word ; so when she had done, 
 she asked me whether I could tell her why it was that the 
 angels above came down to carry up that poor beggar, that had 
 not so much as a bed to die in, to Heaven ? So I said, I had 
 no understanding in such things ; then she said, that the beg- 
 gar loved the good God who made Heaven and earth, and the 
 good God loved that poor beggar, and so He sent His angels 
 for him to take him to be with Him in Heaven. Well, I thought 
 it was wonderful, and not much like to the ways of men, but 
 I did not say a word. Then she asked me if I loved the good 
 Lord as that poor beggar did ? So I said, I did not seem to 
 know ; then she said, if I did not know, that showed I did not 
 love Him, for if I loved Him, I must have a knowledge that I 
 did : and she asked me if I should like to know and love the 
 good Lord who sent His angels for the poor beggar ? And I 
 said, Yes, for certain I should if I could come at it ; and she 
 said, the poor beggar came at that knowledge, and therefore I 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 95 
 
 miglit if I tried to gain it ; and she said slie would come and 
 read to me about it from her Book. Well, I sat and thought 
 on that poor beggar — carried right away up to Heaven by the 
 angels as soon as the breath was out of his poor body. J 
 thouo-ht, if I could be done for as he was, that would seem 
 wonderful comfort to think upon. And I sat and watched for 
 her to come again, for I saw she had got it all, and I seemed to 
 think she would bring it to me, though I could not tell how. 
 Well, she came again, just as she did before, many times ; I 
 can't mind the words she read to me now, only those fii-st, but 
 somehow it all seemed as if it came to me." 
 
 " What came to you ?" asked Herbert. 
 
 " Why, the understanding to know it all ! I seemed to get 
 light in me to see it — I got a sight of what a dark, bad life I 
 had led, without a bit of love in my evil heart for the good 
 Lord, who died for me : and then I saw Him still waiting for 
 me, still calling to me, a poor lost sinner, to come to Him : it 
 broke my old heart quite up, but then I got comfort — looking 
 up to Him. Well, then, she said to me, ' Willy, God gave 
 the Bible for you to look into as well as for me ; would you not 
 like to have one, and try to read it V I have clean lost all my 
 learning, said I. 'But, Willy,' said she, *I think it would 
 come back again ; suppose we try V So the very next time 
 she came carrying this blessed Book in her own hands ; and 
 the first word she made me read was our Saviour's name, 
 Jesus. 'There, Willy,' said she, 'now you can read the 
 name of your Saviour — who loved you, and died for you, and 
 sent me to teach you ! Now see how many places in the New 
 Testament you can find that name in, against I come again.' 
 How I did study, to be sure, and without a bit of spectacles, 
 for my eyes are wonderful ! She left me many bits of marks, 
 and I tucked them in where I found that name : ^nd I looked, 
 
96 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 till to be sure I seemed to have nothing day or night in my 
 mind but that name Jesus ! And when she came again, how 
 pleased she was to be sure ! Then she said, ' Now, Willy, you 
 have learned your Saviour's blessed name, now you shall look 
 after the Holy name of God, that is a terrible name, Willy, 
 for those who do not love the name of Jesus, but I hope you 
 do, so you don't need to be afraid to look upon the Holy name 
 of God V Well, I thought it seemed a serious thing as she 
 spoke it, but I kept hold of that first name Jesus in ray mind, 
 when I looked after the other, and to be sure I seemed to find 
 God every where ! And so I always kept those two together, 
 and so I do now, for when I get upon that great name of God, 
 then I think of Jesus, and it lifts me on. And, after a time, 
 my learning did seem to come to me again, and now there ia 
 scarce a part of the Book but what I can get comfort out of — 
 thanks be to God that sent her to teach me to know Him thai 
 loved me, and gave Himself for me !" 
 
 Herbert had listened with breathless attention, for he loved 
 his sister with all the affection of his heart, and now he replied, 
 " You have not seen my sister, Willy, for some weeks now ; she 
 has been ill." 
 
 " No, master, not since the beginning of January ; she came 
 here then, and the groom carried a big bundle, and if it was 
 not all for me ! just this fine curtain as you see it hung across 
 here ; and there was that little curtain for the window, instead 
 of the old thing that was rotted to pieces there before ; and 
 that one she brought — ^it is wonderful the wind and rain it 
 keeps out, from the thickness of it ! that was the last time I saw 
 her come in : but, to my thinking, she is never out of my sight, 
 for I seem to see her in that light that shows me my Saviour^ 
 for she don't seem of this world, to my thinking." 
 
 " Well, good-by, Willy," said Herbert, gravely, " it won't be 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 97 
 
 long before I am near you again !" and he shook hands "vvith 
 the old man, and hastened home. He was soon in his sister's 
 Doudoir ; she was lying on her sofa, and Herbert laid his head 
 upon her shoulder, and the pent-up feelings of his heart broke 
 forth in tears. 
 
 " What is the matter, my darling Herbert ? what has hap- 
 pened ? where have you been ? You must not cry so — tell me 
 all about it." 
 
 " 0, Mary, why are you so long ill ? When will you b«» 
 well aficain ?" 
 
 " When the spring-time comes, then I shall be well again, 
 and we will walk and ride again together as we used to do." 
 
 " Are you sure you will be quite well then ?" asked Herbert. 
 
 " We can never be quite sure about any thing upon earth ; 
 but I do not feel any doubt about it, and the doctor thinks so, 
 too." 
 
 " ! then I shall be happy again !" said Herbert ; " and shall 
 we go and see old Willy together ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear, we will do any thing you like. Should you like 
 to go and see him vnth me 1" 
 
 " Yes, I should like it very much. I am just come aw^ay 
 from him." 
 
 " And had he a warm fire with the logs which you and Jem 
 prepared ?" asked his sister. 
 
 " Yes, that he had ; and he looked so comfortable ! Not 
 the least cold, and he said my chips were the greatest use in 
 making the old logs burn ; and to-morrow morning I mean 
 to go all alone ; I know, if I try, I can do it with old Willy's 
 hatchet ; and then I shall feel of some use in the world. Only 
 think, if I could make old Willy's fire with logs I had chopped 
 w it 1" 
 **Yes, it would be very pleasant to make his fire; but I 
 
 5 
 
MINIS TERI KG CHILDREN 
 
 hope there will soon be other ways to do that without youi 
 chopping wood, because I don't think you are strong enough 
 for that, and I don't think papa thought of your doing that." 
 
 " 0, Mary, \ou don't know what nice work it is ! If you could 
 but have seen how many chips I got off the side of that old 
 tree, where Jem had chopped the logs, you would have known 
 I could do it ! I will not hurt myself, indeed ; it does every bit 
 as well as skating, and then it makes old Willy's fire !" 
 
 " Yes, but if you hurt yourself, I am afraid it would make 
 me ill." 
 
 " You need not be afraid, indeed, Mary. I will think of you 
 — and then I am sure to take care. You see Jem taught me 
 just how to do it, and old Willy's hatchet is very light." 
 
 That evening, when Herbert had prepared his lessons for his 
 tutor, he remembered the question his father had given him to 
 answer, and, sitting down again to his desk, he took a sheet 
 of paper and wrote at the top — 
 
 " Question. What am I ? 
 
 " Ansiver. An Englishman — a gentleman." 
 
 But then Herbert paused, and thought to himself, " That will 
 do so far, but what next ? Why, I may as well say I have two 
 ponies and a groom : no, that will not do, the question is not 
 what I HAVE, but what I am. Well, then, let me see, what else 
 am I ? I am sure I don't knew. I could say I am a huntsman, 
 but that would not look well alone. I can not say I am any 
 thing in the way of study ; nor yet in the way of nature — ^for 
 I am not a naturalist, nor a botanist, nor a gardener. Let 
 me see — what should a gentleman be 1 Why, he should be 
 polite, but papa says I am too forgetful of other people's com- 
 fort to be polite, though I try at it sometimes. Am I generous ? 
 I am afraid not ; because my the ughts, and my time, and money, 
 have all been spent on myself. dear, what am I ? If I am 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREKT. 99 
 
 not polite, and not generous, perhaps I am not a gentleman yet, 
 but only a boy ? I will write that : but then, what am I besides ? 
 I am sure I don't know ; I am just nothing — I have been no use 
 to any one, and no comfort to any body ! I will write that 
 down ; but no, that is only what I am not ; and papa said I 
 was to write what I am. Well, then, I see it is no use looking 
 on the bright side, I can not find myself there, so I may as well 
 come to the dark side at once, I shall have no diflSculty then !" 
 So Herbert took a fresh sheet. 
 
 " Question. What am I ? 
 
 " Answer. An English boy. 
 
 " Passionate, selfish, sinful. * 
 
 " I have forsaken the Guide of my youth, uiid forgotten the 
 Word of God : but I hope I have found the Heavenly Counsel- 
 or — and that he will lead me in a better way. 
 
 " Herbert Clifford." 
 
 Herbert folded it up, and took it to his father's study ; he 
 found his father there, and said, " I don't want tp disturb you, 
 papa, I have only brought you what you wished — it's dreadful, 
 but it's true ! You can read it, papa, for you know it all." His 
 father took the paper, and looked upon it ; then, taking the con- 
 science-stricken child to his embrace, said, " My precious boy ! 
 you have found the Truth — or, rather, the Truth has found you ; 
 ' take fast hold of her, let her not go, keep her, for she is thy life* 
 — then shall your path be * as the shining light, that shineth 
 more and more unto the perfect day !' " 
 
 Again that night Herbert turned to the Book that his heart, 
 and not his head alone, remembered now : and from the 
 second chapter of St. James, he read, " Hearken, my beloved 
 brethren, hath not God chosen the poor of this world, rich in 
 feith, and heirs of the kingdom which He hath promised to 
 
100 MINISTERING CHILDREN 
 
 them ^hat love Him ?" Could he help thinking of old Willy 1 
 — not now as a poor helpless old man, shivering with cold, but 
 as rich in faith — had not Herbert found him to be so ? and an 
 heir to a kingdom — eternal in the heavens — and, thinking on 
 these things, Herbert fell asleep on his pillow, while a radiant 
 angel, like the one which watched over old Willy, kept guard 
 through the night over the sleeping boy ; and bright dreams of 
 warm hearths, and glad faces, and open Bibles, and love around 
 him every where, made sweet the slumbers of the happy child. 
 
CHAPTER Tin. 
 
 *• The rich and poor meet together : the Lord is the Maker of them •D."— Pwwr- 
 ERBS xxil. 2. 
 
 TTERBERT woke ; he looked at his watch — ^it was half-past 
 -'"'- five o'clock ; so, rising with the vigor of a resolved will, 
 he set forth again in the darkness, his thoughts busy with his 
 work, and how he should manage it all without Jem ; till, silent 
 and dim in the distance, he saw the cottage where old Willy- 
 dwelt. He quickened his steps, and, as he drew near, he heard 
 the sound of a heavy stroke ; he listened, and heard it again, 
 and then an encouraging voice sajring, " Well, there, to be sure, 
 'tis as well to give in, when it m^ist come to that in the end !" 
 and the sound of a log falling, as if thrown up, fell on Herbert's 
 ear. There was no mistaking the tone or words of the speaker. 
 " It is Jem, I declare !" said Herbert to himself, as, without wait- 
 ing to reach the stile, he scrambled over the hedge. 
 
 " Why, Jem ! I meant to have cut you out this morning, and 
 shown what I could make of the old log by myself." 
 
 " Well, sir, I thought as much ; but there 's none the worse 
 for it as it is, and may be there 's some will be the better ; for 
 'tis as knotted an old tree as ever was, and stands out against a 
 stroke wonderful !" 
 
 " Why, you have not cut away these three logs this morning, 
 Jem, have you ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; I got a stroke or two last evening in ray way homo. 
 
102 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 for this time of the year the sun lingers a-bed till I often wish he 
 was up a bit earlier ; but I suppose he comes right to his time, 
 for all that — for our Mercy is often singing before 'tis light — 
 
 ** ' My God, who makes the sun to know 
 His proper hour to rise.' " 
 
 "Yes," replied Herbert ; and he tried to remember a little as* 
 tronomy, to establish himself in Jem's simple belief of the sun 
 coming right to its time ; but it would not just then occur to 
 his mind, so he gave all his thoughts to the log. 
 
 " Why, Jem, I declare you have split the tree half its length !" 
 
 " Yes, sir, thcU 's what I had in my mind — to split it if I 
 could, and then we might hoist it up, for it gets the mastery 
 down here in the mud, by being a bit unsteady ; but I found I 
 could not get it to halve as it was, so I am set to work again 
 till it thinks better of it." 
 
 When three more logs were off the split was effected, a large- 
 sized piece was separated, which Jem raised up to Herbert from 
 below, and then fastened two cords he had brought from the 
 farm, one at each end of the log, and by dint of pulling, and groan- 
 ing, and pleasant speaking, the remainder was drawn up sideways 
 and lodged on the solid ground. Herbert sprang upcn the con- 
 quered tree, and, with hat in hand, was again preparing for a 
 loud " Hurra !" when he suddenly remembered old Willy fast 
 asleep, and, springing down, seized up Jem's hatchet, to carry on 
 a practical warfr.re, instead of his suspended note of triumph. 
 Herbert could now plant his foot firmly on the tree ; the sun hav- 
 ing risen, its light fell full upon his work, unshaded by tne sides 
 of the dark ditcl , and with old Willy's light hatchet, and Jem 
 directing, cautioning, encouraging, and praising him by turns, he 
 Bucceeded at last, and severed a considerable log from the old 
 Btem. His trimi.ph and independence were now at the hight 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 103 
 
 and Jem was dispatcbed to his work with a warm shake of his 
 rough honest hand, for the help he had given him. 
 
 " Well, sir," said Jem, " the pleasure is none the less to give 
 than to receive, as the sa3ring is ;" and then he packed himself 
 up with hatchet and bill-hook, and, with his bow of respectful 
 reverence to the joung Squire — not less esteemed by honest Jem 
 because he had turned in confidence to ask his aid — he again 
 departed to his day's work. Another log was separated, and 
 Herbert pulled out his watch, to see if he might venture on a 
 third, when he suddenly remembered the useful chips ; so, ex- 
 changing the hatchet for the bill -hook, he set to work in a dif- 
 ferent fashion, till a supply of chips lay scattered around him. 
 Never did woodman with more thankful heart survey his work 
 than the youthful Herbert, that cold winter morning ; and who 
 shall tell the heartfelt satisfaction with which he piled up logs 
 and chips at old Willy's still closed door — while mingling thoughts 
 of the poor old^man, so rich in faith, an heir of the kingdom of 
 heaven, watched over by angels, taught by his sister, and now 
 warmed by his hand, glowed in Herbert's young heart and 
 beamed in his eye ! With what care did he arrange and re-ar- 
 range the pile, that it might look to the best effect when ol 
 Willy opened his door. And then, putting hatchet and bill 
 hook safely away in the shed, he made haste to leave old Willy 
 alone to his surpiise ; and, turning round to take one more look, 
 he got over the stile to Sb^ forth on his way home. 
 
 " 0, papa, I really feel a man at last ! Only think ! I have 
 chopped off two logs, and one alone by myself, and now I quite 
 understand it ; I know how it can be done, and how it can not. 
 1 wonder whether you know all about the grain of the wood, 
 papa, and getting the hatchet right for a split, and keeping c.Var 
 of the tenible old knots ?'' 
 
 " I know a little abou'. it in theory, my boy, but not, like you, 
 
104 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 in practice. But I begin to feel a ricli man, seeing I have a soii 
 who can do one useful thing without his purse ! And now, if 
 we shoidd have to go to the backwoods of America, you can 
 build us all a log-house." 
 
 " I do believe I could, with Jem to help ; he is such a capital 
 fellow ! I wish he worked for you, papa." 
 
 " We must not covet our neighbor's servant ; and you see Jem 
 can be of no great use to us without being in our employ : if he 
 had been my man he would not have been your helper in this 
 difficulty. I only think it is a pity that Jem can not come and 
 teach you Latin and Greek ; then you might yet hope to take a 
 o^ood deo^ree at colleore, which I am afraid Mr. Merton does not 
 consider there is likely to be much hope of at present." 
 
 " 0, papa, Jem would be a great deal worse at Latin and 
 Greek than I am ! and then, you see, papa, I can not get the 
 same spirit into my lessons, because I can not see why we 
 should learn things that we don't the least care about, and that 
 are of no use to any one, and that only to take up a great deal 
 of pleasant time !" 
 
 " And suppose the young tree was to say that it could not 
 see the use of the wind that blew it from side to side, fatiguing 
 it every rough day ; nor of the rain that drenched its leaves, 
 and yet still battered down ; nor of the sun that chose out the 
 hottest time to come scorching upon it. — I suppose you could 
 s^et the young tree right on that subject and could assure it that 
 tliough it might find the boisterous wind, and the battering 
 rain, and the scorching sun, all a little inconvenient at times, 
 yet that it would prove very unfit for its place in the forest or 
 the grove if it got rid of those troublesome influences — what do 
 you say to that ?" 
 
 " Yes, papa, of course every one knows what a tree wants." 
 
 ** And so, my boy, every one who watches over you may 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 106 
 
 know wliat you want, and yet you may be at present unable to 
 judge. You must take it on trust a little while ; and rest as- 
 sured that if your powers of mind are unexercised, and your 
 thoughts uncultivated by the study of the lives and writings of 
 other men, you would never be fitted to fill your Heaven-ap- 
 pointed position in life. You see the use now of making a fire 
 for old Willy ; but by and by you will, I trust, see still greater 
 use in being able to acquire an influence over the minds of those 
 who will meet you in your own station in life, and by this means 
 you may, through your influence over the men of your own 
 rank, make many an old Willy warm and prosperous, who 
 might otherwise have been suftering from neglect and indifier- 
 ence : but this you can never hope to do if you fail to culti- 
 vate those powers of your heart, or mind, or head, which God 
 has bestowed on you, as needful to the right fulfilment of the 
 duties of the station in which He has placed you." 
 
 " Well, papa, I don't think that I shall do worse at my lessons 
 for making up old Willy's fire ; lam sure I did better yesterday." 
 
 " No, my boy, the poor man's blessing is a drop of Heavenly 
 dew descending to invigorate the heart, and mind, and head, of 
 him on whom it falls. I have not the least expectation of hear- 
 ing that old Willy's bright fire leaves your understanding burning 
 dimmer than before. So long as you observe your tutor's rules 
 and requirements, you may find as much pleasure as you can in 
 ministering to the old man's comfort ; and may the poor man's 
 God make your work and service of love acceptable to himself." 
 
 This conversation passed during the cheerful morning meal ; 
 and after breakfast Herbert lingered with his sister as he often 
 did a little while, and she said, " Is this useful woodcutting for 
 old Willy the only thing you have learned in these last few 
 .iays to value the knowledge of?" 
 
 " No, Mary, not the only thing. I know what you mean, an<? 
 
106 MINISTERING CHILDREN, 
 
 it is a better knowledge than wood-cutting — you mean that 1 have 
 learnt that God hears and answers prayer ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear Herbert, and you have learned it not in word only, 
 but in deed and in truth ; as only those can learn it who make 
 trial of it, as you have done, in the way the Bible teaches." 
 
 "I hope, Mary, whatever I forget, I may remember that 
 knowledge, for it is wonderful to think of the comfort that has 
 come out of my trouble ! and I feel now as if I knew to whon 
 to go whatever (difficulty I might be in." 
 
 " That blessed confidence, dear Herbert, nothing but our own 
 experience can teach us ; how happy for you to have learned it 
 so early !" 
 
 After that day's lessons, Herbert rode with his father ; they 
 talked of pleasant things, and Herbert felt as if he had been 
 more of a companion to his father in his ride than he had ever 
 been before. The evening was given to preparation for hi« tu- 
 tor, and the next morning he was oflf again between six and 
 seven for old Willy's. " I should not wonder if I were to find 
 Jem there again !" thought Herbert, as he pursued his way — 
 and truly enough there stood the faithful Jem, hewing and 
 hacking the remnant of the old tree ; while several logs lay 
 round it, the fruit of the past evening's labor — Jem seeming to 
 consider that Herbert had the exclusive right to bear oflf in per- 
 son to the cottage every portion of the log that had become so 
 great an object of interest to him. Herbert insisted on his own 
 acquired capabilities, and Jem was sent off" to his hedging and 
 ditching. Meanwhile, as soon as daylight dawned, old Willy 
 rose, determined not to let the young Squire be oflf again with- 
 out an old man's thanks : and he stood by, beneath the risen 
 sun, when Herbert clave in twain the last fragment of the hard 
 old tree ; and now Herbert might safely shout, so standing with 
 one foot on each of the last severed logs, he gave three loud 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 10^ 
 
 " hupralis !" and then, with old Willy's smiling help, piled up 
 the piecious store of wood within the little shed, and so pursued 
 his homeward way beneath the old man's blessing. 
 
 As Herbert walked home, he felt that great things had been 
 done — the logs all prepared for use, and yet old Willy had not 
 struck another stroke, nor lost another breath upon them. Jem 
 had become his friend ; and that because he had asked and re- 
 ceived the kindness of the shepherd-lad ; for so it was, the way 
 in which Herbert had turned to Jem had won the heart of the 
 widow's son, and he had said in his cottage-home, " There is not 
 a thing I would not be after doing for my young master at the 
 Hall there, if I knew that he wanted it." Jem then had become 
 his friend ; and who that knows the value of the poor man's 
 love, but would have rejoiced in this ! Then also Herbert felt 
 as if his parents had never seemed so well pleased with him ; 
 his sister so happy, or his tutor so kind. Well might his step 
 be swift, and his heart light. How many stars might he count 
 now, where all was once so dark before him ! 
 
 That morning, as he lingered again with his sister, he said, "I 
 have such a capital plan in my head ! Do you not know how 
 often papa has wished I could be down stairs of an evening ? 
 Well, now I have no more wood-chopping to do before break- 
 fast, I don't mean to give up getting up early ; I mean still to 
 get up, and do my lessons before breakfast-time, and then I can 
 be down a great part of the evening. Is not that a capital 
 plan r 
 
 " Yes, indeed it is ; only you won't let this early study rob 
 you of the time you want to seek a Heavenly blessing ?" 
 
 " No, I think I should be afraid nothing would go right, if I 
 could neglect that. I will tell you what I mean to do, Mary : 
 T mean to learn the Epistle of St. James all through ; three 
 verses every morning ; it will be the only lesson I shall not have 
 
108 MINISTERING CHILDREN 
 
 to give an account of to any one ; I shall learn it alone with 
 God and myself !" 
 
 Herbert kept liis resolution ; he was up morning by morn- 
 ing to his lessons, and by this means secured the happy even- 
 ings with his parents and his sister. He kept watch over old 
 AVilly, and, as the days went on, he began to think what next 
 must be done to keep up the fire on old Willy's hearth ? One 
 tiling alone was certain, and that was, that he could not let 
 old Willy be cold, though no log now lay in the ditch. AH 
 his thoughts were unsuccessful ; he could devise no plan. But 
 those who, like Herbert, think upon the wants of others and 
 pray for their relief, are sure to find there is a Hand unseen 
 working for those on whom they think and for whom they pray. 
 Herbert seemed to himself to get no nearer to any further aid 
 for old Willy : but sometimes that which we think far oft' is 
 close before us ; and our next step shows it plain. Old Willy's 
 fire-wood was getting low, and Herbert knew not what to do : 
 sometimes he thought that his mother or his sister, who knew 
 he had no money, might some day surprise him by supplying 
 old Willy's want ; but Herbert's father had secretly requested 
 that they would not do so ; he wished to see Herbert make his 
 own way alone — and though he was quite ready now to aid 
 him, if really necessary — he did not wish to do so until he found 
 that it was necessary. Herbert said nothing, but he became 
 more silent and thoughtful • care for the poor and needy was 
 pressing on his heart. O happy they who bear the burden of 
 the wants of others, before they know the weight of personal 
 calamity themselves ! Jem was keeping his sheep again ; it 
 was not to Jem that Herbert must now look : and oiice more 
 things began to seem dark, and Herbert felt his own comfort 
 Wfts lound uf with the comfort of tha<^ feeble old man, who had 
 
MINISTERIXG CHILDREN. 109 
 
 already been warmed by the labor of his hands ; yet still he 
 knew not what to do. 
 
 Wliile in this difficulty, as Herbert was coming from the 
 stables one morning, he was met by the gamekeeper's eldest 
 boy — a child about his own age — who, coming up to him, said, 
 " If you please, Mr. Herbert, we have gathered a heap of sticks 
 out of the park ; father said he thought you might be wishing 
 for dry wood, and that he might as well have it ready as not." 
 
 " What a capital thought 1" exclaimed Herbert, "it's the very 
 thing ! but how came you to know I wanted wood ?" 
 
 " Well, sir, father saw you riving up old Willy Green's log 
 before it was light, and he said he never felt so ashamed in his 
 life — to have all us boys abed, and you working like that. So 
 we were all up the next morning ; father called us before it was 
 hght, and he said you were off for all that ! so we scrambled 
 up the Park in the dark, and rare good fun we had, and we got 
 such a heap before school ! and the next morning we were up 
 and out before you passed by — for father watched ; so then we 
 thought that was something ! And I asked father if I might 
 not tell you what we were after ; and he said, not till we had 
 something to show : but if you will please to come and see, 
 there's something to speak for us now — father said I might 
 ask." This overflow of cheerful words was poured out as the 
 poor boy by the side of the rich hastened back to look at the 
 gathered wood : quick-footed they were — those happy traffick- 
 ers in the blessed merchandise of purest charity ! And now 
 they reached the gamekeeper's cottage, they hastened round it 
 to the little yard behind ; there rose the piled-up stack of wood 
 which the fiiendly winds had strewed all ready for those youth- 
 ful gleaners' hands — branches large and small, branches old and 
 sere — piled up in a stack as high as Herbert from the ground. 
 And the^'e beside it stood the gamekeeper's two younger boys. 
 
110 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 Jouathan and Benjamin; and there stood the mother with hej 
 infant in her arms, cunous to see the young Squire's reception 
 of so new and uncommon a gift ; and there stood the tall game- 
 keeper with one hand upon the stack he had stooped to help 
 his children to rear, with a smile upon his pleasant face in which 
 many a feeling mingled — the consciousness of effort for the 
 needy, of labor whose only recompense was love, and not the 
 least, perhaps, a sense, a welcome sense, of one work upon earth, 
 and that the noblest, in which his own young boys stood side by 
 side with their young master. 
 
 " Well, this is capital," said Herbert, " capital, I declare ! you 
 good little fellows ! that was being of some use in the world." 
 And the boys looked on in silence, with faces of delight — ad- 
 mitted in that moment to a partnership of heartfelt interest for 
 the poor and needy. 
 
 " It was a capital thought, Linton," said Herbert, now address- 
 ing himself to the gamekeeper. " I was terribly done up how to 
 get firewood for old "Willy just now, and never thought of the 
 dead branches about, and if I had, I should have been a month 
 getting up such a stack as this ; but now the question is, how to 
 get it to the cottage ?" 
 
 " Well, sir," said the gamekeeper, " that 's soon settled. I can 
 put the horse in the light cart in a minute, and we can soon 
 have it there." 
 
 " Well, I wish you would, Linton, the sooner the better. And 
 Jonathan, you must run to the stables, and say I am not going 
 to ride this morning." And then Herbert, and gamekeeper, and 
 children, and the mother with her infant on one arm, all laid in 
 and threw in the gathered branches, till not a useable twig re- 
 mained behind. 
 
 " There Linton, thank you, that will do, we can manage the 
 test. Now, Richard and Jonathan, in with you, and let us havo 
 
p. 110. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. Ill 
 
 Kttle Benjamin, too — he can hold the horse;" so Benjamin waH 
 lifted in, and then the gamekeeper ran to open the gate, and he 
 looked after the light cart from the gateway, and his wife from 
 the cottage door, the children hidden by the piled-up wood be- 
 hind them, associated in one work with the young Squire — and 
 that the work of love and mercy. 
 
 Old Willy was sitting with his cottage door wide open, for the 
 day was bright, and, sheltered by his fireside, he liked to look 
 out on the pleasant face of nature, while the sun did gleam a 
 little after the long cold winter. Up drove the light cart. Her- 
 bert jumped out ; and, while the boys were getting out, he hastily 
 took down the movable stile, and running up the straight garden- 
 path, exclaimed, " Here is no end of wood coming for you, Wil- 
 ly ! Linton's boys have p'^ked it up in the Park; we will put 
 it all in the shed." And then he ran back to the cart ; the boys 
 had already tilted it, shooting the wood into the road, where it 
 lay in large scattered heaps. Little Benjamin stood at the 
 horse's head, just high enough to stroke the creature's face, 
 which was stooped down in recognition to the child, proving 
 also a signal to the horse, that this was a time to stand still. 
 Backward and forward went the boys, laden with the old man's 
 wood — who could tire in such a labor ! — while with a smile of 
 peace the old man watched them at their work. 
 
 " Come, Benjamin," at last said Herbert, " the horse under- 
 stands it well enough, you may help us carry." And little Ben- 
 jamin came to the heap, and caught up a sear old branch 
 higher than himself, clasping it round with both arms, his little 
 pinafore dragged up by the first stooping act of embrace, run- 
 ning ofl with it to the shed — and the horse looked round after 
 bis little watcher, but he saw e\ndent proof that the business was 
 pressing, so he did his part and stood perfectly still. 
 
 When the lia'ht labor vas over — ^labor in which the heart 
 
112 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 eased the hand — ^Herbert, looking with complete satisfaction at 
 the well-filled shed, said, " Now let us each cany a -og up for 
 the fire." Little Benjamin, as was to be expected, chose out the 
 biggest he could see — ^perhaps because most inviting to the yet 
 unmeasuring thought of his infant spirit ; he- toiled with it after the 
 bigger boys, the young Squire going first, and when at last, with 
 desperate eftbrt, he cast it on the hearth — ^his brothers laughing at 
 its size — his still sturdy figure overbalanced, and, but for Herbert's 
 instant spring, he would have fallen himself upon the burning 
 wood in this his first ministry of love for the poor and feeble. 
 
 " There, Willy !" said Herbert, " now we will all shake hands 
 with you, and be ofi* again." So they had each a hearty shake 
 of the hand ; but little Benjamin lifted his baby face to old 
 Willy for a kiss — ^that being the only token of good-will he as 
 yet understood ; and then they all ran down the narrow pat}\, 
 6xed in the stile, sprang over it — ^little Benjamin tumbling after 
 them — then up into the light cart, and merrily home again : 
 while old Willy, raising his eyes and hands, exclaimed, " Sure of 
 such is the kingdom of heaven. I" 
 
 The gamekeeper, still on the watch, was at the open gate 
 with his bow and smile of welcome ; never had he looked on 
 his young master with such hope and reverence as now — when 
 he drove in with the light cart by his children's side, from tlieir 
 labor of love. " Benjamin was a capital helper !" said HerKsrt, 
 as the child's father lifted him down. 
 
 " Shall we get any more, sir ?" asked Richard. 
 
 " 0, yes, when you like," replied Herbert. " It 's worth any 
 thing to have a store in hand !" 
 
 And the boys made their bow in response to Herbert's 
 " Good-by," and returned to their cottnge quite decided that 
 there was no pleasure now like gathering wood for old Willy and 
 their young master ; and it was fully evident that old Willy 
 was in no further danger of perishing for want of firewood. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 ■ Bettei Is the end of a thin? than the beginning thereof; and the patient In spirit 
 is better than the proud in spirit."— Eccles. viL 8. 
 
 "nEBRUARY passed away, and the morning came of the first of 
 -*- March. A whole month Herbert had found himself left 
 without the aid of money ; and during that month he had dis- 
 covered that true wealth consisteth not in gold and silver, and 
 houses and lands, but in the love of earth and heaven. In that 
 month Herbert had also learned how to become possessed of this 
 true wealth; he had cultivated prayer, and faith, and effort, 
 and they had all taken root Avithin his heart — there they grew, 
 watered by the Divine Word, and love from above and from 
 around responded to them. Herbert had set himself to learn 
 the lesson that at first looked so hard to him ; he turned to the 
 heavenly Counselor — to whom none ever tunied with their 
 whole heart in vain — and he had found that the knowledge of 
 Wisdom was sweet to his soul, and that verily in keeping God's 
 commandments there is great reward. 
 
 Herbert remembered what day it was, when he woke, and 
 thoughts of the past, the present, and the future filled his mind ; 
 but he knew where to take his thoughts now — even to a heav- 
 enly Father's feet ; and when we take our thoughts and plant 
 them by prayer at our heavenly Father's feet, they are sure to 
 spring up and bear sweet fi'uit, in God's best time, to His glory 
 and our comfort — ^however bitter they might be when we took 
 
114 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 them there. The light of the early spring morning was shining 
 peacefully into Herbert's room ; he opened his window and 
 breathed the keen freshness of the air ; the first bright beams of 
 day seemed lingering in the heavens — their vailed radiance 
 gently dispersing the darkness of earth, before they rose above 
 and poured their beams upon it. Leafless and still lay the 
 misty woods ; but the wakeful deer were already feeding, side 
 by side, on tlie. young herbage; for the creatures not made to 
 labor in the sin-def>led service of man need but short sluiaber 
 to refresh them. Herbert heard the sheep-bell tinkle in the 
 distance — the sheep-bell of his father's flock, and the sound led 
 his thoughts to Jem, and on to old Willy ; and then he looked 
 on the gamekeeper's cottage, just visible from his window 
 among the tall fir-trees, and his kindly feeling gathered round 
 his little helpers there ; and his thought turned homeward, 
 where one short month seemed to have made all doubly dear to 
 him — and from that hallowed resting-place he looked up into 
 the rosy sky, and remembered the dark wintry night and the 
 heavy gloomy clouds on which he had gazed only a month 
 before, and he thought again of his sister's words, " There is no 
 darkness upon earth that God can not lighten ;" and in the 
 peace-giving assurance of the same faith, he shut his window 
 \nd turned in quiet feeling to his studies. 
 
 " What can this be ?" said Herbert to himself, as he took up 
 a small white paper parcel lying beside his desk ; it was not 
 there when he went to rest, some one must have been into his 
 room after he had fallen asleep. It was directed in his father's 
 hand-writing. He opened it ; there was a note within. . 
 
 " My dearest Boy, 
 
 " The pain of a month ago was well worth enduring for the 
 /hankfulness of heart that, I trust, we both feel to-day. I did 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. lid 
 
 not wish to make you pooi, but only to lead you to discover 
 what poverty really is — lest you should be deceived by the out- 
 ward show of wealth, and have supposed that, having that, you 
 were of necessity rich. But now, I trust, my highest wish may 
 be realized, and you found rich even in poverty — ^if this world's 
 poverty should ever be your lot — rich in the love, and grace, 
 and the blessing of God, from which nothing can separate — rich 
 in the will, the wisdom, and the power of effort. I therefore 
 gladly renew your allowance of the useful coin, on which I trust 
 you will not now place a false dependence and value. And 
 as your interests in life are so happily enlarged, I enlarge your 
 means of meeting them by doubling your monthly income. 
 Only remember, that you will need the heavenly Counselor 
 quite as much with your purse as without it ; — it was the wisest 
 of men who said, * He that hearkeneth imto counsel is wise !' 
 " Your affectionate father, 
 
 "H. Clifford." 
 
 The golden treasure lay folded within. Herbert could scarcely 
 believe himself possessed of so much money ; he put it safe in 
 his desk, determined to keep it with the greatest care ; then he 
 looked at his watch, for he longed to go to his father, but it was 
 too early yet to hope for that, so he took his books ; but his 
 thoughts wandered away to his new possession, and a ceaseless 
 succession of things that might be done with it, presented them- 
 selves to his mind. A new world of living interest lay freshly 
 discovered around him, and he had never yet tried the effect of 
 money's aid on any object in it ; so that his fancy was busy 
 with a thousand thoughts, and his. lessons lay unlearned. But 
 suddenly a voice spoke within Herbert's heart — a still small 
 voice — and it whispered there, " Every good gift, and every per- 
 fect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of 
 
116 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turn 
 ing." The words were famihar to him ; he had himself hid 
 them within his heart ; he had read them, learned them ; they 
 were part of the very first chapter he had turned to in his time 
 of trouble, and now in his hour of prosperity they rose up 
 within his soul and spoke to him, and taught him now as that 
 same chapter had taught him then — it had led him in his 
 trouble to pray — it led him now in his prosperity to give thanks. 
 Herbert remembered that while he had longed to run to meet 
 his earthly father, he had not hastened to give thanks to that 
 Heavenly Father — ^the Father of all his light and comfort, from 
 whom this good gift came to him. 0, happy child, who binds 
 the word of God by memory's help upon his heart — " When he 
 goeth, it shall lead him ; when he sleepeth, it shall keep him ; 
 when he awaketh, it shall talk with him. For the command- 
 ment is a lamp, and the law is light ; and reproofs of instruction 
 are the way of life." Herbert had been afraid to go so early to 
 his earthly father, but our Heavenly Father's presence is always 
 open to His children. His ear always ready to listen to their 
 roice ; and when Herbert had hastened where the Divine Word 
 called him, then he found that he could return to his lessons 
 and learn them — strengthened against the imaginations that be- 
 fore had led his thoughts wandering away from his books ; for 
 when we have been speaking to our Father in heaven, whatever 
 it may be that we have had to say to Him, we are sure to come 
 back to our next duty better able to fulfill it, than before we 
 went into the presence of God and talked with Him. Now 
 Herbert studied diligently ; so quickly he learned that he was 
 able to lay by his books — ^liis. lessons all prepared — ten minutes 
 before the nine o'clock prayer-bell rang. He hastened down to 
 look for his father ; he knocked at the study-door, and was ad- 
 mitted there. No one knew what Herbert said to his father, or 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 117 
 
 what his father said to him ; but every one could see the glad- 
 ness of Herbert's face as lie came in to prayers by his father's 
 side. His mother and his sister were happy in his joy, and all 
 was brightness at the morning meal. 
 
 Herbert thought that when he had finished his lessons he 
 would go and call on old Willy : he did not mean to be in any 
 haste to lay out his money, he only thought he should like to 
 know how he should feel in old Willy's cottage, now that he had 
 money to spend ; so after his studies were over, he set out for 
 the cottage. Old Willy was walking about in his garden, where 
 every thing looked fresh after the rain that had fallen the whole 
 of the day before, and the early part of the night. Eighty years 
 old Willy had lived in that cottage ; it was there that he was 
 bom, and he had never slept a night from under its roof ; and 
 now he watched the dwelling's decay much as he watched the 
 failure of his own bodily powers ; sometimes with an anxious 
 fear that the old building after all should not cover his aged 
 head to the last, for it had been left so long without repair that 
 its decay had become very rapid. Many people wondered that 
 the old man would live in such a place, and still more, that he 
 went on paying the same rent for it as they did for their warm 
 abodes ; but Willy had a hard landlord ; he must pay his full 
 rent, or he must go ; and the thought of changing that old 
 place for any other would have seemed to him like leaving his 
 native land for a strange country. Herbert stood in the cottage- 
 garden beside old Willy ; but a black cloud overhead burst in a 
 pelting shower, and Herbert and old Willy took refuge within 
 by the low embers of the wood-fire. " I will make that fire up 
 when the storm is over," said Herbert, as he drew out the low 
 stool and sat down close in front of old Willy, to make him hear 
 the more easily when he spoke to him. And then he looked 
 round the room with the eyes of one who felt that he had money 
 
118 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 at his disposal, but who also felt that he had learned the use of 
 his OWE hands. 
 
 " Why, I declare," at last exclaimed Herbert, getting np, and 
 Sfoino; to the middle of the room, " if- there is not a hole here a 
 foot deep— what a frightful hole ! Why, it is a foot and a half 
 deep ! I could fill up that in no time, and lay in a couple of 
 bricks to match the rest of the floor, which is all about as bad 
 as it can be !" 
 
 " No, thank you, master," replied old Willy, " it would be no 
 charity to fill that hole up ; I could not live in the old place 
 without it, and I am often trying after making it a bit bigger." 
 
 " What do you mean, Willy ?" said Herbert, still standing over 
 the hole ; " such a place as that can be of no use except to 
 break one's leg in, just in the middle of the floor here !" And 
 Herbert put his own foot in, which went down up to his knee. 
 
 But old Willy made answer, " Ah, master, there are those who 
 know the use of many a thing, that some above them would do 
 away vnih, and never think of the trial they would leave behind !'* 
 Old Willy did not mean to make any allusion to his log when 
 tumbled into the ditch ; but Herbert remembered it, and stood 
 silent, looking down into the hole. Then old Willy, rising 
 slowly, said, " I will show you the use of it, master. There is 
 never a heavy rain but the old roof drips all over, and just above 
 that hole the water pours down in a stream sometimes enough 
 to drown the place ; you may see the light through, if you look 
 up that way," said old Willy, pointing to a particular place in 
 the roof with his stick ; " and so I scooped out this hole, and 
 then, if the rain be not long, the water settles there, instead of 
 flooding the old place ; but if it holds long there, I fall to ladling 
 it out as it comes ; but it is dangerous, I know, for all that, and 
 I always keep a slip of an old board over it ; but last night it 
 rained piteous ; I was up half the night ladling it out as I best 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 119 
 
 could, aud I left it open to-day ;" and even as old "Willy spoko 
 the rain-drops began to drip from the roof, and a small stream 
 to pour down into the ready-made hole. 
 
 " Is it always Hke this when it rains ?" asked Herbert, indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 " j^o, master, not when the rain is soon over ; but you see th6 
 old thatch was ringing wet before this shower came, and it is 
 always bad when the rain holds any while. I was dragging 
 about my old bedstead in the dead of last night, trying to get 
 some place to lie down in where the rain would not drip on 
 me, and I could not find so much as a dry corner to lay my 
 head under. I was wholly worn out, and I thought it seemed 
 so hard to pay the rent I did so regular, and then not to be 
 able to find a place to lie down in ! And I sat down on my 
 old bed and cried ; but then those words rose up in my heart, 
 ' The Son of man hath not where to lay his head !' And O 
 how ashamed I felt to be fretting there, just as it seemed be- 
 cause I was like my Lord ! and then I thought how all the 
 world was His, and He had made it so beautiful for us sinful 
 creatures to dwell in ! and yet he had not so much as a place 
 He could call His own in it, but was forced to go up the 
 mountains, when He was seeking after getting by Himself 
 alone. And so I felt wholly ashamed, and lighted up my fire 
 and my candle, and got looking into my Book, where it speaks 
 about that place He is gone to prepare for the like of me, 
 whom the Book says he came to save ! And then, when the 
 rain gave over, I laid down, and, to my thinking, I had one of 
 the best sleeps I ever had under the old rooi^ thanks be to Him 
 who gave it." 
 
 "But," said Herbert, "I should just like to know who it 
 is that pretends to let you such a place as this, and call it a 
 house f 
 
120 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " It 's a Master Sturgeon that owns the place, sir ; this hoii89 
 and the bit of land round it was left to him by a relation ; 'tis 
 all that he has in the parish. He is well to do in the world, I 
 have heard say ; but to my thinking it 's sometimes them that 
 have most who see the most use in laying of it up, instead of 
 laying of it out ; for if I have asked him once, to be sure I 
 have twenty times, when I carried in my rent, to~ be so good as 
 to lay out so much as a few shillings of it on the old place ; but 
 he never gave the least heed in the world, nor yet to lower the 
 rent, though I never owed him a shilling ; so I have given up 
 asking, and now 'tis too bad for mending." 
 
 " Then let him put on a new roof !" replied Herbert. 
 
 " Well, tf be sure, sir, that might mend it ; but them that lova 
 money, wli"' , ^tis hard for them to part with it when there ia 
 not a necdF .ity." 
 
 " But ih J* ) is a necessity ! are you to He all night long with 
 water diipping over you, when we should not suffer a drop to 
 rain through in our dog-kennel ?" 
 
 " No, master, 'tis very true ; but an old man like me, that 'a 
 past being any use to any body, and only lies like a burden on 
 the parish, why, 'tis not to be expected that any one should 
 look after me ! and no doubt Master Sturgeon thinks the old 
 place will hold out the old man ; and then may be he will do 
 Bomething different by it ; but you see them that are after money, 
 why, 'tis not their way to be after parting with it for them that 
 are past being any use to any one, like as I am now." 
 
 Old Willy had seated himself again in his chair, and Her- 
 bert had drawn his stool close to it, his face raised to old 
 Willy's ; and now he laid his hand on old Willy's knee, and 
 said, " Willy, dear old Willy ! you are of use, you are of the 
 greatest use to me ; I have been a great deal happier, and get 
 on a hundi-ed times better since I fii*st came to see after you 1 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 121 
 
 I should not know wliat to do without you, now ; and no one 
 can or shall think you a burden !" 
 
 " The good Lord above bless you !" said the old man, as he 
 laid his labor-worn hand on the little soft one that rested on 
 his knee. Old Willy said no more, and Herbert sat lo?t in 
 thought a few moments,, then looking up again full of ear- 
 nestness, he said, " I tell you what, Willy, you shall not lie 
 without a dry roof over you, to be rained upon all night long ; 
 I say it, Willy, you shall not ; and if your landlord has no 
 thought for you, there is some one who has, and who has the 
 power, too 1" 
 
 " Yes, master, blessed be God, don't I know His own words 
 — ' I go to prepare a place for you !' and they come in to 
 comfort me aftei every trouble, like the bow 'cross the dark cloud." 
 
 " Yes, Willy, but I don't mean our Saviour ; I mean some 
 one here who can help you, and who will. I mean that I can, 
 and I shall ; and it won't be like the coals, Willy, for I have 
 the- money now of my own !" 
 
 The aged Willy looked inquiringly on the bright young 
 face, in which love for the old man, joy at the power, and earn- 
 est purpose to aid and comfort were all blended in full express- 
 ion ; but he did not say any thing, for he did not quite take in 
 the idea that any one except the landlord, and still less the 
 child at his knee, could think of new-roofing his cottage. But 
 while he looked in inquiring silence, Herbert suddenly remem- 
 bered the time, and wishing him then a hearty " good-by," not 
 without another assurance that old Willy would soon see what 
 would be done to the roof ! he took his. leave. 
 
 As Herbert pursued his homeward way he began to think, 
 wliat would his father say to his new promise ? He thought 
 of his letter that morning received, and the only part that awoke 
 a fear waa the last sentence in it, " Remember, he that hearken- 
 
122 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 eth unto counsel is wise." " Perhaps, then," thouglit Herl ei*t, 
 " I ought to have consulted papa first ; but who that had the 
 money could help saying it should be done ! I don't believe papa 
 could, and I will tell him so if he objects ; but he will not object 
 now, because I have the money all my own, and he has never 
 found fault with me for spending my own money as I liked, 
 and he must be glad I should spend it in keeping old Willy 
 dry ; though his landlord ought to do it ; yet if he won't, some 
 one must, or old Willy must be left to perish !" So Herbert 
 braced up his courage and went to dinner, but still he felt some 
 difficulty in telling of an engagement that must consume his 
 whole month's allowance, entered into on the day of receiving 
 it ; but what could he have done better with it ? again he 
 thought ; so after being silent through dinner, he ventured when 
 the dessert was on the table to begin, " Papa, I hope -I have not 
 cut my fingers again, but if I have, I really believe you would 
 have done the same if you had been in my place !" 
 
 " Very likely," replied his father, " I have done so in your 
 sense of the phrase, more than once or twice, and it is the ex- 
 perience I learned by such mistakes, that I would gladly use to 
 guard you." 
 
 Again Herbert thought to himself, " Ah ! papa means I 
 should consult him ; — I wish I had, but it 's too late now !" 
 
 " Well, papa, I may as well tell you at once ; I have been to 
 see old Willy, and, would you believe it ? every rainy night his 
 thatch drips with water from every part, and a stream pours 
 down in the middle of his room, and he has dug a hole in the 
 floor to catch the water ; a deep hole in wnich he might break 
 his leg any day, and his landlord won't do ary thing to the roof 
 to mend it!" 
 
 * And so my son Herbert is going to do the landlord's work 
 for him, I suppose ?" said Mr. Clifibrd. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 123 
 
 " Not for the landlord, papa ; I would send him to prison if I 
 could ! but for old Willy ; he can not do it for himself, and if no 
 one will do it for him, why he must die from wet and damp. 
 What else could 1 do, when I had money of my own, papa ?" 
 
 " You could not do otherwise if the love of God was in your 
 heart, and the means in your hand, and no reason against it 
 strong enough to prevent: but I am afraid there is a strong 
 reason against your doing it, which, if you had consulted me 
 first, I could have told you." 
 
 " What reason, papa ?" asked Herbert ; and again his heart 
 sank within him, and the secret wish again was ready to rise, 
 that in this case he had let charity alone. 
 
 " There is this reason against it — that there are men in this 
 parish comparatively poor, owning a cottage or two, and keep- 
 ing them in good repair, when I know they must often feel the 
 want of all the money they can get : and there is this one 
 wretched dwelling, owned by a man who could rebuild it and 
 not miss the money so spent ; but, because he will not spare 
 enough to put a diy roof over it^ are those poor but honest men, 
 who have made it their care to keep their tenants comfortable, 
 to see the aid, never extended to them, bestowed on an unprin- 
 cipled man who withholds the right of his tenant from him ?" 
 
 " But then, papa, should old Willy be left to perish because 
 that miser of a man will not do what is right ?" 
 
 " Old Willy need not perish ; and though I have no doubt it 
 would distress him to leave the house in which he was born, still 
 we must not discourage good and honest men by aiding a bad 
 one, to save old Willy this pain." 
 
 " But, papa, I have promised !" 
 
 " O, my boy, why so hasty ! Could you not have asked youi 
 father first ? But if we afterward find that any thing would 
 make the fulfillment of a promise a wrong act toward others, we 
 
124 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 must ackuowledge it, and endeavor to the utmost to oLtain the 
 same object in a right way." 
 
 " Well, papa, I am sure I don't know who could ever have 
 stopped to think.of the whole parish of landlords, when they saw 
 that one poor suffering old man ! What can I do to keep my 
 promise in another way ?" 
 
 " I think the best thing would be to go yourself to the land- 
 lord, and try to awaken a right feeling on the subject." 
 
 " It 's no use to ask him, papa ; old Willy asked till he gave 
 up in despair." 
 
 " You have not tried him yourself yet," replied Mr. Cliflford ; 
 " and you can not say that it would be of no use till the trial is 
 made. The prophet Nehemiah, in his appeal to the heathen 
 king, will teach us better — if we only set about our requests to 
 others as he did, with pray or to the God of Heaven,, we may be 
 answered as he was. So do not be discouraged, my boy, but 
 try it in prayer and faith, and you will most surely find, sooner 
 or later, that you went not alone to the work." 
 
 " But, papa, I should hate to see the man ; I should be sure 
 to get into a passion with him." 
 
 " Then you had better not put yourself in his way, for if you 
 have no rule over your own spirit, you certainly have no hope 
 of success with another !" 
 
 " But how could I help it, papa ?" 
 
 " Only by having more of the spirit of Him who commendeth 
 His love toward us, in ' that while we were yet sinners, Christ 
 died for us.' And in truth old Willy's rich landlord is more to 
 be pitied than old Willy. Old Willy can suffer but a little 
 time : a little moment — and his light affliction will be over for 
 ever ; for he is the heir of an eternal kingdom ; but the other 
 must have his portion with that rich man we read of in the 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 125 
 
 Bible, wlio lifted up his eyes in torment — and that for ever, if 
 his heart is not changed." 
 
 " I am sure I wish it may be changed, papa, for old Willy's 
 sake as well as his own ; but I don't seem to feel any hope." 
 
 Here the conversation was interrupted, and Herbert was soon 
 at his sister's side. " Is it not dreadful, Mary, to have to talk to 
 Buch a man ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear Herbert, I dare say you feel it so ; but you 
 remember our Saviour was continually talking with those who 
 were always sinning against His Heavenly Father ; and if we 
 follow His example, we may do even the wicked good — with the 
 help and blessing of God." 
 
 " Well," replied Herbert, " I am sure charity is the steepest 
 hill I ever climbed ; I get a slip every step I try at; and how to 
 get up again is more than I can tell !" 
 
 " But have you not found that there is One standing on that 
 steep hill-side, to lift you up again when you fall ? Did not the 
 Heavenly Counselor stoop to lift you up before ? and did He 
 not show you a friend to help you ? It is better to foil at His 
 feet, than to stand where He is not ! And if the hill be steep 
 there is always sunshine on the top. Was there not sunshine 
 for you when you stood on the last of old Willy's log, and saw 
 it all ready for his use ?" 
 
 " Yes, that was pleasant enough." 
 
 " And so it will be when you stand in old Willy's garden, and 
 look with him on the new roof of his cottage." 
 
 " O, Mary, do you think it really will be done, then ?" 
 
 " Yes, I have no doubt about it — ^when the right time comes — 
 if we do not give up hope and effort." 
 
 " O dear," sighed Herbert, " how glad I shall be when to-mor- 
 row is over ! I think this is a worse job than the old log — hut 
 I will try at it for all that." 
 
126 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " 'i.''ou wil) not think it worse when the end comes, dear 
 Herbert." 
 
 " B»it, Mary, you don't know the end ; what is it makes you 
 Bure it will be good ?" 
 
 " Because I am quite sure whenever we try to help the poor, 
 in a right spirit, and in a right way, that God is with us, and will 
 not suffer our effort to fall to che ground." 
 
 " Well, Mary, now we shall see — I will try to do it as you and 
 papa say I ought, because I know you understand all about 
 ch.irity, and then I will see what the end of it is !" 
 
 " Very well," said his sister, with a smile, " I agree ; for I 
 know none ever leaned upon and watched that unseen Hand 
 in vain !" 
 
 Herbert then stood pledged to go forth the next day in the 
 cause of the poor and needy — the young child of earth and 
 Heaven was to stand, for the fii'st time in his life, face to face 
 " with the man of the earth," the poor man's oppressor ; no 
 wonder that he could think of little else ! He went early to 
 his room, and, Hke the stripling David, preparing to encounter 
 the champion of Gath — he made ready to meet the stronger- 
 giant of Oppression. I do not mean that Herbert ran to choose 
 himself smooth stones from the brook for his sling — no, the 
 weapons of his warfare were of another kind : Herbert went 
 to the living stream of God's most holy Word, the pebbles he 
 wanted lay there ; he went to the very part from which he had 
 gathered often before, even the Epistle of St. James ; he chose 
 the texts he thought would suit him best, and his heart was 
 the sling in which he laid them ready for use ; he had learned 
 all the epistle before, but now he looked upon it that he might 
 choose what seemed best for his purpose, and, having chosen, he 
 lay down to sleep. 
 
 The next morning Herbert did the best he could with his 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 127 
 
 lessons, but liis heart was heavy, and he met his tutor ill -pre- 
 pared ; happily for him he had worked so well for the past 
 montl' that his tutor readily listened to his assurance that he 
 had done his best, and seeing that something lay heavy on his 
 thoughts, allowed him to carry on the imperfect lessons to the 
 next day, to be prepared with his fresh tasks — instead of de- 
 taining him after hours. So at the time for his afternoon ride 
 his ponies were ordered round, and, having been in to his 
 mother and sister, and asked them to think of him all the time, 
 he set forth slowly on swift-footed Araby, and his groom, on 
 young Ruby, followed slowly behind. 
 
 First he went to old Willy's to tell him the soiTowful tale of 
 a disappointed purpose. He found him seated by his wood fire, 
 with his Bible, that constant companion of his blessed old age, 
 before him. Herbert had no doubt that old Willy's thoughts 
 were full of the new roof, and he feared that the old man would 
 never trust him again after such a disappointment as he had 
 now to bring. But the truth was, that old Willy, not being 
 quick of understanding, had never taken the idea of a new roof 
 into his mind ; he was looking again upon the precious words 
 that told him of the mansions in Heaven that 'his Saviour was 
 gone to prepare, and he had forgotten all about the last day's 
 conversation. Herbert began, " Willy, I don't see any use in 
 my making a promise to help any one, for I can never keep my 
 word when I do !" 
 
 " Well, master, I have read in those good sayings that stand 
 next to the Psalms in my Book, how that ' the desire of a man 
 is his kindness !' I can show it you, for I always keep a bit of 
 a mark tucked in at that, and it often comforts my old heart 
 when I think ipon others, and there 's nothing but a prayer I 
 can do for them. Here 't is, master ! I don't know the num- 
 bers — no" to say where the words are, but you will if you look," 
 
128 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " Yes, Willy," said Herbert, heavily, " but it puts me quit« 
 out of heart that I must not make a new roof to keep you dry ! 
 Papa thinks it would go against those who keep thciir bouses 
 as they, ought, if I did it for a rich man who could so easily ao 
 it for himself. So I am just going to tell your landlord how bad 
 it is, and to see if he will not be persuaded to do it himself ; but 
 [ declare I don't see much hope any way !" 
 
 Old Willy, perceiving that something troubled his young mas- 
 ter, had strained his utmost powers of attention ; but Herbert's 
 tone was low, and the sentence long, and all that old Willy laid 
 hold of were the last words — " I don't see much hope any way !" 
 he did not understand what the hope related to, but his bright 
 faith had always an answer to the tone of despondency, so he 
 replied at once, " O, master, there 's always a hope up above ! 
 and that 's always a leading me on, and sure that 's enough for 
 them that have it !'■' 
 
 " Well, Willy, good-by," said Herbert, with a sorrowful look 
 at the old man and the old place ; and the ministering boy 
 passed away in his sadness, and the old man looked with trou- 
 bled fiice after him, troubled not for his unrepaired roof — for the 
 thouirht of that he had not taken in — but troubled because he 
 saw the shade upon the bright young face that of late had en- 
 tered his dwelling like the first glad sunbeam of spring ; and the 
 old man breathed a silent prayer for the child, and then looked 
 again on the Words of Life. 
 
 Herbert reached the town — the town where Mr. Mansfield 
 lived and little Jane, the town where little Ruth and Patience 
 dwelt — the town was reached, and then the street, and then 
 the house ; there was the name of Mr. Sturgeon in large letters 
 on the brass-plate on the door. Mr. Sturgeon was at home, 
 and Herbert went in. Herbert took the chair Mr. Sturgeon 
 handed to him, and said, " I am come to . ask you to repair the 
 
MINISrERINQ CHILDREN. 129 
 
 cottage of Willy Green ; the roof is so bad that the rain drips 
 through all night long, when the weather is very wet." Mr, 
 Sturgeon's countenance fell, and he replioJ, " I make a point, 
 sir, of knowing the state of all my property, and I am sorry 
 that in this case I can not meet your request." 
 
 " Is there any reason why the roof should not be mended 1" 
 asked Herbert. 
 
 " Yes, the best of reasons," rephed Mr. Sturgeon ; " I long ago 
 made up my mind not to lay out another shilling on the old 
 place ; my wish is to sell it, and I might have done so several 
 times over before now, but I could not get my price ; and when 
 [ have once named my price, I never take less, let the risk of 
 loss to myself be what it may." 
 
 " Do you mean that you would sell the place over old Willy, 
 and turn him out ?" 
 
 " Well, I suppose whoever buys it will hardly wish to keep 
 him in : the fact is, that three cottages might be built on that 
 piece of land, and three times the money made of it. I do 
 not wish to undertake the thing myself, but I mean to sell it 
 as a piece capable of bring-ing in three times the money it has 
 done." 
 
 " It would break old Willy's heart to turn him out !" said 
 Herbert, earnestly ; " and you would not like to take away all 
 his confort for a little more money 1" 
 
 " Indeed, sir, I am sorry for the old man ; but if his affection 
 is so strong for brick and mortar, I am afraid I can not engage 
 to secure his comfort to him ! I look upon m^ney as a means 
 of comfort to many ; I um a genera upporter of charitable in- 
 stitutions, but if I turned out of my way for the fancies of every 
 old man or old woman, I must soon curtail my charities." 
 
 " But," said Herbert, " when our way is not God's way, it is 
 best to turn out of it — is it not ?" 
 
130 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir, I do not understand you," replied 
 Mr. Sturgeon. 
 
 Then Herbert took the fii'st of his treasured pebbles trom the 
 brook — even his first text from St. James, and he replied, " The 
 Bible says, that * the Lord is very pitiful and of tender mercy' — 
 that is God's way." 
 
 " Indeed, I hope so," replied Mr. Sturgeon, " or, I am afraid 
 the best of us will stand but a poor chance." 
 
 "But," added Herbert, taking another of his texts, "the 
 Bible says also, that 'he shall have judgment without mercy 
 that hath showed no mercy ;' so won't you show mercy to old 
 Willy ?" 
 
 " You want me," replied Mr. Sturgeon, " for the sake of one old 
 man, to curtail my means of bestowing charity on the many." 
 
 Herbert had tried hard to keep his indignation down, but 
 now it rose, and he replied, " You have taken old Willy's rent 
 for a place not fit for any one to live in, and you can never do 
 CHARITY with such money ! God asks poor people in the Bible 
 if rich men have oppressed them ; and will you not be afraid 
 when God asks old Willy ?" 
 
 Mr. Sturgeon replied, " I must be allowed my own opinion of 
 justice, as well as you ; the old man would not stay, I suppose, if 
 the place was not worth more to him than the money he pays ; 
 there is nothing but his own will to detain him." 
 
 " But there is not an empty cottage in the village," replied Her- 
 bert, " to which old Willy would go, if he wished ever so much !" 
 
 Mr. Sturgeon replied, " Every one knows there is a house 
 large enough to receive him close by ; and, for my part, I think 
 the work-house the best place for such helpless old people." 
 
 " O, Mr. Sturgeon, you do not understand the thing, and so 
 you do wrong, and think it right ! Old Willy is not helpless, 
 he <}an do every thing for himself, and read the Bible, too ; and 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 181 
 
 if he were forced to go into that heap of people in the work- 
 house, he would lose all his quiet. The Bible says, ' Thou shalt 
 love thy neighbor as thyself !' " This was the last pebble Her- 
 bert had chosen for his sling — the last selected text from St. 
 James, but the oppressor lelt it not. Every rejected word of Holy 
 Scripture, which seems to fall powerless at the hardened sin 
 ner's feet, will one day rise again, to descend upon him with 
 a millstone weight, crushing his soul for ever. O, let the sin- 
 ner then beware how he reasons away and rejects the awful 
 Word of God ! 
 
 Mr. Sturgeon only replied, " My principle, sir, is, * Let every 
 one see to his own interest ;'. and, in a free country like ours, where 
 the laws are good, and the observance of them strictly enforced, 
 I do not know a principle likely to work better for all." 
 
 " Have you read the last chapter of the Epistle of St. James ?" 
 asked Herbert. 
 
 " Certainly I have, sir ; I am fully acquainted with all you 
 may wish to urge on such a foundation." 
 
 " Will you not, then, put a new roof over old Willy with the 
 money he has so long paid you for rent ?" 
 
 " I have given you my answer, sir, and I must decline all in* 
 terference between me and my tenant." 
 
 " Then I must wish you good day, Mr. Sturgeon ; and may 
 old Willy's God forgive you !" 
 
 Herbert rode away. When free from the town, large tears 
 came fast ; he felt overcome with his effort, but the sweet air 
 kissed his burning cheeks and breathed over his temples ; he 
 looked up into the clear blue sky, as only the child of the Holy 
 Heaven — the child of the God of the poor and needy — can look. 
 Yet his heart was heavy, and on his face the shades of sin and 
 son'ow rested — how could it be otherwise ? He would not 
 pass old Willy's house ; he felt as if he could not bear to see 
 
132 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 the old man on this his sad return, so he took the further road 
 to his home, which led round by Mr. Smith's farm. Suddenly 
 Jem appeared in sight — coming along the distant road ; he had 
 just folded his sheep, and was returning home to his supper. 
 A moment more, and Araby bore his young master to the side 
 of honest Jem. Jem stood still, and Herbert threw himself from 
 his saddle, intent on his subject of thought, and stood leaning 
 on Araby's neck — the most effectual way of keeping his impa- 
 tient steed quiet. There stood the eager boy — the child of for- 
 tune, looking up to that poor lad, as if his earthly treasury of 
 hope and help were garnered in his breast : and there stood the 
 shepherd youth with head uncovered, looking down with loving 
 reverence on that young face upraised to his. 
 
 " O, Jem," said Herbert, " there is no one in the world I 
 should have been so glad to meet as you ! I am in another 
 trouble, and if you can not help me, there is no one can now. 
 Old Willy's roof lets all the rain-drop's through upon him ; I 
 have been to his landlord, and he will not do any thing, but talks 
 of selling the place over his head ! It will break old Willy's 
 heart ! What can be done ?" 
 
 Jem passed his hand across his forehead, " Well, sir, excuse 
 me ; but one thing at a time, as the saying is, and maybe we 
 shall manage them all." 
 
 " What ! do you see any hope, Jem ?" 
 
 " Well, sir, 'tis a hard case when hope be clean gone ! But the 
 roof — did you say that 's bad ?" 
 
 " Yes, terribly bad — holes all over !" 
 
 " Maybe I could stop them up," said Jem ; " master would not 
 be against letting me have a little straw for that — that 's certain." 
 
 " No, Jem, old Willy says it 's past all mending ; and so I 
 am sure it is • whv, it drips all over when the rain lasts any 
 time I" 
 
MINISTE/>.ING CHILDREN. . 133 
 
 *' That's ahard case," repliedJem, "when mending won't da 
 it, and there's none to make ! as the saying is. But I never 
 found the trouble yet that I did n't see a light through when I 
 bad been after it a bit — and may be I shall in this." 
 
 " 0, that's right, Jem ! I don't mind any thing now I have 
 met yon. But what do you think of that wretched landlord 
 saying he means to sell the old place, when he can get his 
 price for it ? " 
 
 **Wel], sir, 'when' is a long day — sometimes longer than they 
 think for that fix it ! And there's more than one to be consid- 
 ered in this, I take it." 
 
 " What do you mean, Jem 1 " 
 
 " Why, sir, when my poor mother was left a widow and I 
 was but a child, with nothing to look to but her, manys the 
 time I have seen her cast down till her spirits were wholly 
 gone, and then she would say, * Well, child, '* the king's lieai t is 
 in the hands of the Lord," and so things may turn yet.* And, 
 to be sare, how they did turn ! Once, I remember, we were as 
 near as any thing to being sent right away to our own parish, 
 where we had not a creature to look to; mother took on won- 
 derfully ; she was always praying and fretting about it ; and 
 then, at the last, they turned the right way for us to stay.. So 
 I have never forgot that saying. I take it to be from the Bible, 
 and that it's a certain thing, if the Lord holds him that has 
 the biggest power, he holds them too that have the less ; and so 
 may be the landlord won't have his way with Willy after all ! " 
 
 " That's right, Jem ; I shall think so too. How glad I am I 
 met you ! Good night 1 " and Herbert gave hirn a hearty shake 
 of the hand — to which gratitude, hope, and affection all lent 
 their force, and springing again on swift-footed Araby, was soon 
 ut the door of his home. The shade had passed from his brow, 
 the weight from his young spirit — the chill of the cold-hearted 
 oppressor lost in the sense of Jem's voice of hcpf». and hand of 
 
134 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 power — and the spirit of the rich boy leaned on the poor boy, 
 tis the honeysuckle depends on some stem of sturdier growth, 
 which the God of nature has caused to spring up at its side. 
 
 Meanwhile, Jem went home to his supper ; the frugal meal 
 was waiting his return ; a log blazing on the hearth, Mary sit- 
 ting close beside it, knitting him a pair of stockings, the worsted 
 bought with the money saved by the firewood, which set aside 
 the expense of coal ; his mother at work in her large old spec- 
 tacles, that fastened by a spring on her nose. They soon sat 
 down to supper : Jem was unusually silent. " What 's the mat- 
 ter of it, boy ?" at last asked his mother ; " you are not think- 
 ing about your supper, I 'm sure." 
 
 " Well, no, mother, I suppose I was not," said Jem, going on 
 no less thoughtfully with his meal. After supper, Jem took his 
 hat and went out, saying he had not done yet for the night. 
 
 " He is a working at something !" said his mother ; " may be 
 he will tell us after a bit." 
 
 Jem walked thoughtfully along, his feet seemed to guide him, 
 rather than he them, up to the farm. He looked at his folded 
 sheep ; but it was plain his thoughts were away — for he took 
 no notice of the bleat of his favorite lamb, who had heard it& 
 shepherd's step, and pressed its white head against the pen that 
 shut it in. Jem came round by the back of the farm ; a storm 
 was gathering in the evening sky ; Jem looked at it, then anx 
 iously around ; he was standing then in the stack-yard, and 
 on the further side of it his eye fell on a large old tarpauling. 
 that had been used the evening before to cover over a stack 
 only partly removed to the barn ; the remainder had now been 
 carried in, and the tarpauling not yet put away. " 'Tis the very 
 tling!" exclaimed Jem, and as he spoke he hastened to the 
 back-door of the farm. 
 
 " You are wanted, Master William, if you please," said M plly, 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 136 
 
 at tlie open door of the keeping-room, and William Avent out to 
 the door of the back-kitchen. 
 
 " Well, Jem, any thing wrong with the sheep ?" asked William. 
 
 " No, sir ; I wish all was as right with others as 'tis with 
 them, and then I had not need be after disturbing you." 
 
 " Never mind that ; what 's the matter now ?" 
 
 " Why, Master Green's roof lets all the wet through upon him, 
 and there 's a terrible storm now coming up, and I don't seem 
 as if I could rest if he is to be rained upon all night long." 
 
 " Well, but what can be done ?" asked William ; " there 's no 
 time and no light to be mending it to-night." 
 
 " No, it 's not mending will do it, it 's past all that ; the more 
 shame to them that have suffered it." 
 
 " But what 's to be done, then ? You can't make a new roof, 
 I suppose — and to-night into the bargain !" 
 
 " Why, that 's just what I was thinking if I could, for as I came 
 down by the barn, I saw the old tarpauling lying there ; now 
 the old roof is no bigness but what that would cover it, and I '11 
 be bound not a drop would get through, if it rains e.ver so." 
 
 " Well, to be sure, that is a new roof after a fashion !" replied 
 William ; " and if the old tarpauling was mine, you should have 
 it in a minute ; I am only afraid it will go against father to 
 .end ! But you wait about, and I will hear what he says." 
 
 Away turned Jem to stand and look at things without seeing 
 them, and back went William to the keeping-room. His father 
 was resting in his chair by the fire, and his mother was busy at 
 her needle ; William stood a minute at the window looking out 
 at the gathering cloud, then walking up to the fire, he said, 
 " There 's a terrible storm coming up to-night !" 
 
 " It 's a good thing it held fine to clear in the stack," observed 
 fanner Smith. 
 
 " Yes, it was a good thing for the wheat," replied William 
 
136 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " but it will not be a good tiling for them that have not a dry 
 roof over them to-night, by what I can see !" 
 
 " Who do you mean ?" asked farmer Smith, looking up. 
 
 " Wliy, old Willy Green," rephed William ; " I find he might 
 as well lie in our fields, and better under one of our hedges, foi 
 all the shelter he gets from that moldy roof of his I" 
 
 " There 's the more to answer for by them that sufier it !" ob- 
 served farmer Smith. 
 
 " Well, father, that 's just what I w^as thinking ; I don't see 
 how we can suffer him to lie so !" 
 
 " 'Tis his landlord, not us !" said farmer Smith ; " what can we 
 do ? — Make a new roof for every hard-hearted man that won't 
 keep his own tenants dry ? — that 's not my idea of charity 1" 
 
 *' No, father, but there 's that old tarpauling lying down in the 
 stack-yard, if we were to draw that over the roof, he would lie 
 as dry as w^e do." 
 
 " And I should like to know what we are to do without it ?" 
 
 " Why, you know, father, we have housed the last stack to-day ; 
 we are sure not to want it before harvest : we have others, and 
 better too, for the wagons." 
 
 " Well, I can't say I take to it," said farmer Smith ; "I am al- 
 ways ready to give a trifle, but if you once take up "with lending, 
 you never know what 's your own !" 
 
 Impatience had long been gathering in Mrs. Smith's face, and 
 at these last words she broke silence, "Yes, Mr. Smith, that 's all 
 the difference ! you are always for giving, giving, giving, till no 
 one knows the end of it ! I say, let them earn an honest penny 
 that may do them some good, instead of all your g-ivnngs, or 
 lend them a bit if they be hard pressed, and let them w^ork it 
 out ; but no, you will always be giving, and taking out the 
 little spirit that is in them ; and now, when an old tarpauling 
 lies down in the yard, you won't let the boy roof over the best 
 
p. 186. 
 
^ ^ of -f*^^ 
 
MINISTERliJG CHILDREK 137 
 
 man in the parish, and the oldest too, because you will stand out 
 against lending ! it 's too much for me, Mr. Smith, I declare !" 
 
 " Well, I suppose you are right," replied farmer Smith, in a 
 grave low tone ; " I won't stand against it, boy." William was 
 sorry for his mother's rough words, but he could not say any 
 thing, so he hastened off to Jem, who was watching for the 
 fii'st sound of the latch of the back kitchen door, and off set 
 William and Jem, hastening off together with the tarpauling 
 between them ; they laid it down at old Willy's door till they 
 returned, each with a thatcher's ladder, and then by climbing 
 arid scrambling, and stretching and pulling, the old roof was 
 covered over, the covering made fast by the strings at its cor- 
 ners — and now the storm might come, old Willy would sleep 
 dry beneath it. 
 
 Herbert was leaning back on a sofa in the drawing-room, 
 while his sister played upon her harp ; a book was in his hand, 
 but he was not reading, his thoughts were with old Willy ; a 
 servant entered and asked of Herbert, " Can you be spoken with 
 to-night, sir ?" 
 
 Herbert spi'ang up and went out ; Jem stood in the hall. " I 
 beg pardon, sir," said Jem, " I thought maybe you would like to 
 know we have roofed it in as dry as dust !" 
 
 " Has Mr. Sturgeon been there, then ?" said Herbert. 
 
 "No, sir, to my thinking he is best away ; there are some that 
 seem to have no good to bring with them when they do come ! 
 but Master William has roofed it all over with an old tarpauling 
 from the farm. Daddy's as pleased as any thing ; he says he shall 
 be lying awake to feel the comfort of it !" 
 
 " How came you to think of that ?" asked Herbert, in delighted 
 surpnse at the work already done. 
 
 " Well, sir, I saw the old tarpauling lie, and then the thought 
 came to me, but Master William it was that gained it," 
 
138 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 Herbert wea t back with bis brightest smile, " Mary, it 's 
 done, it 's done !" 
 
 " What is done ?" asked Miss Clifford. 
 
 " Why, old Willy's roof all covered over as dry as possible ! 
 Jem and young Smith have covered it over with an old tar- 
 pauling !" His sister smiled and said, " Then we have seen that 
 the end is good !" And with Herbert still leaning at her bide, 
 she sang to her harp a psalm of thanksgiving. 
 
 " Papa," said Herbert, after a while, " I don't see that money 
 is of much use in charity, at least I don't find it so !" 
 
 " Wait till the call for it comes, my boy, as sooner or later it 
 is sure to come, and then give it freely. The mistake is, when 
 we think money can do everything ! it has its distinct work like 
 other creatures of God, and when we apply it amiss we do haim 
 with it instead of good." 
 
 That night as farmer Smith read in his mother's Bible, the 
 words met his eye, " Do good, and lend, hoping for nothing 
 again ; and your reward shall be great, and ye shall be the 
 children of the Highest : for He is kind to the unthankful and 
 the evil." Luke vi. 35. And the peaceful sense of its being a Di- 
 vine command he had obeyed, came down into farmer Smith's 
 heart, and the oil and wine of the living Word poured into and 
 healed the wound rough words had left. From that day, far- 
 mer Smith was as willing to lend as to give, when his judg- 
 ment approved of the case. 
 
 Sweet was the slumber of the ministering boys that night — 
 !nthin the Hall, the farm-house, and the cottage ; and sweet the 
 ank between them ! And pleasant thoughts smoothed the old 
 man's pillow ; as, dry and warm through the youthful love of 
 earth, he turned to rest beneath the shadow of the Eternal, 
 turned to the well-spring whence those bright and blessed rills 
 of human sympathy had risen and flowed at his aged feet. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 "Let mne outcasts dwell with thee.— Be thou a covert to them from the fcoe at 
 the spoiler." — Isaiah xvi. 4. 
 
 rpHE spnng advanced with silent step and hand unseen, strew- 
 -*- ing the earth with beauty. Woods, pastures, lanes, — all 
 flower-enameled, tempted the step to linger. The countless 
 branches of the trees — through winter black and dreary — now 
 wore their rosy hue, while the oily chestnut and the silver birch 
 ah-eady put forth their buds beneath the clear blue sky. Often 
 did Herbert tread the path between his own fair mansion and 
 old Willy's lowly dwelling — the younger and the elder heart 
 fust linked in pure affection's blessed bond. The old tarpauling 
 covered the roof ; and Herbert had, with unspeakable satisfac- 
 tion, filled up, with his own hands, the hole in the floor — no 
 longer needed now. 
 
 " I wonder," said Herbert one day to old Willy, as he looked 
 over the page of the open Bible from the low stool on which he 
 sat, " I wonder why you are so often reading those words about 
 the mansions in heaven, when you know them all by heart ? T 
 should be for reading what I did not know." 
 
 " Well, master, you are right enough, I dare say, but it seems 
 to do me good to get a look at the real words ; it helps an old 
 man's faith ; for when I see them, I say, ' There they be !' and I 
 can not doubt them. You see, master, the thought of a mansion 
 in heaven for an old sinner like me, and my Lord gone to pre- 
 pare it, and coming back to take me to it — why, it 's all so wod- 
 
140 MINISTERING CHILDREN 
 
 derful : if I could not get a look at the words sometimes, I *m 
 afeard I should be just doubting again — though I pray that the 
 good Lord would keep me from that ! But it 's wonderful to 
 come and see them all written there just when I want to be 
 building up my poor faith ; for then I know it 's not man's word, 
 nor the thought of my old heart, but the Word of the Lord that 
 endureth for ever !" 
 
 Wlien the black thorn's thin chilly blossoms had given place 
 to the redundant May, scenting the hedges, Miss Clifford was al- 
 lowed to take her first drive. Herbert was in high spirits, and 
 took his seat on the coach-box by old Jenks — whose silent joy 
 at driving his young lady out again, had shown itself in his at- 
 titude, as, holding reins and whip in his right hand, he had 
 leaned down from the carriage-box to see her safely seated 
 within ; then bowing in response to her smile, resumed his up- 
 right position ; and once more, after many months, set forth 
 with the whole of his master's family for a drive. 
 
 They had not gone far before the old coachman asked Her- 
 bert if he had heard the news about Mr. Sturgeon and old Willy 
 Green. 
 
 " No ; what news ?" asked Herbert, eagerly looking up, all 
 impatience, into the old coachman's deliberate face. 
 
 " Why, I thought you must have heard it ; it 's been all the 
 talk of the village since yesterday ! They say that Mr. Sturgeon 
 has bought that place of Squire Crawford's for his country- 
 house, and they say that he and the bailder, in whose hands it 
 ^7as, could n't come to terms, and Mr. Sturgeon would not go 
 fiom his offer, nor the builder from his price, and so Mr. Stur- 
 geon threw in that plot of old Willy's, and by that got the 
 place some pounds less, instead of more than he first ofiered. 
 The builder was over yesterday at old Willy's — no one knew a 
 word about it till then !" 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 141 
 
 ** It can not be true, Jenks ! I do not believe it !" 
 
 " All, it 's too true, for all that !" replied Jenks, shaking his 
 head ; " and it don't surprise me, for there 's something belongs 
 to money, that, when once you get the love of it, there 's no 
 saying what you will stop at ! They tell me old Willy never 
 spoke so much as a word ; it seemed to turn him to stone to 
 find he v/as sold out in that way." 
 
 " But do you think the builder will turn him out ?" 
 
 " O yes ; he has served him a notice to quit in a month, and 
 they say it will all be pulled down in another month. Poor old 
 fellow, it will be the finish of him here, and then he will be bet- 
 ter off, and out of the way of them that can trouble him now ; 
 that 's my belief !" 
 
 " Stop, Jenks, and let me get inside. I declare I will tell 
 papa this moment !" 
 
 " No, sir, not for the world," replied Jenks, driving faster ; 
 " if my young mistress were to hear of it, it would do her more 
 harm than a hundred drives could do good !" 
 
 " Then stop at the pond, Jenks, and I will run across to old 
 Willy's." 
 
 " Ah, but then," replied Jenks, " I '11 be bound she '11 guess 
 there 's something amiss !" 
 
 " No, I will not say a word about it, but I must and will go ; 
 and if you do not stop at the pond, I shall get down without !" 
 
 Jenks knew his young master too well, not to think it better 
 to pull up when the pond was reached. Herbert, faithful to his 
 engagement, only looked into the carriage, sajring cheerfully, 
 " I want to run across to old Willy's.'* And then, without giv- 
 ing time for any inquiries, he leaped the stile, bounded over the 
 meadow, and was soon out of sight. But a little further, and 
 his step grew slower ; for over his young spirit passed the awe of 
 a first contact with overwhelming grief.* " How will it be when 
 
142 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 I gel to tim ?" thought Herbert. " I can not comfort hmi T A 
 shudder passed over that bright young spirit, and the boy looked 
 along another path that led to his home, and stood a moment in 
 doubt which to take. Then a thought of that ministering angel 
 he had seen in his dream watching over old Willy, came back 
 to his mind, and he thought he would venture to go and see 
 what the love of God could do for old Willy now. 
 
 The afternoon sunshine of the sweet spring-day was warm and 
 blight, but the cottage-door was shut. Herbert knocked and 
 waited — no answer came ; so, with a beating heart, he opened 
 the door, and looked in. There, at the further side of the room, 
 old Willy knelt — his hands clasped on the top of his stick ; he 
 had not heard the knock, he did not hear the boy's gentle step, 
 nor know that any one was there, till Herbert, having quietly 
 shut to the door and laid his hat on the table, knelt down by 
 old Willy's side, and said in his heart, " God ! comfort old 
 Willy !" The old man turned his pale and tearless face and 
 looked some moments in silent wonder on the boy, then slowly 
 said, " Why, I had but then begun to ask the God above to 
 send you to the sight of my eyes, before they be too dim to 
 have the sight of you any more !" 
 
 " Then, Willy, you need not pray for that, because I am 
 come. I am going to stay and sit with you, and God will com- 
 fort you, dear Willy ; I know he will !" 
 
 The old man made no answer ; he seemed like one stunned 
 with a sudden blow ; he knelt on with an almost vacant express- 
 ion a few moments, then said, " If you be come, why, then, I 
 must thank the God above who sent you so soon !" Herbert 
 waited while Willy gave thanks, and then the old man rose 
 slowly and with difficulty, and made his way back to his arm- 
 chair. Herbert took the low stool and sat down by his sidtj, 
 but knew not what to say. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 143 
 
 After a short silence, old Willy looked round and said, " They 
 are going to take the old place from me ; they say I must leave 
 it ; but I don't seem to kaow one thing from another, nor what 
 will be done, and my sight is turned dim, and I can't see the 
 words of the Book, so now I can't seem to lay hold on any 
 thing, only I have a hope that the good Lord above, who came 
 down to save me, will keep hold of me still — is not that right ?" 
 
 "Yes, Willy, quite right. Once, do you know, Willy, it 
 looked quite dark to me ; I could not see a way out of my 
 trouble anv how, and then I prayed, and then I did see a 
 
 " Yes, sure enough," replied old Willy, " prayer will show the 
 way any day ! don't I see the way — and is n't it just my Sa- 
 viour? Sure enough He says, 'I am the way,' and now it 
 comes to me, how she I call my blessed angel came to me 
 one day, and read me a rare beautiful story about the dove 
 flying back to the ark, because there was no rest in all the 
 world for the sole of his foot ! I have a bit of a mark tucked 
 in against it, for I have looked on it times and often since 
 then, but my eyes don't seem as if they could get hold of the 
 words to-day." 
 
 " Shall I read it to you, Willy 1" asked Herbert. 
 
 " Ah, do, master, if you will be so good, it will come back to 
 me then !" 
 
 Old Willy clasped his hands upon his stick, and listened 
 while Herbert read the eighth chapter of the book of Genesis, 
 where the mark was tucked in. He listened to the boy's clear 
 voice breathing the living Word. Well might the old man feel 
 like the desolate bird on the wide waste of the unstable waters ! 
 But at the words that told of the dove's return and shelter in 
 the ark, his stricken heart revived, he raised to Heaven his own 
 bright smile, and when the chapter was ended, he said at one«. 
 
l44 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " Ah, I mind it all now ; it all comes back to me, how she rea« 
 it just like that, and then she said to me, 'Willy, there's no 
 rest but in our Saviour ; we must be like the dove and^ fly to 
 Him, and He will put out His hand and take us in !' I mind 
 it now how earnest she said it, and sure enough I have never 
 seen the ring-dove cross the sky at evening, but I have thought 
 of that, and prayed in my heart a prayer that I might get to 
 my Saviour, and that He would be pleased to reach out His 
 hand and take me in. And now I see it plain — how I am just 
 like the poor lost bird — there 's no rest left on this side the grave 
 for the soles of my old feet ; so I must only be looking after my 
 Saviour, and then, when it pleases Him, why. He will reach 
 forth His hand and take me in !" 
 
 Herbert left the old man in the light of the faith his aid 
 had helped to rekindle. But his heavy tidings spread sadness 
 in his home, and left a flush of deeper crimson on his sister's 
 eheek. 
 
 " Can you think of nothing, Mary, that can be done for old 
 Willy ?" asked Herbert, as he wished her good night. 
 
 " I can think only of One, dearest Herbert ; I know that 
 nothing is impossible with God, and that He loves old Willy 
 better than we do !" 
 
 While Herbert was in his room that evening, the thought 
 crossed his mind that he had not told old Willy of his sister's 
 drive ; it must surely comfort him, he thought, to hear she had 
 been out, and might soon call on him. He treasured up this 
 piece of good tidings as the only earthly comfort he could 
 find, and making a desperate effort the next morning, he fixed 
 his attention on his lessons, with, as few thoughts of old Willy 
 as possible ; and having succeeded in accomplishing his tasks to 
 his tutor's satisfaction, he set off*, as soon as he was free again, 
 for old Willy's cottage. He found the old man sitting calmlv 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 145 
 
 in his chair, his Bible open on the table ; but he was not read- 
 ing. 
 
 " O, Willy, only think, I did not tell you yesterday, my sibcer 
 has been out for a drive, and she will soon come and see you !" 
 
 At these words the old man burst into tears. 
 
 '' Why, Willy ! I thought that would make you glad ?" 
 
 But the old man only wept' on ; the frozen fountain of his tears 
 had melted at this touch, and the pent-up torrent flowed — he 
 wept and sobbed till Herbert was terrified. 
 
 "Willy, why do you cry so ? Is it because they are going to 
 turn you out of your home ?" 
 
 " O, master," said old Willy, at last, " 't is a great sin to fret 
 against the will of God, but it came upon me so sudden ! 'T is 
 the very thing I have been thinking upon so long and praying 
 for day and night — tc 8e<i her blessed feet come in, and heai* her 
 tongue again, and now 't is come — but not for me !" 
 
 " Yes, it will be for you, Willy !" 
 
 " No, master, no, they are going to take all my quiet from me, 
 and an old man like me that 's lived so long a time alone — why, 
 if other folk were by, I should not so much as know the words 
 she said ; it 's no more use for me ! O, I wish I might go to my 
 grave before they take my quiet from me ! I shall never know 
 the words I read or hear when other folk come crowding by, and 
 then, may be, I shall forget it all again. O, if I might but go, 
 now while I have it in my heart, before I have clean lost it all !" 
 
 Herbert stood in a child's despair ; his cheek was pale and hia 
 heart faint ; he knew not what to say, but he thought perhaps 
 God's Word might still have power to comfort. He looked 
 down anxiously upon the open page ; it was the well-worn leaf 
 that told of the mansions in Heaven. " That will do," thought 
 Herbert, '•' if any thing will !" So, looking up, he said, " Willy, 
 you listen to me, I am going to read !" Then with a s»ow, diff- 
 
146 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 tinct utterance, he read, " Let not your heart be troubled ; ye 
 believe in God, believe also in me. 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 and prepare a place for 
 you, I will come again and receive you unto myself ; that where 
 I am, there ye may be also." And as the boy read — the joyful 
 sound woke up the old man's smile again — twice over Herbert 
 read the life-giving assurance, and then' old Willy said, " 'T is all 
 there, then ! just as I used to see it ! I have been trying all day, 
 and could not get a sight of it, and I thought it was all going 
 from me, but now I can find it 's all there for me still, and sure 
 enough I must be getting ready for Him that 's preparing a 
 home for me above, and not a fretting for this !" And the 
 light and love of Heaven drank up the tears of earth, and Her- 
 bert saw the old man's smile still beaming on his face when he 
 looked back at him from the cottage door, as he left for his home. 
 
 But the sense of the old man's sorrow had sunk into the heart 
 of the child, and he walked slowly homeward. At last a 
 thought sprang up in his mind, then a resolve, and with the re- 
 solve his step grew quicker and more decided than childhood's 
 is wont to be. On his return home he went at once to his father. 
 
 " Papa, I want to 'speak to you ; I can not be happy without 
 doing something to keep old Willy's quiet for him. Papa, I 
 think he will soon die if he is taken into a heap of people : he 
 eays he can not understand what he reads or hears when he is 
 not alone, and all his comfort comes from his Bible — he says he 
 shall lose it all, papa, when he loses his quiet ; and he wished 
 he might die now while he had it still in his heart !" 
 
 "The poor old man's trouble is great," replied Mr. Clifford 
 " and I don't wonder that he is overwhelmed at the thought of 
 the change ; but the same Holy Spirit who puts good things 
 into our hearts when we are alone, is able to do it no less in tho 
 
MINISTERING CHILDRE> 147 
 
 midst of a crowd ; and even if we did lose the recollection of 
 the holy words we love more than any thing, our God and Sa- 
 viour would not the less remember us." 
 
 " But old Willy wont know that, papa ; if I tell him, he will 
 forget it again, and then all his comfort will be gone ! and, papa, 
 shall I tell you what I have been thinking 1" 
 
 "Well, what, my boy?" 
 
 " Why, there are some verses in the Gospel of St. John that 
 old Willy is always thinking about, only he could not remember 
 them to-day till I read them to him, about our Saviour being 
 gone to prepare a place for him in Heaven, and coming back to 
 take him to it : and I have been thinking, papa, that when our 
 Saviour comes back for old Willy, if He finds we have let 
 him be taken away where all his comfort will be gone. He will 
 not be pleased with us ?" Herbert's father remained silent. Her- 
 bert waited a minute, and then went on, " You see, papa, it says 
 in the Epistle of St. James, that if poor people be destitute, and 
 we speak well to them, but don't give them what is needful — it 
 says, ' What doth it profit V " 
 
 " How do you mean, that we could give old Willy what is 
 needful to his comfort now ?" asked Mr. Clifford. 
 
 " Because, papa, it is to lose all his quiet, and his reading, and 
 his thoughts, that makes old Willy most unhappy ; and you 
 know, papa, what a great deal of land we have ; why there is all 
 this great park! And if I might have just one little corner of 
 it — any where, or of some field — just any place, then I could 
 build a little house on it ; one room would do for old Willy ; 
 and I have two sovereigns and half-a-crown, and some shillings 
 besides ! Do you think you could let me have a little piece of 
 land, papa ?" 
 
 " How much do you suppose it would cost to build this littk 
 cottage you talk of ?" asked Mr. Cliftbrd. 
 
148 MINISTERING CHILDREN, 
 
 " I don't know, papa, perhaps a great deal ! I could help 
 make it, I know I could ; and I would sell Ruby to build it, 
 and do without a groom — Jenks would see to Araby's being 
 looked after. I would part with Araby sooner than have old 
 WiUy die in that way ! Jenks could be sure to get him a good 
 master" — and the tears of minghng feelings gathered in Her- 
 bert's eyes — " would not that 'do, papa ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed it would, my boy, less than that, I hope." 
 
 " O then, papa, do you think you will let me build it ?" 
 
 " I will certainly think it over, and try to decide on what may 
 seem best. I do not refuse your petition — God forbid I should ; 
 but I must take a little time to consider what can best be done." 
 
 And so the weight of despair was lifted at once from the 
 child's young heart, and his buoyant spirits rose again with the 
 chastened brightness only gathered by those who tread the path 
 of sympathy and love. And now he went day by day with 
 cheerful step to see old Willy ; he had learned how to refresh 
 the 'weary soul, and replenish the sorrowful soul — even from the 
 well of the Living Word ; and now he would open the Book at 
 some one of the many marks tucked in, and the attempt never 
 failed to brighten the old man's eyes and lips with the smile of 
 joy and peace in believing. Meanwhile old Willy, reheved by 
 the tears he had shed at thoughts of hia lady's visit, began to 
 recover more use of his aged senses, and could manage to make 
 out all the most familiar passages of Holy Scripture, and ho 
 bowed in meek submission to whatever might befall, while he 
 tried to set his affections more entirely on things above, and not 
 on things on the earth. 
 
 "Herbert, I want you," said Mr. Clifford, one morning not 
 many days after the conversation about the cottage. Herbert 
 ran from the lawn to his father's study. 
 
 " There, I have considered y->ur request, and I now give you 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 149 
 
 the title deeds, by wMcli I make you sole possesscir of a piece 
 of land suitable to your purpose ; there is an old cottage upon 
 it, and I think you will find it better worth while to repair than 
 build ; and perhaps with a little of your father's help, the ponies 
 may not have to go !" 
 
 "0, papa! have you done it, then?" asked Herbert, taking 
 the parchment, and looking eagerly upon it. " What does it 
 mean, papa ? I can not understand it : it says, * Roodes' Plot !' 
 I thought Roodes' Plot was where old Willy lives now V 
 
 " So it is," replied Mr. Clifford, " will not that do as well as 
 any other ?" 
 
 " Have you bought old Willy's house for me, papa ?" 
 
 " Yes, of the builder, for you, with all that belongs to it, ex- 
 cept old Willy, who is not to be bought or sold — ^but he is to 
 be kept, I suppose, if you wish to detain him, as your tenant !" 
 
 The cheek of the ministering boy turned pale with emotion, 
 he threw his arms round his father's neck, he did not speak, he 
 did not weep, the clinging clasp of those young arras alone ex- 
 pressed that moment's unutterable joy. At length he said, 
 " Papa, did it cost you a gi-eat deal !'' 
 
 " Not so much as I have spent, many times over, on my own 
 pleasure ; not so much as the quiet is worth to old Willy ; and 
 not so much as I would gladly consecrate in the service of that 
 Saviour, who, I trust, is preparing a home for me and mine in 
 Heaven, and who has said, ' Inasmuch as ye have done it unto 
 one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto 
 me.' " 
 
 Herbert left his father's side, but O ! how strong the bond of 
 love and reverence with which his father's act had bound him 1 
 His father had met him in his heart's first gushing sympathy 
 with sorrow, met him and filled his hand with a gift, the price- 
 less woHb of which th< child was prepared to estimate : the 
 
150 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 occasion had arisen, and lie had seen his parent carry out to the 
 full that parent's own expressed principle — money at length 
 had been needed, and it had been freely poured forth. Such 
 moments as those then passed through by the boy have almost 
 a creative power to enlarge the soul and ennoble the character. 
 
 " ! mamma, O ! Mary," exclaimed Herbert, running into the 
 drawing-room, " old Willy's house is mine ; papa has bought it 
 for me, for my very own, and I shall be his landlord ! I can 't 
 stop a minute til] I have told him." And off bounded the boy 
 — ^never foot bore tidings more swiftly ; no pause was made till, 
 breathless and panting, he stopped at old Willy's door. It was 
 no time to delay for a knock of inquiry ; he burst in at once. 
 " AVilly ! Willy ! you will never have to leave your home ; 
 papa has bought it all for me, and I shall be your landlord, and 
 make you so comfortable ! Won't you be happy now ?" 
 
 Old AVilly was in the act of crossing the uneven floor of his 
 room when Herbert burst in with the tidings of joy, and now 
 he stood fixed to the spot, where Herbert first arrested his at- 
 tention, and looking up with a bewildered expression, replied 
 only, " Sir !" 
 
 " Can not you understand me, Willy ?" asked Herbert, and 
 then with slow utterance, he shouted, " Papa has bought youi 
 house and given it to me, and I shall never let you leave it all 
 your life, but I shall be your landlord, and make you so com- 
 fortable ! Can not you understand me now ?" 
 
 " Ah, master, I be afeared it 's but a dream after all, and I '11 
 be a waking soon, and then it will be gone !" 
 
 " No Willy, you are not asleep, you know me 1 look here, 
 it 's I, Willy, I have run so hard to tell you ! look, I will shake 
 hands with you. Don't you see it 's all true V 
 
 " What, then, am I to stay in the old place after all ?" 
 
 " Yes, Willy, and I am to be youi" landlord, and I shall make 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 151 
 
 you SO comfortable, and you shall not pay me anj rent, and 
 then you can have plenty of food ! Papa will not mix d, I know 
 — though he is always thinking of what will be just to others, 
 but every body knows you have paid good rent for a bad house, 
 and so you shall have it all back in a good house and no rent. 
 Won't you be happy now, Willy ? O ! I hope you will live a 
 very long time, that I may take care of you !" 
 
 " Praise the Lord !" exclaimed old Willy, as he lifted his 
 hand and eyes to heaven. " Who could have thought of this ?" 
 And then, making his way to his chair, he added, " Sure, 'tis 
 He that 's preparing a place for me in heaven, has let down a 
 drop of His love into His young child's heart, to keep me a 
 place on earth. Who could have thought it ?" 
 
 Herbert ran back to be in time for his tutor. And wnen ol<i 
 Willy had mused a httle, and ofi'ered up his fervent thanksgiv- 
 ing, he took his stick and went round his garden, and Looked 
 again on every aged tree and young green plant — on which his 
 eyes had never rested since the hour in which he heard that he 
 must leave them. 
 
 How bright the summer work, how sweet the labor that 
 opened on young Herbert now ! How dear was every inch of 
 this his landed possession ! — Yet was old Willy always the first 
 thought in all. And now workmen were summoned ; brick- 
 layers' men began with walls and floor. All had to be so man- 
 aged, in the warm summer-time, so that old Willy should not 
 have to sleep away a single night. The walls were of brick 
 and still firm, white-washing and a little repair would do for 
 them ; but the floor was, as Herbert said, " about as bad as a 
 floor could be." It was all laid fresh with the smoothest bricks, 
 and Herbert, under the bricklayer's directions, must needs lay 
 the four bricks himself under old Willy's feet beside the fire. 
 Tlien came the thatching, and piles of the brightest and firmest 
 
J62 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 straws wore laid beside the cottage walls ; and the thatcliera 
 came ; and the villagers stopped as they passed, with a lingering 
 look of surprise and pleasure, and bowed with a kindling smile 
 to the young Squire ; and the village-children gathered in a 
 group outside — to see the old house done up at last ! and Jem, 
 when his sheep were folded, thought not of supper-time ; but, 
 kneeling beside the cottage, he laid the wet straws side by side, 
 ready for the thatcher's hand ; and Herbert must needs climb 
 the ladder, and stuff in one handful, and smooth it down, and 
 fix in the twig^ — to help at last to roof old Willy over warm ! 
 and when Jem was forced to be off the next summer day, and 
 the work still in hand, young Smith took his place ; while old 
 Willy sat calmly within — one while lost in his Book, reading 
 again of the dove, and thinking how even he had an ark found 
 him on earth ; then on to the mansions in heaven, where his 
 heart had so long had its home ; and then, falling gently asleep, 
 he would rest and dream of the faces and tones of love that met 
 his waking senses. And Herbert would call and say, " Only see 
 how nice it looks, Willy !" And the old man would answer, 
 " 'Tis wholly a wonder to see the old place, and I to stand in it 
 after all !" And once he added, " To my thinking, 'tis making 
 wholly fit for a king !" And Herbert remembered the words 
 that tell how all such as old Willy are " kings unto God," and 
 tlie thought blended its hallowing awe with the eagerness of a 
 eiiild's interest and feeling. 
 
 At last the house was finished, and Herbert stood beside old 
 Willy, f nd watched the tarpauling out of sight — carried back 
 by faithful Jem, with old Willy's duty, and Herbert's thanks, to 
 Farmer Smith ; its friendly shelter being no longer needed now, 
 for it was vain for rain-drop or blast of wind ever to try again 
 to penetrate the roof that covered old Willy. Then Snowflake 
 stopped at the stile, and Herbert led his sister up the narrow 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 163 
 
 path, and old Willy received them both. Who shall tell the joy 
 within those cottage walls — the old man, on whose face the teai 
 and smile were meeting ; the youthful lady, in whose eyes the 
 light of Heaven already beamed, by whom the old man had 
 been led to seek and find a home above ; and the bright boy, 
 whose heart and life had lent their aid to preserve and enrich 
 with comfort a home on earth, where the old man might enjoj 
 rest and peace, with all his need supplied ! 
 
 And now came the garden, every foot of which Herbert re 
 solved should be turned to account ; so he set to work diligent- 
 ly in the study of gardening books ; and was often seen deep in 
 discourse with Dix, one of the under-gardeners at the Hall, who 
 took a particular interest in assisting the young Squire. Hap- 
 pily, Herbert's holidays began early in the summer, before the 
 heat of the season, that he might with more freedom enjoy ex- 
 ercise ; therefore, he had leisure now when he most needed it 
 for the improvement of his little estate. The evening saw him 
 planning with Dix, and the early morning plying his spade, in- 
 hahng the air's first freshness and the scent of the newly-turned 
 earth. 
 
 " If you take my advice, sir," said Dix, " you will clear out 
 every one of those old trees ; they are all past bearing, and stand 
 for nothing but to cumber up the ground." 
 
 " No, Dix, you do not understand ; there is not a tree old 
 Willy did not plant, or his father before him ; I would not 
 have one of them touched ; why, they are all hke friends to old 
 Willy !" 
 
 " Well, sir, that 's reason enough," replied Dix ; " there are 
 two things to be thought of sometimes, I believe, when one is 
 apt to set to work upon one." 
 
 Herbert was hasting through the Park to his early labor, 
 the second morning of his work in old Willy's garden, when at 
 
154 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 the gate he found the gamekeeper's children. '*If you please,, 
 sir," said the eldest, " father thought may be you could set us to 
 work ; we have got our spade and hoe, and Ben can pick 
 stones." So on went Herbert with his willing helpers, and the 
 birds sang forth their morning carol over the boys' young heads, 
 bowed low in their service of love. 
 
 " I guess, by what I see," observed Farmer Smith to his son 
 William, as they drove home one afternoon from market, " I 
 guess, by what I see, that our young Squire will be likely to 
 understand how to keep dry roofs over his tenants !" 
 
 " Ah, and warm hearts within them, too," replied William ; 
 " I will answer for that." 
 
 So passed old Willy's trouble, like a summer-evening storm, 
 after which his setting sun shone out in clearer brightness thai 
 before. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Tho U«r of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul. The statutes of the Lord are 
 right, rejoicing the heart More to be desired are they than gold, yea th»n 
 much fine gold. Sweeter also tlian honey and the honeycomb." — Psalm xix. 
 T, 8, 10. 
 
 rpHERE came a bright morning in June, when the farm was aV 
 -^ astir with even more than usual Hfe. The dewy mist ." that 
 tarrieth not for man, nor waiteth for the sons of men," was lav- 
 ing every leaf and flower, and nourishing the ripening corn — 
 first of all creation in the day's work of blessing, it hung be- 
 tween earth and sky, preparing every herb and tree to meet 
 uninjured the sun's noontide ray, from which the vegetable 
 world can seek no shelter ; soft and cool, it bathed all nature, 
 even as when it rose in Eden, obedient to its Maker's v/ill, to 
 water the sinless Paradise that God had made for man. The 
 sun had not long risen, nor the birds long begun their morning 
 Bong to greet it ; but Mrs. Smith was down ; she had opened 
 the windows, flung back the doors, and seemed intent on raising 
 an early commotion, in order to the earlier attainment of after 
 order and repose. Ah ! the child was expected from school 
 that day, and the mother would do more to welcome her in act 
 beforehand, than in word when ?he came. And the boys were 
 out early, kneeling on the dewy grass-plot beside the gosset- 
 lamb, tying a bit of blue ribbon round its neck that had been 
 treasured up for the occasion. And William came in to break- 
 feat, with his hand ful) of the wood's wild-flowers, all wet with 
 
156 " MINISTERING CHILDKEN. 
 
 pearly dew ; and he stuck them up in a glass, all crowded and 
 pressed together, their delicate beauty half hidden in confusion ; 
 but their witness none the less clear — their silent witness , to a 
 brother's thoughtful love. The day wore on, and Mrs. Smith 
 had put on her afternoon gown, and all the house was in after- 
 noon order, and Molly had put on the kettle, and Mrs. Smith 
 made a plum-cake, the last time of baking, for tea that day 
 and now she looked sometimes from window and sometimes 
 from door, along the distant road by which William in the gig 
 would bring the child home from her school. 
 
 " Just you hsten," said Mrs. Smith, " I am sure I hear them !" 
 and Mr. Smith stepped out at the front-door, and Molly went 
 round to the back, and the yard-boy, who saw her watching, 
 dhaded his eyes and looked along the road. Yes, there they 
 came ! and the boys ran to meet them ; and when the horse 
 stopped at the garden-gate, Rose sprang from the gig into her 
 father's arms, then ran on to her mother, and Molly stood smil- 
 ing in full sight, and the yard-boy led off the horse to the 
 stable, looking back as he went. And glad was that evening 
 meal, for the sunbeam of the home had returned. 
 
 It was the hay-time of the year, and Rose was often in the 
 meadows among the haymakers. One day a woman of the 
 name of Giles said to another woman working at her side — 
 
 " My mother-in-law is very bad ; I doubt if she will ever get 
 about again." 
 
 Rose heard the words, and her ready sympathy was called forth 
 
 " Is your mother-in-law very ill ?" inquired Rose. 
 
 " It seems mostly weakness," replied the woman ; " but she 
 can't do a thing for herself, and I don't believe she ever will 
 again." 
 
 Rose said no more, but she thought of the poor old woman 
 lying weak and helpless, and she wished she could take he' 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 151 
 
 something to comfort her ; she could think of a gi'eat many 
 things,. but she dared not ask her mother, for Mrs. Smith had 
 not spoken to any of the old woman's family for many months. 
 The old woman's name wjis Giles ; she lived by herself in a cot- 
 tage under the shelter of a lonely wood, and her son, with his 
 wife and children, lived in a cottage that was under the same 
 roof as the old woman's. There were no other cottages near, 
 and the o.d woman's son had been convicted of poaching in 
 tlie wood behind his cottage. Farmer Smith had dismissed 
 the man from his employ ; and, if Mrs. Smith had had her way, 
 the whole family would have been denied employment also ; 
 but farmer Smith refused to send away the wife and children 
 for the man's fault, so they still worked on the farm when 
 work could be found them ; but Mrs. Smith refused to take any 
 notice of any of the family. Therefore Rose knew it was hope- 
 less to ask her mother for any comforts for widow Giles. But 
 Rose had in her possession a Measured shilling, given by her 
 father in one of his visits to her at school : she had thought of 
 a great many things that might be bought with this shilling 
 when she went to the town with her father — which she was 
 always allowed to do once every holiday-time ; but she had not 
 yet decided on which of all these thought-of purchases would 
 be best ; and now it occurred to her that she might, with her 
 shilling, buy a quarter of a pound of tea for poor widow Giles. 
 Rose no sooner thought of this, than she resolved it should be 
 her final choice. So she went off in search of William, to 
 consult bim as to how this quarter of a pound of tea could be 
 obtained from the town. William told her that they were 
 gomg to send in the next morning; so Rose intrusted him 
 with her shilling ; and by twelve o'clock the next day Rose 
 was m possession of the tea from Mr. Mansfield's shop, done up 
 in its double paper, c^ white inside, and blue outside. Rose 
 
IdO MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 managed to get it into her pocket, and felt a great deal riclier, 
 now that her shilling was turned into so much comfort for the 
 poor old woman. But now Rose wanted to take it herself, and 
 she was afraid lier mother woulc riot let her go to the cottage ; 
 but she remembered what her minister at school had said — 
 " Ask, and it shall be given you." And she thought it must 
 be right to go and see the poor old woman ; and when she had 
 asked in heaven, she got courage then to ask on earth. Those 
 who go oftenest to heaven in prayer, are sure to • have most 
 holy courage on earth. So after dinner little Rose said — 
 
 " Mother, widow Giles is very ill ; they don't think she will 
 ever get about again." 
 
 Mrs. Smith only replied, " I don't know any thing about those 
 Gileses, I am sure ; I only know' if I had my way, they would 
 never be at work on this farm again !" 
 
 "I thought, mother, I should like to go and ask poor old 
 widow Giles how she is ?" 
 
 " And what would be the use of that ? she won't be any thing 
 the better for your asking how she is ?" 
 
 " ISTo, mother ; only then she would know we did think about her." 
 
 " Think about her !" replied Mrs. Smith ; " that's a family that 
 don't deserve thinking about, after all your father's done for 
 them, and the man worked on this farm from a boy, and his 
 father before him, and then he must turn against it all, and go 
 a-poaching !" 
 
 " But if widow Giles should die, mother, and we did not speak 
 a word to her, she would think you had not forgiven her." 
 
 " I don't know any thing about forgiveness, I am sure," replied 
 Mrs. Smith, " till people show a little sorrow for their ingratitude." 
 
 " But, mother, our minister at school says, that it 's when 
 people are forgiven that they are often most sorry." 
 
 " Well, child, I never heard such preaching as you seem to 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN 15\f 
 
 heal* ; I only know 'tis a fine thing to have good schooling to 
 help jou to understand wjiat it is you do hear ; for my part, I 
 have been all my life to church, and I never understood our 
 minister's preaching — not to go on by it in that way." 
 
 " I don't think it 's schooling, mother, makes me understand. 
 Our minister does not preach about what we learn at school ; he 
 preaches all out of the Bible, and so plain that any body must 
 understand him." 
 
 " Well, child, it 's a fine thing to understand, let it be as it 
 will ; that 's all I have got to say." 
 
 " May I go then, mother ?" 
 
 " 0, please yourself ; it makes no difference to me." 
 
 Little Rose set off", at first gravely and slowly, under the 
 chilling shadow of her mother's darkened heart, but she soon 
 felt again the sunshine of heavenly truth and love in which her 
 own young spirit lived, and then with quicker step she climbed 
 the stiles, passed through the hay-meadows, and along the lane, 
 where the sun poured his sultry heat upon her, till she reached 
 the shadow of the lonely wood. She stood at the widow's door 
 and knocked — no answer came ; so she knocked again, then a 
 feeble, anxious voice said, " Who is there *?" 
 
 " It 's me— it 's Rose !" said the little girl. 
 
 " dear, I am so glad !" said the poor old woman ; " but I 'm 
 locked in ; they have got the key in the hay-meadows." 
 
 " I will run back and get it !" shouted httle Rose ; so back 
 she turned, forgetful of the summer's sun, running fast along 
 the high unsheltered lane, back over the stiles and through the 
 meadows, to where the women turned the fresh-cut grass. 
 
 " 1 can't get in to widow Giles ; and she says you have got 
 the key," said Rose to the daughter-in-law. 
 
 " Yes, I always lock the door, for fear any thing should ter- 
 rify her ; she lies so helpless." 
 
160 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 *' Could not some one stay with lier ?" asked Rose. 
 
 " No, there is no one to stay, except the children," replied the 
 daughter-in-law, " and they are a deal more trouble than com- 
 fort when one's well ; and I am sure they would be ten times 
 
 orse to bear in sickness." 
 
 " Could you not teach them to be kind ?" asked Rose. 
 
 " Well, as for that, I don't know that they are bad disposi- 
 tioned ; but children will be children — at least, I have always 
 found it so." 
 
 Then off set little Rose with the great key from the daughter- 
 in-law's pocket, and soon stood again before the helpless old wo- 
 man's door ; she put in the key, turned it round, opened the 
 door, and went into the desolate room. No hand of affection 
 had been there to leave the trace of its skill around — all looked 
 comfortless and dreary. Rose went up to the bed, and said, " I 
 come to ask you how you are ; I did n't know you were ill till 
 yesterday." 
 
 The poor old woman wept. 
 
 " I am so sorry you are ill !" said little Rose. 
 
 " 0, dear young creature, who would have thought of seeing 
 you ! They say Mrs. Smith will never so much as look at one 
 of us again ; perhaps she does not know you are come ; does 
 she, dear ?" 
 
 " O yes ; I asked mother if I might," replied Rose, " and look 
 here, I have brought you a whole quarter of a pound of tea !" 
 
 " Bless you, dear. 0, if I could but think your family had 
 forgiven us ! but they say it 's no use to look for it ; they say 
 your mother never really forgives any body that has once got 
 wrong. I am sure if man be so far from forgiveness, I don't 
 know how it will be with us when we come before God, for sure 
 He has most right to be angry. I lie here thinking of that, 
 and it 's a dead weight on my heart," — and the poor old w<:)maii 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 161 
 
 wept on. Tlie tide of anguisli was much for a child to stem ; 
 but the infant of days who stands at the feet of Him whose 
 word is Peace, may so receive of Him as by its feeble utterance 
 to soothe the storm into a calm. 
 
 " I am sure God will forgive you if you ask Him," said little 
 Rose ; " our minister at school preached about the wicked peo- 
 ple who crucified our Saviour being forgiven, and made so sorry 
 for what they had done, and quite different ; so I know God 
 will forgive you, if you ask Him." 
 
 " Ah ! dear ; but how can I know it ?" asked the old woman. 
 
 " I will read it to you out of the Bible," said little Rose, " and 
 then you will know it ; our minister preached it all out of the 
 second chapter of Acts. Have you got a Bible for me to read 
 it in ?" 
 
 " No, dear, I can't read ; my son has one, but it 's locked up 
 in his house." 
 
 " Then I will bring my own Bible next time I come ; father 
 has bought me such a beautiful Bible, and I always take it to 
 chmch ; so I know all where our minister at school preaches 
 from." 
 
 " Ah ! dear, I wish enough you could read to me, for I lie 
 here, and there 's never a creature to tell me a word of advice 
 or comfort. I know I am going, and there 's no one to tell me 
 what to do, or which way to look. ! 'tis a dreadful feeling, 
 dear !" 
 
 " I will come — I will promise to come !" said little Rose ; " and 
 I can say you a whole chapter now, if you like, without the Bi- 
 ble. Mercy Jones tells me the chapters Miss Clifford chooses 
 for her to learn, and then I learn them, as many of them as I 
 can. I can say the whole of the fifty-fifth chapter of Isaiah !" 
 Then Rose began : " Ho every one that thirsteth, come ye to the 
 waters, and he that hath no money, come ye, buy and eat ; yea. 
 
162 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 come buy wine and milk, without money and without price." 
 The old woman's eye was fixed upon the child, as death drink- 
 ing- in the balm of life ; and when she reached the words, " Let 
 the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts, 
 and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon 
 him ; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon," the old 
 woman asked, " Does it say like that in the Bible ?" 
 
 " Yes, it 's all just as I say it ; I know it quite perfect," re- 
 plied little Rose. 
 
 " Then there 's hope for me !" exclaimed the poor old woman ; 
 and, lying back with closed eyelids, she said no more, and the 
 child went on. 
 
 " That's all," said little Rose, when she had ended the chapter, 
 " but I will come to-morrow, if I can, and read you where our 
 minister preached about the people who crucified our Saviour." 
 
 " O do, dear ; words like them are life from the dead ; why, 
 it 's like as if an angel had come to bring me comfort !" 
 
 " Have you any thing to take ?" asked Rose. 
 
 " No, dear ; I was ready to faint away before you came, only 
 those words so revived me up again ! but I must wait, for there 
 is n't a bit of kindling ; if there had been, I think I must have 
 tried to heat a little water to make a drop of tea to sop this 
 crust in ; I could not eat it dry, nor touch the cheese, and they 
 went ofi* in such a hurry, that was all they had to leave me, 
 and the day seems terrible long, when they only come home 
 once in the noon-time." 
 
 Rose looked at the fireplace ; tljere was a little coal by the 
 side, and a match-box over the mantel-piece, but neither stick 
 nor straw. 
 
 " I know what I can do I" exclaimed Rose ; " there is sure to 
 be dry wood enough under the trees to make a fire in no time." 
 So, lifting up her frock, she hastened out, stooping under the shel- 
 
\e 
 
 '^^ 
 
 CAL\FO^ 
 
^ . ^ 'cm 
 
 p. 162 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 168 
 
 tering trees heavy with their summer foliage, picking up the 
 little branciies, sere and dry with sultry heat : when her frock 
 was well filled she returned ; then kneeling down, her little 
 hands soon kindled up a fire. But now there was no water — 
 a minute more and Rose stood on the lowest step cut out in 
 the field-side, dipping a pitcher in the pond, then back again 
 to the cottage ; she pom*ed just enough water into the tea- 
 kettle to make one tea-pot full of tea, then finding an old fork 
 in the cupboard, she toasted the dry piece of bread while the 
 water was heating ; then she found a small basin, into which 
 she broke up the toast, and sprinkled some brown sugar from 
 the cupboard. By this time the water boiled, and Rose, from 
 her own quarter-of-a-pound, made a tea-pot of good tea ; then 
 filling up the kettle, she hung it again over the fire, and pour- 
 ing out the fragrant tea, she took it to the bed-side, while the 
 old woman's look on her was blessing. When Rose saw how 
 the dying woman, faint and parched with thirst, received and 
 fed on what her hand prepared, could she fail to learn how 
 blessed was the power to help and comfort ? She waited till 
 the repast was finished, then, when the water boiled again, she 
 filled the tea-pot up, and, setting it with the basin on a chair 
 close by the bed, where the old woman could reach it, she tied 
 on her bonnet, and, locking the door, ran home — down the 
 same open lane, over the stiles, and across the hay meadows, 
 leaving the key with the daughter-in-law, and reached the 
 farm just as preparations for the family tea were beginning — 
 calm, and bright, and sweet was that summer evening to the 
 ministering child. 
 
 . Day after day, when Rose could be spared from her home, 
 she crossed the meadows, and trod the lane to the lonely wood, 
 with her pre/iious Bible hanging in its little bag upon her arm, 
 «he sat by the old woman's bed and read to her the words 
 
164 MINISTERINa CHILDREN. 
 
 wliicli lead the heart to Jesus. 0, happy England ! where the 
 youngest and the poorest may as freely as the •oldest and 
 the richest gather the healing leaves of that Tree of Life — the 
 Word of God — where it grows within the reach of all, and 
 children may turn from their play and bear its seed of eternal 
 life to the dying, and they may receive it and live for ever ! 
 And happy those who are found obedient to the injunction, 
 " Freely ye have received, freely give !" 
 
 " Don't you like strawberries, child ?" said Mrs. Smith, as 
 Rose was gathering peas one morning near the strawberry-bed 
 with her mother. 
 
 " Yes, mother, may I gather some ?" 
 
 " You may as well have them as the birds, I suppose !" 
 
 " May I have some every day, mother ?" 
 
 " Yes, I have no objection." 
 
 " How many, mother ? may I have my little basket full every 
 day ?" 
 
 " Yes, I tell you ; why do you ask a dozen questions, when 
 one would do ?" 
 
 " Shall I gather you some, mother ?" 
 
 " No, thank you ; when I eat strawberries, I like to gather 
 them for myself !" 
 
 " Shall I gather father some of a day ?" 
 
 " That 's as he pleases !" replied Mrs. Smith, and Rose went 
 silently on with the gathering of peas. 
 
 That day before dinner. Rose ran down the straight garden 
 path, and filling her own little basket she set it safe and coo. 
 under the lilac-tree ; and then gathering a plateful, she brought 
 ^hem in and put them away in the pantry till after dinner 
 when her father sat down in* his arm-chair before going out to 
 his business again, then Rose brought out the plate of straw- 
 hemes and ofiered them to him. 
 
MINISTERING CHIIDREN. 166 
 
 ** Thank you, my dear," said her father, " that 's the way to 
 enjoy strawberries — to have you gather them for me, and be 
 able to sit still and eat them ! I have no time to stop after 
 th im while I am out." 
 
 When Rose was free to run off for her walk, she hastened 
 down the garden path to the lilac-tree, and covering some of its 
 gTeen leaves over the fruit, to keep it cool from the afternoon 
 sun, she set off, with her Bible on her arm, and her basket in 
 her hand, to the cottage of the poor dying woman. 
 
 When widow Giles saw the strawberries, she exclaimed, 
 " Why, if it is n't the very thing I have longed for more than 
 meat or drink ! I thought there seemed nothing so tempting 
 as a strawberry ; but if one has a penny to spend on such 
 comforts, there is no one going to the town this busy time to 
 lay it out for one, so I had no thought to see any." Mean- 
 while, Rose had spread the green leaves on the old woman's 
 sheet, and laid a bright red strawberry on each, and the cool 
 fruit was drink, and meat, and reviving medicine to the dying 
 woman. 
 
 " There," said Rose, " I will put all these in a plate where you 
 can reach them, and the leaves over them, and you may eat 
 them all up before I come again, because then I shall bring you 
 some more !" 
 
 The scarlet berries were piled up, day after day, by the little 
 maiden, with eyes of gladness and hands of careful love ; the 
 daily transfer of her whole portion involved no self-denial to 
 ]ier — she had tasted the " more blessed to give," and having 
 drunk at that mountain-rill of higher, purer pleasure, it was 
 no effort to her not to return to the stagnant popl of self. In 
 her young ministry of love, self was lost sight of, not by the 
 attempt to subdue it, but by finding within her reach a far 
 higher piinciple, whose exercise had power to change the 
 
166 MINISTERING CHIIDREN. 
 
 touching aspect of want, and sorrow, and tears — into comfort, 
 and joy, and smiles. A child natm'ally loves sunshine, and is 
 impatient of the cloud ; let them early learn their Heaven- 
 intrusted power to brighten earth's gloom with the sunbeam 
 of love, to span its dark sky with the rainbow of hope, and 
 many a child would turn to its exercise who little dreams of it 
 now. And is it not well to lead childhood onward and upward, 
 unconscious of effort, wherever possible ? — the call for resolute 
 self-denial is sure to come soon and often enough, but every step 
 gained unconsciously is vantage ground, leaving the points of 
 effort higher, and involving further advance. 
 
 At last the day came for Rose to go to the town with her 
 father : the long drive, and to walk about the town with him 
 would be very pleasant, but poor widow Giles would want 
 her strawberries! So Rose was up and among the straw- 
 berries before breakfast-time ; she filled her basket, covered 
 it with leaves, and set it under the lilac-tree : then when 
 William came in to breakfast, she took his hand and led him 
 down the garden-path, and holding back the lilac branches 
 showed him the little basket, and asked him if he would 
 just take them to poor widow Giles, who would be looking for 
 them? 
 
 " Yes, I will see to that," said William. So Rose ran to 
 breakfast, and then off in high spirits with her father, and Wil- 
 liam no sooner saw them started than he hastened back to the 
 tree, and canied the little basket at once to widow Giles. 
 
 Rose came home as full of delight as she went out, having a 
 great variety of things to tell, which her mother heard with pa- 
 tience, and her brothers with sympathizing interest. 
 
 " Did you take my strawberries ?" whispered Rose, the first 
 opportunity, to William. 
 
 " Yes, that I did, and I was glad enough you sent me, for the 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. ll>7 
 
 poor old woman had fretted herself, thinMng I was as hurt with 
 them all as mother ! and I am sure I had not stayed away from 
 ill-will, and if I had known she worried about it, I would 
 have gone in to speak to her any day, but I never gave it a 
 thought !" 
 
 " dear !" said the old woman, clasping her hands, as Rose 
 went in the next day, " I think I can die now ! I Httle thought 
 what a day I was to have yesterday !" 
 
 " What happened ?" asked Rose. 
 
 " Why, dear, first in the morning part came Master William. 
 It was fortunate enough my daughter-in-law was home next 
 door washing, so I was not locked in ; he came in at the door 
 just as he used ! O, dear, I never thought to see him again, 
 and I loved him like one of my own, having had so much to do 
 in the nursing of him ! He stayed some time, and I saw I wa"^ 
 all rio'ht with him, and then I thouo;ht I could rest — ^for I seemed 
 to think there could never be a hope with your mother. Well, 
 I was lying here in the afternoon-time, thinking hoW he came 
 in and spoke so pleasant — when who should I see come up hwt 
 your mother herself !" 
 
 " My mother ?" exclaimed Rose. 
 
 " Yes, dear, what, didn 't she tell you ? Yes, she came her- 
 self ! I was altogether overcome by the sight of her, and burst 
 out a crying, and, to my thinking, she spoke kinder than ever, 
 and she brought me a bottle of her own wine. No medicine 
 could have done me thi3 good of her kind words ! I have felt 
 a wonderful comfort ever smce. It seems to me as if Him you 
 read to me about, had sent me a pardon for this world and the 
 next. I had been getting hold of a hope for the next ever 
 since that first day you came, but I thought it was all over for 
 this, but now I see He that can give the one can give the other 
 too. And now that dread I had is wholly gone, and I 
 
168 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 don't seem to see a fear now — looking to Him you read of 
 to me !" 
 
 After a few more peaceful days, widow Giles died. Ttey laid 
 lier body in the village churchyard, and in the evening, when 
 all the mourners and the people were gone, Rose went alone* and 
 stood by the grave, and she looked up to the calm blue sky, and 
 felt as if the blessing of that poor old widow fell down upon her 
 from Heaven. So passed away her hoHdays, and Rose went 
 back to her school. 
 
 But one little girl there was who had done with school, who 
 had learned her last lesson, and was gone Home for ever — 
 Home, not to a house made with hands, which trouble, and sor- 
 row, and sickness, and death can enter ; but Home to a House 
 Qot made with hands, a mansion in the Heavens, where dark- 
 ness and evil cannot come, where there is no more crying, or 
 sorrow, or pain, or death, but God wipes away all tears, and every 
 one is happy for ever. It was not little Mercy who had done 
 with school — no, she was never absent from her place there, she 
 had many sweet lessons yet to learn, and some hard ones too. 
 It was not little Jane — no, her school-days had not yet begun, she 
 still learned at her mother's side, and dropped with patient love 
 her weekly penny into her little box to clothe the orphan Mercy. 
 It was not poor Patience — ^no, she had not learned the first and 
 best of all Heavenly lessons yet, that God is love : she was to 
 leani this lesson, but she had not learned it yet, so she must still 
 be kept in this world at school to learn the lessons that can only 
 be learned here. Who then was the happy child who had done 
 with school for ever, and was sent for Home ? It was little 
 Ruth. Heaven's shining gate often opens, and the holy angels 
 come down to fetch little children home to their Heavenly Father 
 long before those little children expected to be sent for. Then 
 let every child try to please God in all things, as little Ruth did^ 
 
MINISTERING OHILDRE> 169 
 
 because no one knows how soon tLe call may come. The spring 
 had been and the suumier followed, but they had brought no 
 bloom of life to the cheeks of little Kuth. She was sittinq- in 
 her comfortless home one Saturday afternoon with her Bible on 
 her knee, learning her texts of Scripture, when her father came 
 in : something had made him angiy, and little Ruth trembled 
 at the words he spoke. " Oh, father," she gently said, " we must 
 not take God's holy name in vain !" 
 
 " And why not ?" said her father, turning sharply to the little 
 girl, as she sat on her stool near the sleeping infant. 
 
 " Because, father, the Bible says so." 
 
 " And what 's the Bible to me, I should like to know ?" asked 
 her father. 
 
 " O, it 's just every thing, if you did but know it, father ; 
 it 's just every thing to me !" 
 
 And little Ruth looked up, her eyes filled with tears, and her 
 father-in-law was looking down on her, and the sight of her 
 pale sweet face, the Bible open on her knee, and her trembling 
 voice declaring it was every thing to her, was too much for the 
 hardened man ; the thought broke in upon him, how he had 
 left her no other comfort ; and he went out of the house unable 
 to look at the child again. He never rested till he found work, 
 and then he toiled as if he felt he had a life to save ; but it was 
 too late for little Ruth ! she seemed to have done with earth 
 from that Saturday evening when she bore her young witness to 
 the Word of God, and when the next Saturday came she lay on 
 her pillow unable to speak or move ; her father-in-law hurried 
 home with his earnings, and stooping over her, said, " I have 
 brought all my wages, you shall have every thing now !" 
 
 Yes, little Ruth would have every thing now — for in the home 
 where blessed children dwell in Heaven, no want can ever come. 
 There God our Father, and Jesus our Saviour and Shepherd, 
 
 8 
 
170 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 and the Holy Spirit dwell : there the holy acgels live ; and all 
 is love, and joy, and gladness for ever. Miss Wilson had been 
 tjeveral times to see the little girl, and now she came again, hut 
 the dying child had done with earth, she did not know her 
 friend, though her eyes were open, and she was looking up- 
 ward. 
 
 " Sure she sees the angels coming for her !" said her weeping 
 mother, " see how she smiles — ! what a heavenly smile !" 
 
 But no one knows the blessed sights that God's departing 
 children see ! and with that smile upon her lips, little Ruth 
 passed away. Little Ruth, who loved the Saviour, and prayed 
 to Him ; who loved God's Holy Word, and tried to please Him ; 
 little Ruth, her mother's comfort, whom her little sister and 
 infant brother loved so much ; the favorite of her school-fel- 
 lows ; and one of the best children in the school : little Ruth, 
 the friend and teacher of the poor dying child, passed away 
 from earth ! Little Ruth was never forgotten by any of her 
 friends ; nor by her father-in-law — she was gone far away out 
 of his sight, but he could not forget ; he took her Bible and 
 tried to follow its words as she had done ; and he took care of 
 his two poor little children, and made their home and theii 
 mother's happy. 
 
 — " Seated on the tomb, Faith's angel 
 Says, ' To are not there,' 
 Where then are ye ? "With the Saviour, 
 Blest, for ever blest are ye ; 
 'Mid the sinless little children 
 Who have heard His ' Come to me I' 
 'Tond the shades of Death's dark valley, 
 Now ye lean upon His breast — 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, 
 And the weary are at rest" 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 "Let all your things bo done with charity."—! Cob. ivt 14 
 
 " T)APA " said Herbert one day at dinner, as the year was 
 
 -*- closing m, " I have long made up my mind to give Jem 
 some valuable present this Christmas, and to-day I have hit on 
 the right thing. It will cost £S, but I can manage it, because 
 I have had the thought so long in my mind that I have been 
 saving up my money for it ; and now I am so delighted to have 
 found the very thing ! Can you guess, papa ?" 
 
 " I am almost afraid to try," said Mr. Cliftbrd, smiling ; " for 
 sometimes your right thing and mine do not recognize each 
 other at first sight, and I may disappoint you." 
 
 " Do try, papa, this is not charity, you know ; so there is not 
 the same fear ; and you must think it a capital thing, for Jem 
 is not the easiest person to find out a right sort of a present 
 for ; is he, papa ?" 
 
 " No, perhaps ^ot," replied Mr. Clifford, " because his wants 
 do not extend beyond life's necessaries, and his own honest 
 hands provide those." 
 
 " Yes, papa, and my present is something to do with life's 
 necessaries — something to do with Jem's work ! Now, papa, 
 can you guess ?" 
 
 " Something to do with Jem's work, and to cost £3," said Mr 
 Clifford, in a tone of reflection. " I confess I am puzzled ; 1 
 did not think Jem made use of such costly assistance in his 
 simple labor.'* 
 
1*72 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " No, papa ; it 's something quite new to Jem ; such a tiling 
 as lie never had, or thought of having. I am full of the sui- 
 prise it will be to him !" 
 
 " Is it a watch ?" asked Mr. Clifford, doubtfully. 
 
 " No, not a watch ; I could not get any thing of a watch for 
 £3 ; could I, papa ? Besides which, Jem's watch is in the sky ; 
 he always keeps time by the sun, without any trouble of wind- 
 ing up !" 
 
 " Is it some implement of husbandry f asked Mr. Clifford. 
 
 " No, papa, Jem is a shepherd ! only Mr. Smith sometimes 
 puts him to other work when he wants him." 
 
 " Is it a shepherd's dog of some superior excellence ?" 
 
 " No, papa, Jem has hard work to keep his old mother and 
 little niece, he could not keep a dog ! though to be sure that is 
 a good idea." 
 
 " Then I confess I must give it up," said Mr. Clifford. 
 
 " Are you sure you can not guess, papa ?" 
 
 " Yes, I give up in despair." 
 
 " Well then, papa, I have seen the most perfect collection of 
 all sorts of carpenter's tools in a box for £3 ; every thing you 
 could possibly want ! Won't it be just the present to give to 
 one who does every thing for himself?" 
 
 " Is Jem a carpenter, then ?" 
 
 " No, papa, he is a shepherd ! but he does every thing for him- 
 self ; so that there must often be carpenter's work wanted." 
 
 " I think you will certainly make him a little work, in keep- 
 ing his tools bright ; for I am afraid his use of them will not 
 be likely to do it." 
 
 " Then you do not think that it would be a nice present for 
 him, papa ?" 
 
 " No, I can not say I do. I think when you give your friend 
 a present, it is a pity to give him a trouble. I have no doubt 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 173 
 
 you would find that Jem is quite as independent of carpenter's 
 tools, as lie is of carpenter's aid in his mending and making." 
 
 " Can you think of any thing then, papa ?" asked Herbert, in 
 a tone whose gladness was gone. 
 
 " Why not give him a good winter great-coat "? I should say 
 that would be far better." 
 
 " No, papa, I don't want my first present to Jem to be clothes ! 
 I don't want it to be like charity ! I want him to see I have 
 thought about how best to please him." 
 
 " And do you think that charity admits no thought of how 
 best to please ?" 
 
 " No, papa, I don't think that ; only I don't want my present 
 to Jem to look like charity." 
 
 " What then do you suppose charity to be ? Let us have 
 your explanation of the word." 
 
 " papa, every body knows what charity is ? though I am 
 pretty sure nobody knows what a mess they may make of it 
 till they try at it, for it 's ten to one if they hit it right when 
 they do try !" 
 
 " But what do you explain this same charity to mean ?" 
 
 " Well, papa, one can not always explain what every body 
 knows, but of course it 's doing for the poor !" 
 
 " Very true, my boy ; only remember, there is no one on 
 earth so rich as not to need this heaven-born charity !" 
 
 " What do you mean, papa ? vou don't want charity !" 
 
 " Yes, dear Herbert, I do ; ana so do you. To be poor in 
 money, is but one point of poverty ; just as to be rich in money, 
 is but one point of riches." 
 
 " What then are you poor in, papa ?" 
 
 " I am so poor, that there is no one I have any iitercourse 
 with who may not make me richer." 
 
 " What do you mean, papa ?" 
 
1V4 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " I mean tliat my earthly comfort depends more upon that 
 Bpirit of love or charity, in those with whom I am associated, 
 than upon any thing else ; and this is true of all. One of the 
 chief reasons of the happiness of heaven is, that there every 
 thought and feeling, every word and action, is governed by 
 CHARITY ! And the nearer you come to the practice of this 
 spiiit of love on earth, the nearer you come to the spii'it of 
 heaven." 
 
 " But then, papa, if I could think of any thing to please Jem 
 more than a coat, I might give it to him, and yet not go against 
 charity ?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly, whatever most proves your thoughtful in- 
 terest in others, and care for them, is the best and brightest 
 exercise of charity." 
 
 Soon after this, Herbert was left alone with his mother and 
 sister, when he said sorrowfully, " I declare I feel ready to cry ! 
 I never felt so sure before about having hit on the right thing ; 
 and now papa thinks it quite wrong ; and papa comes down so 
 gi'ave upon one, that the thing never looks the same afterward 
 — I don't care about that box of tools the least now !" 
 
 " Did old Willy's cottage not look the same when papa had 
 made it yours ?" asked Miss Cliiford. 
 
 "0, Mary, you know that was the best thing that ever 
 happened to me in all my life ! Of course I did not mean 
 that." 
 
 " Then perhaps you only mean that papa shows you your 
 mistakes ?" 
 
 " I don't knolv, I am sure," rephed Heibert ; " but I often get 
 so full of a thing, and it looks as pleasant as possible, and then 
 I am off to talk to papa about it, and he makes it look as dull 
 as can be. I wonder how it is that I can so seldom tliink like 
 papa beforehand !" 
 
MINISTERING CHILDEEN. l76 
 
 " SLall I try and help you lo understand ho ff it is ?" asked 
 Mrs. Clifford. 
 
 " Yes, mamma, I wish you would." 
 
 " You have often been out early these last nine months ; have 
 you not observed how different objects looked to you in the 
 misty light of the morning, how large some small things seemed, 
 and how the dew-drops looked like diamonds in the bright sun- 
 beams, and the grass you walked upon sparkled with countless, 
 points of brilliant light and color ?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma, but what of that ?" 
 
 " That is like your early morning of life, my child, when, for 
 want of clearer knowledge, many objects appear to you differ- 
 ent to what they really are. But, your father has reached life's 
 afternoon, when the misty light deceives no longer, and the dia- 
 mond dew-drops are gone from the earth, and therefore when he 
 puts things in the clearer light of his fuller knowledge, they ap- 
 pear to you very different." 
 
 " Well, mamma, I wish things were always blight ! I am 
 sure it is much pleasanter when they are." 
 
 " They will be always bright in heaven, my dear boy ; no 
 light of fuller knowledge can ever change the forms and hues 
 of heaven — except to increase their beauty. The day's loveli 
 est dawn, and your life's glowing morning, are but to picture to 
 you a little of heaven. But there the bloom and the fragrance, 
 the glory and the freshness, never pass away. If we could al- 
 ways keep earth's brightness here, we might seek less earnestly 
 for that inheritance which can not fade away." 
 
 " I know you must be right, mamma, but still it seems sad to 
 have things that looked so pleasant changed." 
 
 " Many true things are sad on earth, dear Herbert. He who 
 is Himself the Truth — your Heavenly Counselor was a Man of 
 sorrows here on earth ; but, in heaven, Tnith wears only her 
 
176 MINISTERING CHIjuDREN. 
 
 beautiful garments,' and will be known by all who dwell there, 
 only in her brightness for ever." 
 
 " It was Herbert's Cbristmas holidays, and the next morning, 
 when he went into his sister's room after breakfast, to read to her, 
 he was still feeling his disappointment about the box of tools. 
 
 " It is a pity about Jem, is it not, Mary ? I did want to give 
 him something that might always please him." 
 
 " But why heed you give up the hope to do so still ?" asked 
 his sister ; "is a box of tools the end of all useful and pleasant 
 things ?" 
 
 "No, but for Jem it is not easy to find any thing really pleas- 
 ant to give ; now I have given up the tools, I can not think of 
 a sino-le thinjr." 
 
 " Shall I tell, you what I think would please him more than 
 any other present ?" 
 
 " yes, do tell me — you always bring back one's hope even 
 when it 's quite gone — do tell me directly !" 
 
 " You know how fond Jem is of his dear old mother ; did 
 you not hear of his saving up a little money he had for her, to 
 buy her a winter gown ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " He did so, and she was delighted with her son's present, as 
 you can suppose ; and I have often thought, if the dear old wo- 
 man could have one of those bright red cloaks, it would keep 
 lier warm all her life ; she would look the very picture of com- 
 fort in it ; and Jem would hardly know how to be happy 
 enough. And you could send for Jem on Christmas eve, and 
 let it be his Christmas morning present to his mother." 
 
 " That will be the very thing !" exclaimed Herbert, with tJe- 
 ligrit as ft-esh as ever. " I will run and tell papa !" 
 
 Mr. Clifford thought that nothing could be better, and Mrs, 
 Clifibrd approved it as the best thing possible ; so Herbert re« 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 177 
 
 turned to his sister, and the rainbow-hues around the gift were 
 bright again, as when his own heart first framed the thought — 
 bright in truth's own radiance now. After Herbert had talked 
 with his sister a while about the red cloak — where it was to be 
 bought, and how it was all to be managed — he sat silent for a 
 moment on the side of the sofa where she was lying, and theu 
 said, " Did you hear what mamma was saying yesterday about 
 my seeing all things in the morning's misty light; and papa 
 seeing them as they really were ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear, I heard it all." 
 
 " Well, then, I can not make it out ! because you always bring 
 the brightness back when it 's all gone, and if you think differ- 
 ently from me, yet you don't take the brightness away, you 
 only put it on something else, and yet papa is sure to say you 
 are quite right ?" 
 
 Herbert looked inquinngly at his sister ; the tear started to 
 her eyes, but she did not speak. 
 
 " Dear Mary ! what makes you sad ?" asked Herbert. 
 
 " Only the thought that perhaps if I answered your question, 
 it would make you sad, dear." 
 
 " O, no ; do tell me if you can ; I want to know !" 
 
 " Well, then, in the morning, as mamma said, the dew lies 
 thick upon the grass, and leaves, and flowers, and the soft mist 
 half conceals many objects ; but the dew and the mist are only 
 of earth, and the sun's fuller rays absorb the dew and the mist, 
 and they are gone : and then comes the clear day, when every 
 thing appears as it is in itself: and then, dear Herbert, what 
 next ?" 
 
 " The evening comes next," replied Herbert. 
 
 " Yes, the setting sun — and then the brightness is all from 
 Heaven ! You see the golden sunbeams fall, and they light 
 up all they touch ; but they do not make any thing appear 
 
178 MINISTERING CHILDREN 
 
 what it is not ; you see all things truly, only you see them 
 gilded by light from Heaven — a softer, stiller brightness than 
 the morning's dazzling light, a brightness that lasts till the sun 
 has set ; and that, dear Herbert, is the brightness in which I 
 see all things ; and because it does not mislead, papa agree? 
 with it." 
 
 " "What do you mean, Mary ?" 
 
 *' I mean that my sun is setting, and I can not help but see 
 the brightness it casts on all around me." 
 
 " But what do you mean by your sun setting, Mary ?" 
 
 " I mean that I believe I am dying to earth, but rising to God 
 and Heaven." 
 
 " 0, Mary, you can not mean dying ! you know you were ill 
 last winter, and then you got well again — almost well ; did you 
 not ? And so you will this time, indeed you will ! God would 
 not take away the happiness from every thing, and it would be 
 all gone if you were gone !" 
 
 " If we put our happiness in any thing more than in God, He 
 may take it away, dear Herbert, if He loves us, to teach us to 
 find it first in Himself." 
 
 " I will try to find my happiness still more in God, if you stay 
 with us, Mary." 
 
 " Perhaps God may teach you to do so, by taking me away !" 
 
 " 0, no, I could not learn any thing then !" 
 
 " We do not know what we can learn, or how we can learn 
 best, till God teaches us, dear." • 
 
 " I am sure papa and mamma can not have such a thought 
 bout you, Mary ; they could never bear it !" 
 
 " Papa and mamma will try to bear God's will, whatever it 
 may be ; and will not you try also, dear Herbert ?" 
 
 "How do you know that papa and mamma have such a 
 thought ?" 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. l79 
 
 ** Because we often talk about it." 
 
 " I never hear them !" 
 
 " No, they do not like to tell you, for fear of making you 
 unhappy ; but I wanted you to know, that we might talk to- 
 gether of that blessed home to which I am gcmg." 
 
 " Do you like to think of going, then ?" 
 ' " yes, I love Heaven more than earth, and my God and 
 Saviour more than all beside ! I used to be afraid that when I 
 was .gone, papa and mamma would have no companion to walk 
 with them in the way to Heaven, and my poor people no earthl} 
 comforter ; but you took away these fears, dear Herbert ; or 
 rather God took them away by you ; and now, instead of tears 
 of sadness, you make me shed tears of joy sometimes." 
 
 " But, dear Mary, if you were to stay, I could help you do all 
 this. I am sure the doctor can not think you so ill, because he 
 has told me so many times that you were better ! If he says 
 that he thinks you will get well, will you think so too ?" 
 
 Miss Clifford smiled, and asked : " If you could see the gate of 
 our own home before you, could you easily believe any one who 
 told you that a long journey still lay between you and it ?" 
 
 " "V^Tiat do you mean, Mary ?" 
 
 " I mean that I see the better world, and but a step between 
 me and it !" 
 
 " But you may see it, Mary, if you will not go to it yet ! If 
 the doctor says you will get well, will you believe it ?" 
 
 " He can not say that, dear." 
 
 " But if he says he thinks you will, will you try and get well ?" 
 
 " Yes, I will promise you, whatever the doctor may say, that 
 [ will do any thing I can that might help my recovery." 
 
 " I will go off dij'ectly then and ask him !" exclaimed Her- 
 bert. 
 
 " No, stop, dear Herbert, do not go !" but the boy was gone. 
 
180 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " Papa, I want to go to tbe town, if you have no objection ; 1 
 shall soon be back." 
 
 " Xo, I have Qot any objection," Mr. Clifford replied ; and Her- 
 bert was soon on the road. He requested to speak with the 
 medical man, who quickly appeared, asking, hastily, whether 
 " Miss Clifford were worse ?" 
 
 " No, I hope she is better," replied Herbert, " but I want you 
 to tell me whether you do not think she will get well when the 
 spring time comes ?" 
 
 " It is not always easy to speak positively on such subjects," 
 replied the doctor. 
 
 " But you do think my sister may get well again, as she die 
 last summer, do you not ?" 
 
 " Yes, I do think that, with the gi*eatest care. Miss Clifford 
 may recover again as she did last summer." 
 
 " Thank you, sir, I could not rest without asking you." And 
 Araby bore his young master swiftly home again. 
 
 " Dear Mary, I was right ! the doctor does think that with 
 the greatest care you may recover again, as you did last sum- 
 mer ! Will you not think so too ?" 
 
 " Yes, I will think that, dear !" 
 
 " And then, when you have recovered, there is no reason why 
 you should be ill again, more than any one else who has been 
 ill and recovers !" 
 
 Miss Clifford only smiled, and Herbert did not read the mean- 
 ing of that smile. 
 
 Herbert had put away all fear of losing his bister from his 
 mind : but the momentary distress of the thought had made him 
 chng closer to her than ever. He talked with her still oftener, 
 and whatever gave rise to her words they continually ended in 
 Heaven — till her young brother learned to feel the better 
 world a familiar place to him, and a home in which, while still 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 181 
 
 Oil earth, tliouglit and affection, as well as hope, found their 
 true restmg-place. He talked with her — and the sweet links 
 of hallowed sympathy that bound her to the poor, drew him 
 also to them, in the tie of true feeling and warm interest. He 
 read to her from the holy Scriptures — and the clear undoubt- 
 ing words of one who had learned almost her last lesson of God's 
 unfolded truth, led him on in the understanding of that which 
 -was the Light of Life to her. 
 
 A few days before Christmas, Herbert was sitting talking 
 with old Willy on the stool opposite the old man's chair, beside 
 the blazing hearth, when suddenly his eye fell again on a large 
 hole he had often observed in old Willy's coat. 
 
 " I wish, Willy, you had a new coat ; you have worn this old 
 thing ever since I knew you, and it is getting quite a rag." 
 
 " Ay, master, I can't count the years I 've worn it, and for 
 certain it 's none the better for use. I have a Sunday coat that 
 I bought the last harvest I made — and that 's some years agone 
 now — but if I take my Sunday dress for common days, I shall 
 never look decent on the Sabbath then." 
 
 " What ! have you not had a new coat since you could go 
 harvesting, Willy ?" 
 
 " No, master, that was the last time I earned a bit of gold, 
 and I 'm never like to earn so much as silver now. No, I have 
 stood king of the reapers many a year, and led them on with 
 green bough and sickle, but that 's all over now, and I am think- 
 ing of Him that is coming, as it says in my Book, ' to gather 
 His wheat into the garner, and to burn up the chaff with un- 
 quenchable fire' — that I may be found a true grain then !" 
 
 Herbert sat silent, pondering on how it might be possible to 
 get a new coat for old Willy. The bright red cloak would take 
 all his store, and was more important than even old Willy's 
 <»at The old man too seemed musing upon something ; at laa^ 
 
182 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 he first broke silence, saying, " It 's no time, I say, for me to "be 
 thinking of fineiy, wlien I can never get up money enougli, for 
 such a place as this is about me. I 've tried hard these last 
 quarters to make up a little above what I paid him that kept 
 it so bad, but I couldn't live on less, and so it's just about the 
 same as I saved up before ; but it don't seem the thing to have 
 the old place done up like this, and yet pay no more for the 
 comfort of it." 
 
 " Why, Willy, you are not to pay me any rent ! I told you 
 60 at first ; don't you remember ?" 
 
 " 0, yes, master, I remember how you told me I was to stay 
 in the old place ; I can never forget the wonder of that !" 
 
 "And not to pay any rent, Willy!" 
 
 " Not pay any rent ?" repeated old Willy, in a tone of in- 
 quiring astonishment. "Yes, master, I hope I'll not turn like 
 that against such goodness as yours ; I have saved it all up as 
 careful as I could !" 
 
 " Now, Willy," said Herbert, standing up in despair, " I don't 
 mean to let you pay me any rent ; so all the money you have 
 saved up — is yours ! Can you understand that ?" 
 
 " Yes, master, I can understand, but I can't see the thing to 
 be right for all that !" 
 
 " Never mind, Willy, it must be right if I say it, because it's 
 my house ; and I want you to be happy in it, and to live a long 
 while ! I will tell you what papa says — papa says that to give 
 is the BIRTHRIGHT of cvcry child of God ! so it is quite right for 
 me to give you back your rent. And now, Willy, you can buy 
 a new coat with that money you have saved up ! Do you un- 
 derstand !" 
 
 " Yes, master, I understand, and thank you too." 
 
 Herbert could not help thinking what a picture of comfort 
 old Willy would look at his fireside, in his pretty cottage, if he 
 
MINISTERING CHILDEBN. 188 
 
 liad but a nice coat ; so in two days' time, lie called in again to 
 see if it was bought. 
 
 " Well, Willj, have you got a new coat ?" 
 
 " No, master, I can't say I have as yet.'* 
 
 "But you must make haste, "Willy; — ^you know you have 
 money enough now." 
 
 " Yes, master, that 's true that I have, but there is a tliought 
 come in my mind that hinders me a bit." 
 
 " What thought, Willy ?" 
 
 " Why, my Jem, as I call him, was in here a few evenings 
 ago, and he was telling me how he had been over to a meeting 
 holden some where in these parts, where they told about places 
 a longful way off, where they have not so much as a BibJe ! and 
 I have been thinking hov/ I sit reading here all about those 
 mansions in Heaven, and Him that 's the way to them ; and 
 out there, in such places as those he heard speak of, they can't 
 so much as get sight of the Book !" 
 
 " Well, Willy, that 's all true ; but what of that ?" 
 
 " Ah, master, you see I 'm just thinking it 's a deal of money 
 to spend on a coat for an old man like me, that may never live 
 to want it ; so I was thinking to get this patched up a bit, to 
 .ook tidy like for me ; and then, maybe, if I could get to them 
 just that money you give back to me, why they might get a 
 Bible out there, to show them the true way to Heaven !" 
 
 " O, Willy, not all that you have saved for your rent ! you 
 might send enough for one Bible, and have a coat too !" 
 
 " Well, master, it must be as you please, for sure enoiigh it 's 
 all yours, and not mine ; only I 'm thinking how I live like a 
 prince, to what that poor beggar did I read of in my Book ; and 
 yet the angels carried him into Heaven : but how those poor 
 creatures are ever to get there, that never heard the words of 
 the Book to show them Him that 's the way — it hurt= me to think I" 
 
184 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 ■" Deal Willy ! I do believe you are right, and I won't mind 
 about your coat ! Papa can send the money for you if you 
 like," said Herbert, rather sorrowfully. But, O ! the joy that 
 lighted up the old man's eye, as he poured out the saved up 
 contents of his little leathern-bag, sixpences and shiUings, and 
 saw Herbert bear them off ; and then sat down to his Book with 
 thoughts of those who, hke himself, would hear and read the 
 glad tidings of great joy through the Book that would now be 
 sent to show them the way ! 
 
 Mr. Clifford heard the touching tale, and took the old man's 
 offering from the boy ; and Herbert went on to say, " Papa, I 
 ought to think of those who have no Bibles, as well as old 
 Willy, and I could do it without having to give up my coat for 
 it ! What could I give, papa ?" 
 
 " You could give me whatever you like, monthly, or quarterly, 
 or yearly," replied his father. 
 
 " I should like monthly best, I think, papa ; when I receive 
 my money." So Herbert, led by old Willy, began to stretch 
 forth his hand to aid those, who, in countries far away, " sat in 
 darkness and the shadow of death." 
 
 Then came the Christmas Eve. The cloak, the scarlet cloak 
 had arrived, directed for Herbert, and his eyes kindled with joy 
 when Mrs. Clifford put it on, wrapping it round her black satin 
 dress, which showed all its warm beauty to perfection. 
 
 " Widow Jones's son is waiting to see you, sir," said a servant 
 to Herbert, after tea. 
 
 " Show him into the dining-room," replied Herbert. " Now, 
 mamma, you must come, and, Mar}^, you must come !" 
 
 " I think we had better not," said Mrs. Clifford. " J ^ will 
 nave quite enough to encounter in the red cloak without i you 
 can tell us about it afterward." 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 186 
 
 "" Perhaps that will be best," said Herbert, and he went out 
 alone : he was gone a long time : at length he returned. 
 
 " Well, what of the cloak ?" asked ISIrs. Clifford. 
 
 " 0, mamma, I am glad you did not come ! I could not even 
 tell you all. I am sure I love that good fellow, and I think he 
 loves me. I could not get him to believe at fii'st that it was to 
 be for his mother, and a present from him ; he said he had 
 never thought to see her look like that ! And when he found 
 out that he was really to take it away, he said, ' I haven't got 
 any words, sir, but 'tis a comfort we will never see the end of !' 
 I don't believe, Mary, any one but you could have thought of 
 it ; it was the very best thing in the world for me to give to 
 Jem, and I am sure he thinks so too." 
 
 On Christmas day, Mr. and Mrs. CHfford always provided 
 some presents for their children. These presents were always 
 placed on the breakfast-table ; and a large brown paper parcel 
 lay, this Christmas morning, beside Herbert's plate. 
 
 " 0, papa, what a parcel !" said Herbert, as, impatient of all 
 delay, he slipped off the string, and unfolded the paper. " 
 Willy ! papa ! why, it 's a coat for old Willy — what a beauti- 
 ful coat ! why, it 's the very thing I used to fancy him wearing 
 — a blue coat, with brass buttons ; how delightful ! Now he 
 will ha^'e a coat, after all !" and Herbert turned, with his kiss of 
 grateful love to his parents. " I should not have cared for any 
 thing so much as that, papa; I shall take it myself this afternoon !" 
 
 As Herbert entered the church-yard, at his parent's side, who 
 should he see coming down the snowy path from the other end 
 but widow Jones, in her red cloak, with little Mercy at her 
 side, and Jem at a short distance, in full view of his mother's 
 bright appearance. The old woman saw her young benefactor, 
 and she courtesied so low, that her red cloak rested on the pure 
 white snow. Herbert bowed, with his heart-warming smile ; 
 
186 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 and the rich and the poor entered the house of prayer, there to 
 kneel before the God and Father of all, who is rich unto all 
 who call upon Him. 
 
 When luncheon was over, Herbert set off to old Willy. The 
 old man had had his Christmas dinner, of roast beef and plum- 
 pudding, sent from the Hall ; and was seated beside his fire in 
 peace, with his " Book" to talk with hira. Herbert was wise, 
 and laying the parcel aside, he firot made old Willy fully under- 
 stand that all his money was gone for those who had no Bibles, 
 and that it would buy for them, not one Bible alone, but many 
 Bibles ; and when the old man clearly understood, and had 
 fully taken in the joy of this blessed thought, then Herbert told 
 him that his father had bought a coat on purpose for him. 
 The old man rose, and took it with a bow of grateful reverence 
 to the elder Squire wlio had sent, and the younger who had 
 brought such clothing for him ! and then he wondered at its 
 beauty, and thought it little fitting for such as him to wear, and 
 promised noA er to put on his old coat again, but to wear his 
 Sunday dre^s on common days, and his new coat on Sundays. 
 And Herbert, quite satisfied, returned to his home. 
 
 Meanwhile, at the farm, William in the gig had brought 
 Rose from her school. She had received there the tidings of 
 the birth of another brother in her home, and her first eager 
 visit was to the cradle of the sleeping infant. Rose became at 
 once the infant's nurse, and full occupation and delight were 
 found in this new interest. The day for the christening had 
 been put ofi' till her return, that she might be present on the 
 occasion. Farmer Smith had decided on the infant's name, 
 which was to be Timothy ; " For by what I can make out," said 
 faraier Smith, " it is him of whom we read in the Bible as hav- 
 ing taken most to the Scriptures from a child !" so the infant 
 boy was baptized by the name of Timothy, which, according to 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 1S*1 
 
 the custom of using short names at the farm, was contracted to 
 Tim, and little Tim soon became an object of interest to all 
 around him. 
 
 Mercy too kept a merry Christmas in her cottage home ; her 
 grandmother's red cloak was the delight of her eyes ; she had 
 also knitted a pair of new stockings for her grandmotlier, and a 
 pair for her uncle Jem, the worsted bought with the money 
 saved by her uncle Jem's hedging and ditching. And the 
 young orphan herself was now freshly clad ; she had run about 
 with warm feet all the winter, through little Jane's first effort to 
 dam stockings a year before ; and now the last penny had been 
 pAid in, the club-day had come, and widow Jones, laden witl 
 the warm clothing, had once more stopped at Mrs. Mansfield's 
 door. Mrs. Jones was had into the parlor, Jane was sent for 
 down from the nursery, and Mr. Mansfield was called in fi'om 
 the shop ; and blue print with the little white spots upon it, 
 warm flannel, and white calico, were displayed by the tall old 
 woman in her bright red cloak before the earnest eyes of little 
 Jane. As Jane looked on in silent wonder, the full conscious- 
 ness — because the full knowledge, was in her mind, that, but 
 for her saved-up pennies, those warm garments would not have 
 been bought for the orphan Mercy; it was a feeling to enlarge 
 a child's young heart, and to give added strength to her char- 
 acter — resulting from a continued effort with its realized attain- 
 ment. And so the little orphan was clothed, warmly and well 
 as when her careful parents watched over her infant years. And 
 the passer-by through the village lanes mJght see her, with the 
 rosy hue of health upon her cheek, braving the freezing air, 
 which had no power to chill her now ; — ths passer-by might see 
 the happy child, sometimes on her cottage door-step, scattering 
 down the crumbs from the frugal meal, while the expectant 
 robin, peeping from the thatched eaves, heard her sing — 
 
188 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " Little bird, with bosom red, 
 "Welcome to my, humble shed I 
 Doubt not, little though there be, 
 But I'll cast a crumb to thee!" 
 
 — and then without fear flew down to pick the crumbs at hef 
 (eet. Or she might be seen hastening up the hill, just to light 
 up dame Clarke's little fire, which the poor old woman was too 
 feeble to manage ; or sitting beside it with her of an evening- 
 time awhile, to read to her from the Holy Book — whose words 
 the old woman oould not read herself : or coming back on her 
 gi-andmother's washing-day, from her early visit to the poor 
 old woman, with the things she had found, that she and her 
 grandmother could wash with their own. Thus was Mercy, to 
 whom little Jane had ministered, a ministering child herself. 
 
 And now, before we leave that happy Christmas time, we will 
 go back and pay one more visit in the town — not to poor little 
 Patience ; no, we cannot climb the dark staircase to her cold 
 empty home ; some one else must do that — and some one 
 was coming who would, but not till that happy Christmas was 
 past ; poor Patience must spend that, as she had spent all before 
 it — in wretchedness and want ; no time brought her gladness 
 as yet ; but the star was soon coming in the dark cloud for poor 
 Patience, and she will have comfort enough by-and-by — 
 though for all who dwell in this world, the cloud must still 
 darken the bright stars sometimes ; but for such as little Ruth, 
 who are gone to dwell in heaven, all darkness and trouble ia 
 passed away for ever ! 
 
 Where then are we going if not to see poor Patience ? You 
 are going to look info a shoemaker's home, and to see what wag 
 doing there. We must pass Mr. Mansfield's corner shop, go 
 down the short street at the top of which it stands, turn to the 
 right, and then again down a narrow street to the left, and there 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 189 
 
 half-way down the street, you will see " Boot and Shoe maker" 
 written up. The worthy shoemaker, who Hved in this narrow 
 street, was once in a much larger way of business, but his poor 
 est days had been his best days, and what he had lost of this 
 world's wealth he had gained a hundred fold in enduring riches 
 — •even the love of God, which made Heaven his hom.e. He 
 li red with his wife and children in one back room, with a small 
 shop in front : but he was so sickly in health and so poor, that 
 he could not have kept even that one room, if it had not been 
 for his eldest son, who was gone abroad, and who was always 
 sending money to his parents at home. The second son lived 
 with his parents, and was serving his apprenticeship to a book- 
 binder. Little Ephraim, the third son, went to a day-school ; 
 Manasseh was a baby in the cradle. Little Ephraim was troubled 
 because the baby slept in the cradle instead of joining in family 
 prayer ; so when it was over one day he went to the cradle, and 
 kneeling down by the «ide, he put the baby's hands together, 
 saying, as he held them, " Lord, teach Manasseh to pray !" 
 There was also a little girl named Agnes, who went to a day- 
 school, and waited on her mother at home. 
 
 It was Christm^as-eve in the shoemaker's home ; for the blessed 
 Ohnstmas comes to all, to rich and poor, to young and old, 
 telling J ear after year of the Saviour's love, to win them to 
 seek him while yet he may be found — to call upon him while 
 he is near. It was Christmas-eve in the shoemaker's home, the 
 father 7/as out, and the mother, with little Agnes to help, was 
 making haste to get all in readiness for Christmas-day. There 
 was no ))lum-pudding or roast beef preparing for the Christmas 
 dinner ; but the Missionary box ! feel its weight, and do not 
 think it is heavy with pence only, no, there are sixpences and 
 shillingvi, not few in number — ^the thank-offerings to God of the 
 Bhoem'>''.er's family. The children will sit round the table ; 
 
190 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 each cliild will have a little farthing candle to burn, all at once, 
 making a bright light, then the box will be opened, and they 
 will count up the money that they have gathered for the poor 
 heathen, to help in sending good ministers to them, to teach 
 tliem to know that blessed Saviour, whose birth we celebrate oe 
 Christmas-day. The mother was busy, getting on with hei 
 cleaning up, when she heard a loud knock at the door. " Run, 
 Agnes, and see who is there," said the mother. The door was 
 at the end of a long passage ; presently Agnes came back, and 
 her book-binding brother with her, and a large brown paper 
 parcel in his hand. 
 
 " Did you hear that loud knock, mother ?" asked the boy. 
 
 " Yes, who was it ?" 
 
 " Why, it was a friend of yours, only he did not wish his 
 name mentioned ; he brought a little Christmas present for you 
 with his love." 
 
 " For me !" said the mother, " a friend of mine ! Did you 
 know him ?" 
 
 " Yes, mother, and so would you if you had seen him ; but I 
 am not going to tell you as he did not wish it, so it's no use 
 asking me ; and as for Agnes, she saw no one but me, so she 
 can't tell." 
 
 " What can it be ?" said the mother, and wiping her hands 
 and arms she came up to the round table in the middle of the 
 room, where Agnes and Ephraim stood all expectation by their 
 elder brother's side. The string was untied — for the shoe- 
 maker's careful wife would be sorry to cut a knot and'waste an 
 inch of string, the paper was unfolded, and five small parcels 
 tumbled out. " mother !" said Agnes. " dear ! dear !" 
 Baid little Ephraim. The first parcel was a quarter of a pound 
 of tea ; the next, half a pound of coffee ; the next, a pound of 
 sugar; the next, a pound of currants ; ard the last, a pound of 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 191 
 
 pliims. The mother looked hard at her book-binding boy — 
 " Now, Bob, if I don't believe that it's you, and no one else, has 
 been getting all these things for me ?" 
 
 " Well, mother, I could not stand your having no Christmaa 
 pudding, and I managed to earn it all at over hours !" 
 
 So, to the children's delight, and the mother's pleasure, a 
 great Christmas pudding was prepared, and the whole family had 
 their Christmas feast of the provision made by the book-bind- 
 ing boy. 
 
 And so the Christmas came and went. And some young 
 hearts, and some that were no longer young in earthly youth, 
 loved still better than before, the " Holy Child Jesus," who was 
 bom for their sakes, an infant in the stable of Bethlehem. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Now the end of tbe commandment is ohakitt ont of a pare heart, and a good eoo< 
 
 science, and Mth unfeigned."—! Tim. i. 6. 
 
 /CHRISTMAS had passed away, New Year's Day was over and 
 ^gone, and the cold snowy month of January slowly drawing 
 to a close. Rose had returned, for her last half year, to school. 
 And poor little Patience had taken her place again in the 
 second class, among her companions ; the mistress said it was 
 a disgrace for her to be still only in the second class, when 
 many j^oonger than she, had been months in the first ; but no 
 one else took notice of it, for the poor child was so small and 
 thin, so silent and slirinldng, that a stranger might have sup- 
 posed her one of the youngest, as well as the lowest, which she 
 generally was, in the second class of healthy happy children. 
 It was at this same time that a traveling carriage arrived at 
 the Hall. Mr. and Mrs. Clifford were at the door to receive 
 their guests ; a rather elderly gentleman stepped out of the 
 carriage, and then handed from it a young slight girl, whom 
 Mrs. Clifford received with a mother's welcome. The hall- 
 'Soor was shut, and the carriage drove round to the stables. 
 This young visitor was the only child of Mrs. CKfford's earliest 
 friend ; that friend had died some years before in England, and 
 the father had gone to reside with this his only child abroad, 
 more from change of scene than from any necessity of health. 
 A mother's sheltering tenderness had passed away from her, 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 193 
 
 just when she began to realize the power and blessing of it. 
 But that mother had led her from her earliest years to her God 
 and Saviour, whose love is more than a mother's love, and whose 
 presence can never be taken away ; and the motherless child 
 knew where to turn in her heart's desolation ; she had been led 
 so constantly to her Savioui'^ feet that it was no strange place 
 to her, she had learned to tt-1 the wishes of her infant life to 
 Him, to caiTy to Him her v-. ildhood's hopes and fears, and now 
 when bereft on earth she turned Tsnth her aching heart to 
 heaven ; and the love of God, that filled the blank in life for 
 her, filled also her life with sympathy for all. After her mother's 
 death she had little intercourse with any but her father, and this 
 older companionship, with her mother's loss, had made her 
 grave beyond her years ; her face was full of thought ; and when 
 she smiled it seemed rather the expression of her tenderness for 
 those she loved, or pleasure in others' mirth, than the bright 
 gleam of personal merriment. On the eager glee of others, 
 like herself in childhood, she seemed to look with distant pleas- 
 ure ; but wherever sorrow rested she drew near — as if she felt 
 her call on earth lay there. Young as she was, she had drunk 
 deep of the cup of grief ; death and separation were words, the 
 reality of which her hourly life still learned ; but she had tasted 
 also the love that can sweeten the bitterest trial, and her sense 
 of joy was still deeper than her feeling of sadness. She, herself, 
 was comforted in all things — how could she then but long to 
 comfort others ! There was no gloom in her sweet gravity, but 
 a depth of tenderness, an assurance of sympathy, that made her 
 very presence soothe. Those who shrank most from the thought 
 of intrusion in their grief would welcome her, nor wnsh to turn 
 from meeting her calm expressive eye, which seemed rather to 
 take in the object on which it looked, than to search into that 
 object with penetrating inquiry. 
 
 9 
 
194 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 Miss Clifford had been like an elder sister to her ; no place waa 
 like Miss Clifford's side to her, and no one else had so much 
 power to waken the silent gladness of feeling, and the graceful 
 play of thought — that had slept because there had been none to 
 call them forth, or give responsive tones ; but even when with 
 her sister friend, her words were more often the earnest words 
 that told of earnest thought. She looked upon the world around 
 her, not as on a picture, as childhood for the most part beholds it 
 — searching no deeper than its suiface-hues of light and shadow, 
 but as one who had already learned the deep realities that live 
 beneath the pictured scene. When her eye rested on sorrow's 
 aspect she instantly estimated the depth of suffering by her own 
 sense of grief ; and when she had tried to comfort or relieve, she 
 still retained the feelinij of the sorrow being: like her own — not 
 to be forgotten. Yet sometimes it was her's to sow the seeds of 
 purest joy in the heart that grief had filled. Her friend. Miss 
 Clifford, had known sorrow and want only as she had sought 
 them out to relieve them ; the feeling they called forth in her 
 was, how best to aid and comfort ; and when want was replen- 
 ished, and sadness smiled on her, she passed away and felt only 
 the joy of relieving. The one seemed to soothe by receiving the 
 sorrows of others into her own deep sympathy ; the other to 
 brighten by shedding her own light of peace on the troubled. 
 It was as one of earth's loveliest sights to see the two, so young 
 in years, with all the world could offer of attraction spread around 
 them, intent in converse how best to use the blessed power 
 intrusted to them — ^to brighten the sorrowful, and guide them 
 to the holy heaven to which their own youthful steps weie 
 bound. Such as these lead an angel's life on earth , and 
 ministering angels love to watch and tend them unseen. And 
 truly for such as these, the wilderness of many a sorrowful 
 heart is made glad ; and the desert of many a sinful soul 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 195 
 
 rejoices and blossoms as the rose — planted and watered by their 
 prayerful efforts, to which God vouchsafes the increase. 
 
 The young guest at the Hail was anxious to lose no time be- 
 fore taking a drive to the neighboiing town to sec her old nurse, 
 fi'om whom she bad never been separated till she left England with 
 her father, when her mother's faithful maid became her attendant 
 The first suitable day was chosen, and as Patience was creeping 
 back over the snow from school, a few minutes after, four o'clock, 
 Mr. Clifford's carriage drove up and stopped beside her at the dooi 
 of the house where she lived, No. 9 Ivy-l^ne, from which the old 
 nurse's last letters had been dated. " Does Mrs. Brame live here ?" 
 asked the footman of the child. " Yes," said Patience, looking 
 up. The man went in, and Patience slowly followed. 
 
 " How unhappy that little girl looked !" said Mrs. Clifford's 
 young guest. 
 
 " Do you mean that neatly-dressed child now gone in ?" asked 
 Mrs. Clifford. 
 
 " Yes, she looked as if she had never smiled !" 
 
 " You don't say so ! I was thinking how clean and comfort- 
 able she appeared." 
 
 Mrs. Brame lived at the top of the large old house ; and though 
 aged now, and, for the most ^jart, slow of movement, she de- 
 scended the stairs almost as quickly as the footman had run up ; 
 and tears, and smiles, and words of astonishment and gladness 
 were the old woman's welcome to the child whose infancy had 
 been cradled-in her arms, whose opening hfe had been her one 
 object of interest, and who through years of absence had still re- 
 tained the entire possession of her nurse's heart, which had never 
 glowed with affection towards any other object through life. 
 
 For one whole hour the devoted nurse was to be allowed the 
 sole possession of the child so precious to her ! But as the 
 time drew near its close, the youthful Lady Gertrude asked her 
 
196 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 nurse about the little girl whom she had seen enter the same 
 house. Nurse Brame told her sad story, and her young listener 
 sighing, said, " I thought she looked as if her heart were empty !" 
 " Ah ! it 's worse than that !" replied nurse Brame. " I doubt 
 if she has a heart ! Why let happen what will, I have nevel 
 seen her shed a tear ! and if I have given her once, I have 
 twenty times, just because I could not bear to see such a miser- 
 able looking child — but I don't believe she cares a bit more 
 about me than if I had never shown her a kindness !" 
 
 " I wish I could see her again !" said the young Lady Ger- 
 trude. 
 
 " It 's not the least use !" replied the old nurse. " I have tried 
 it fifty times, there 's no getting any thing out of her !" 
 
 " I must see her again if she is here still !" said the Lady 
 Gertrude, " I will go to her room and see her there." 
 
 The old nurse went reluctantly to inquire, in the hope of find- 
 ing that Patience was not within. But she returned, saying, 
 the child was alone • adding, in a tone of remonstrance, " If 
 you won't be pacified without going, w^hy then I must stand out- 
 side her door, for if I were to let you see that child's father, I 
 should never forgive myself !" 
 
 The Lady Gertrude made no answer, but followed her nurse 
 down the first flight of stairs to the room where poor Patience 
 dwelt ; there was not much evidence of any " pacifying" being 
 needed in her noiseless step of youthful dignity, and her calm, 
 earnest eye ;. but her old nurse had always been wont to sup- 
 pose the necessity of " pacifying," as a reason for yielding to her 
 young lady's gentle yet decided will. The old nurse took her 
 post to listen and watch at the top of the stairs, and the Lady 
 Gertrude entered the room. One glance round the apartment 
 was sufl[icient to show that no mother's care, no mother's pres- 
 ence was known there ; and a rush of almost sisterly feeling 
 
p. li 
 
MIKIBTEKING CHILDKEN. 197 
 
 passed through the heart of the motherless child of rank and 
 fortune, as she looked on the motherless child of want and sor- 
 row. Patience was standing with her usual expression of dull 
 and hopeless wretchedness. The young Lady Gertrude went 
 up to her, and said, in her low tone of tenderness, " Dear little 
 girl, you are not happy !" She asked no question, she called 
 for no reply, but she gave expression to her own sense of a fact, a 
 simple fact, that none had seemed to notice before. Patience took 
 up her little white hnen apron,, and hid her face in it, and wept. 
 " Do not cry, dear," said the Lady Gertrude, " I want to make you 
 happy. Are you not cold without a fire ?" and she laid ber hand 
 on the chilblained hands of the child. " Yes, you are very cold. 
 If you have half-a-crown from my purse, then you could get some 
 coal and some wood, and make a fire when I am gone, could 
 you not ?" But Patience still only hid her face and wept. 
 Warm tears they were, meltiug the child's young heart so early 
 frozen, and leaving its surface to receive the fii'st impression of 
 human tenderness, which no after-time could efiace or impair. 
 
 " Did you ever hear of Jesus ?" 
 
 " Yes," said the child. 
 ■ " He wants you to love Him, and be His child, that He may 
 oake you happy. Will you love Him, and try to pray to Him f 
 if you do He will be sure to comfort you." 
 
 " Yes,J' said the still weeping child. 
 
 "I shall have to go away directly ; will you not look at me, 
 that you may remember me ? Because I am your friend, and I 
 love you, and shall often think about you !" 
 
 Patience looked up, but the time was gone ; the carriage waa 
 already within hearing. Then despairing to comfort the child, 
 and feeling mlj, at that moment, the sorrow she could not bear 
 away, the child of rank put her arm around the child of poverty, 
 pressed a kiss of tenderness upon her forehead, and, putting the 
 
198 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 half-crown into her hand, turned away in answer to her nurse's 
 knock on the half-shut door. " Do be kind to her !" said the 
 Lady Gertrude, as she took leave of her nurse, and hastened down 
 the stairs ; and in a minute more she was driving fast away. 
 
 Mrs. Chtibrd observed the shade of sadness on the face of 
 her young charge, and naturally concluding that she felt leav* 
 ing her old nurse, immediately planned in her own mi ad to 
 obtain the consent of her young visitor's father, and then send 
 for the old nurse to stay at the Hall. But far other were the 
 thoughts of that gentle girl : her heart was lingering where she 
 felt she had left an unsupplied want, an unsoothed sorrow — 
 lingering with the motherless child in that bare and desolate 
 room. She was thinking that she had done nothing, worse than 
 nothing — had awakened the child's sorrow, and left her uncom- 
 forted. " Why," she thought, " was I so determined to speak 
 to her! How much better if I had not attempted what I 
 could not do !" Did she not know then how often the eye re- 
 turns to look again upon the first, the only star, that has sud- 
 denly appeared to light up the gloom of a darkened, lowering 
 sky ? Did she not know how, when in all the lonely earth no 
 music wakes, if suddenly the nightingale's rich melody fall 
 upon the ear, the very heart is hushed to listen and recall the 
 strain ? Did she not know how dear, how unlike all that follow, 
 is the first violet, gathered where the sunbeam has warmed the 
 yet wintery bank, and called for ththe herald of spring ? Yes. 
 she knew that these things were so ; but she knew not that her 
 visit to the child of want and suflJering had been like them ; 
 and so she passed away in sadness, and thought she had Icfl 
 no blessing — how many such misgiving fears will the light of 
 eternity, when it 'falls on life past, dispel for ever ! 
 
 Nurse Brame watched the carriage swiftly disappearing in 
 the dimly-lighted lane, then turned within again, and taking 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 199 
 
 tip her candle, slowly reascended the staircase. The earnest 
 tone in which the words, " Do be kind to her !" had been 
 uttered, left them impressed on the old woman's heart, and the 
 child seemed more associated with her young lady than any 
 thing beside, and she turned into the room to speak to her. 
 
 Poor little Patience, when left alone, had ceased her tears 
 for a minute in bewildered surprise ; then raised her hand to 
 feel where that kiss had been — to see if her forehead still felt 
 the same ; it felt the same, but she did not — she had ceased 
 to feel alone in all the world ! She had met the first gleam of 
 human tenderness, and to that her shrinking spirit turned. 
 She did not reason, but she felt ; and feeling hes deeper than 
 reason, and often in a cliild supplies reason's part — the lifeless 
 chill was gone from her heart, its frozen surface thawed and 
 left susceptible of passing impressions. Nurse Brame came 
 in, and holding up her candle to see the cliild in the dark 
 chamber, said, in a kind voice, " Here, come along with me out 
 of this cold place, and we will have some tea together!" 
 Patience followed, and was soon seated on a stool by the little 
 fire-place ; nurse Brame stirred up the dull coals into a blaze, 
 and telling the cliild to make haste and get warm, she set out 
 the little round table with her tea-board and bread and butter ; 
 and lifting the kettle on the fire, sat down in the twilight and 
 watched till the water boiled. The substantial slice of bread 
 and butter, and the steaming cup of sugared tea, brought a 
 little color to the cheek of the child; and nurse Brame cut 
 the square white loaf with no sparing hand, and put more 
 water on uncurled tea-leaves, that the poor child might be 
 " satisfied for once !" and all the while the old nurse felt as if she 
 was just doing her young lady's will. 
 
 " There, now you are neither cold nor hungry at last !" said 
 nurse Brame, " and you had better go down and go to bed, and 
 
200 MINISTERING CHILDREN, 
 
 iliftre 's no doubt you will sleep sound enough !" Patiencft 
 returned to her cold dark room, and crept "^^o the side of the 
 heap of rags that made her bed ; but she too remembered the 
 lady's words, and her gentle inquiry, " Will you try and pray ?" 
 led the child, as by the silken bood of constraining love, to make 
 her first faint efi'ort. Then taking from her pocket the treasured 
 half-crown, she clasped it tight in her hand, and, lying down, 
 was soon asleep. 
 
 Nurse Brame was sitting over her decaying fire that night, 
 her candle was out, and it was her usual early hour of rest ; 
 but she was sitting as if watching the fading embers, and 
 thinking on the past events of the day — her unexpected and 
 joyful surprise in her Lady Gertrude's visit, and then the child 
 — but the child, the poor child, came like a shadow across the 
 sunbeam's track. Nurse Brame had never learned the pure 
 and simple joy of doing good : she had showed many a little 
 kindness to the desolate child, but it was, as she herself ex- 
 pressed it, because she could not bear to see so miserable a 
 thing — not because she could not bear that silent siiifering 
 should be, if unseen ! she thought that such things must be, 
 and that it was only her call to relieve when forced upon her 
 notice. " Out of sight" was " out of mind" with old nurse 
 Brame, therefore a gift from her was nothing more to the 
 receiver, than the same gift picked up on the highway side — 
 it came as no living witness, therefore it left no living glow : the 
 receiver's feeling was as shallow and transient as the feeling of 
 the giver. But now the link between the old nurse and the 
 child had changed — ^it was no longer the transient sight of 
 v/ant, but the feeling of her young lady's interest. Nurse 
 Brame was sitting in the dim firelight, thinking upon how 
 much it would be necessary for her to do for this unhappy and, 
 to her, uji interesting child — uninteresting not to her alone, bul 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 201 
 
 to all save the one who had reached the child's buried heart ! 
 the old nurse felt she must be kind to her ; she would not 
 neglect a wish of her young lady's for the world, but she 
 wanted to come to a conclusion in her own mind as to what 
 amount of kindness would be sufficient. She knew not chau- 
 ity's indwelling influence, which, far from consisting in this 
 or that act, is the very atmosphere in which the spirit that pos- 
 sesses it, lives and moves and has its being ! While so ponder- 
 ing, nurse Brame heard a hasty knock on her door, and looking 
 round a little startled, the woman who rented the house, letting 
 out its rooms to lodgers, and living herself on the gr'ound floor, 
 opened the door and came in. " I want you to tell me," said 
 the woman, " what I am to do ! I have just heard — that pest of 
 a man is off to escape the constables ; I have not had a farthing 
 of rent for five weeks, and what is left in the room won't pay 
 me a quarter of that ; but such as there is, I shall make the 
 most I can of it, and glad enough to get rid of him. But what 
 to do with the child ? I can see nothing for her but the work- 
 house !" Now nurse Brame thought the work-house next in dis- 
 grace to the prison itself; and the question instantly arose in 
 her mind, what would her young Lady Gertrude say when she 
 saw her again and asked for the child, if she found that the 
 next day she had been carried off" to the work-house ! Nurse 
 Brame did not consider where the disgrace of the work-house 
 lay — whether with those who could do nothing to support 
 themselves, or whether, not rather with those who suffered the 
 young and helpless, or the old and feeble, to be carried off and 
 nourished by the forced contributions of others. Nurse Brame 
 considered the work-house, in some way or other, to be a dis- 
 grace ; and according to the readiest and most general custom, 
 she associated that disgrace with the result, and not the cause 
 of that result, and exclaimed, " Is there nothing but the work- 
 
202 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 HOUSE !" " I can think of nothing else," replied the woman. Then 
 suddenly within the mind of old nurse Brame rose the vision of 
 the child, as she had been seated that evening on the stool by 
 the fireside ; the stool was still there, but the child was gone. 
 Why might not that warm comfortable room become the child'.' 
 home ? Nm'se Brame might feed the worse than orphan and 
 yet have enough for herself — and she knew this ; the child was 
 clothed in the school, and rent of room, firing and candle, 
 would ^aave cost no more. All this passed before the mind of 
 old nurse Brame ; but the motive that influenced her thoughts 
 was one of earthly limitation, not of Heaven's boundless char- 
 ity ; therefore it came short of such an attainment, and she 
 only replied, " Well, I would not be the one to send a child oft' 
 to the WORKHOUSE !" The woman stood a moment considering, 
 then said, " I have a relation in the town who wants a girl, and 
 perhaps if I spoke, she would take the child ; though I doubt 
 if she would think her strong enough for the place." Now " a 
 place" to old nurse Brame had a respectable sound ; she con- 
 sidered it no business of hers to find out what the place was — 
 it was " a place" — a place of service ; a way, in her estimation, 
 of earning an honest penny — little considering how often the 
 " honest penny" of the poor is paid by dishonest hands, who 
 have wrung three times the penny's worth from the strength 
 that has no redress on earth. But the day will come when the 
 God of the poor " will plead their csuse, and. spoil the soul of 
 those that spoiled them." And so because the name of " a place" 
 was better than the name of " a workhouse," nurse Brame made 
 no inquiry as to what the real thing might be, but gave her 
 judgment in favor of the place, saying, " Well, I am sure I 
 would try for the place, rather than send the poor thing off" to 
 the workhouse." Meanwhile little Patience, whose fate seemed 
 pending above, was quietly sleeping below. No rest-breaking 
 
MINISTERING CHILDHJSN. 203 
 
 father returned to disturb her slumber, and she did not wake 
 till the slowly dawning light slione into her dreary room ; then, 
 hastily rising, she looked for her father — ^he was not there — she 
 saw at once he had not been there ; , so looking again at her 
 half-crown, and once- more feeling her forehead that the lady's 
 Jips had kissed, she rose and dressed. There was no fire, no 
 food ; but the thought of spending the half-crown was not even 
 entertained — ^it was the lady's gift ! the sign that made the past 
 still real and present to the child ; so she put it at the bottom 
 of her pocket, and was thinking about what time it could be, 
 when the woman of the house came in and said, " I am sorry 
 for you, but your father is off, no one knows where, and he has 
 paid me no rent for these five weeks, so I must just take what 
 he has left, and hope for a better lodger ; but I don't want to 
 be hard upon you, and if you think you would like to try ser- 
 vrice better than the workhouse, why I will go with you at once 
 and see after a place that I know of ?". Poor little Patience ! 
 the avalanche of frozen words fell upon her heart, still warmed 
 with yesterday's glow of feeling, making the chilling shock the 
 greater. Again she hid her face and wept ! " Poor thing I" 
 said the woman in a softened tone, " I am sure none can treat 
 you worse than your own father has done ! I dare say you 
 have not tasted food ; come along with me and I will give you 
 some breakfast, and then we .will see what can be done." So 
 taldng the unresisting child by the arm, she led her down stairs, 
 and gave her some bread and butter and cold tea ; and then 
 ^ter awhile repeated her question, as to whether she would like 
 Best to go to service or to the workhouse 1 Poor Patience did 
 not kiiOw — both names were alike to her — and beginning again 
 to cry instead of answer, she only wished in her heart that the 
 lady would but come again ! She felt as if there was one who 
 would not let her be left alone in her misery ! The woman 
 
204 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 seeing that words were hopeless, tied on her bonnet, and, fetch- 
 ing the child's bonnet and cloak, put them on her, saying, " Well, 
 come and see what you think of a phice," and again taking hei 
 by the arm, she led her through the town to a distant narrow 
 street, stopping at the door of a high house. Patience was left 
 in the passage while the woman went in and talked with the 
 mistress, and then calling Patience in, the mistress of the house 
 asked her whether she thought she could run about and do the 
 work for her board and a shilling a week ? A shilHng a week 
 sounded like exhaustless wealth to the poor child, who knew 
 nothing of the expense of necessary clothes, and she answered, 
 " Yes." So the woman left the child, promising to send all that 
 she found belonging to her, and returned well satisfied, to in- 
 form nurse Brame of the success of her attempt. 
 
 The next morning nurse Brame received a letter by the post ; 
 it was from her loved young lady — the old woman put on her 
 spectacles, and read, with astonishment and delight, that in the 
 course of that afternoon, Mr. Clifford's carriage would take her 
 back to the Hall, to stay there during the time of her young 
 lady's visit. The old woman looked twice at the letter, to be 
 quite sure, then putting on her shawl and bonnet she hurried 
 out to buy such additions to her wardrobe as she thought 
 necessary for so great an occasion, and then hurrying home 
 again, began to make preparations. The sun had set when the 
 carriage drove up to the door ; the footman ran up to summon 
 Mrs. Brame, and the old woman stepped down, dressed in her 
 neatest and best, and the footman carried her bandl^ behind 
 her. Her young lady was in the carriage alone, and when ^e 
 old woman was in and the footman waiting for orders, the Lady 
 Gertrude asked her nurse whether that poor child was at home ? 
 " Ah, no, poor thing ! she went off yesterday to a place," replied 
 Mrs. Brarae. 
 
MINISTEKING CHILDltEN. 205 
 
 "Thai little girl to be a servant 1" asked the young Lady Ger- 
 trude in a tone of surprise. 
 
 " Ah, yes, she is older than she has the look of, by a good bit." 
 
 " Home," said the Lady Gertrude, and the carriage drove on ; 
 then turning, she talked with her old nurse, till, as they were 
 about to leave the town, she suddenly, as if a thought for the 
 first time crossed her mind, inquired, " Do you know where that 
 little girl has gone to live ?" 
 
 " Not the least in the world," replied nurse Brame ; " but she 
 is gone to a place — and that 's respectable ! they would have 
 sent her off to the w^orkhouse, but I set my face against having 
 the poor thing treated like that, and now she is once in service 
 she must work her way as I and others have done." 
 
 " But if she should not be happy, who will know it ?" asked 
 the young Lady Gertrude. 
 
 "You need not distress yourself about that," replied nurse 
 Brame, " she has led such a wretched life, that let service be 
 what it will, it must be better than that !" 
 
 The Lady Gertrude said no more, she felt that the child had no 
 place in the heart of her old nurse, and from that time she never 
 mentioned her again ; and her nurse believed her satisfied, and 
 the child a forgotten thing. In a fortnight more the young 
 visitor and her father left the Hall ; and in the spring of the 
 same year, they -quitted England again for a residence abroad. 
 
 When Miss Wilson next visited the school, she missed Pa- 
 tience, and when she inquired of the mistress, she heard that 
 the child had been forsaken by her father, and was gone to ser- 
 vice. And then the mistress told her what she had now found 
 out about the life of misery the poor forsaken child had led in 
 her home. Miss Wilson felt very sorry, but it was too late now 
 to hcipe to do much ; yet she could still go and see poor Patience 
 ID her place o^ service ; and knowing that Patience had not 
 
£06 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 earned a Bible, she directly determined to go and take her one , 
 BO she learnt from tlie mistress where Patience was li\ing, then 
 going to a shop, she bought a Bible, and went on to find poor- 
 Patience in her new place of service. 
 
 It was a narrow street, and when Miss Wilson knocked at 
 the door, a cross-looking woman opened it. Miss "Wilson 
 asked for her little scholar. The woman did not invite her in, 
 but shouted to Patience to come down, and then went herself, 
 and left Miss Wilson standing at the door. Patience came ; 
 just the same look over her face as when at school — as if she 
 expected soiriething to be said to persuade her to try and do 
 more than she had done before. But Miss Wilson knew the 
 truth now, and gladly would she have comforted the poor 
 desolate child — but she could only speak to her at the door of 
 the house ; she gave Patience the Bible she had brought for 
 her ; Patience took it and courtesied, but she did not speak, and 
 Miss Wilson could never forget the look of illness in the poor 
 child's face. She went away feeling very sad about the child : 
 she had always been kind to Patience, she had never spoken 
 hastily or severely to her, but she had loved her less than she 
 loved the other children, and poor Patience had wanted more 
 love than others — not less. 
 
 Miss Wilson waited some weeks, and then she went again to see 
 Patience in her place. The same cross-looking woman opened the 
 door, and Miss Wilson asked if she could speak to Patience. 
 
 " 0, she is not here," repHed the woman ; " she fell ill of brain- 
 fever, and we had her carried off to the workhouse !" 
 
 Poor Patience ! she had no strength for work ; half-starved as 
 fihe had been and miserable, her feeble limbs could stand no 
 labor ; she had toiled on till all power was gone, and now at 
 last she was in the workhouse ! We will not leave her yet, 
 but will go and see her there. She was laid on a little bed in 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 20? 
 
 the sick ward of the workhouse, and nursed till the fever left 
 her, and she was able to sit up. When she was well enough to 
 sit up and walk about a little, she was not sent to anothe 
 place of service ; no, she was taken two miles away from the 
 town to a house in the countrv, where the workhouse children 
 were kept. It was the beginning of May ; the trees were all in 
 bud, and the hedges growing green, and the lark was singing 
 in the clear blue sky. Patience had never been so far in the 
 country before, she wished the drive would last very long, for 
 she liked it very much, and she did not know what she might 
 find at the end. It was not long, however, before they stopped 
 at a large house that stood alone. A strong, kind-looking 
 woman came out, and took Patience in, saying, " Never mind, 
 my dear, you will soon get better here !" Patience heard the 
 words, and she looked up at the strong kind woman with some- 
 thing like inquiry and wonder.. But it was all true, it was the 
 strong kind woman's heart that spoke in those first words to 
 the timid stranger child, and Patience was to live with her. 
 And now the cold nipping winter of the poor child's life was 
 gone, and its bright spring-time began. Yes, its bright spring- 
 time began in the workhouse, under the care of that strong 
 kind woman ! Patience began the next day to do a little 
 work, but the woman saw directly the tired look came over her 
 face, and made her leave off". Breakfast, dinner, and tea all 
 came, with strengthening food for Patience ; and now that she 
 was no longer faint and hungry, she began to think of all that 
 she had heard long before. And first ohe got her little Bible, 
 and read to herself, and she felt happy, reading all alone, 
 and trying to remember what Miss Wilson said at the school. 
 After a little while. Patience thought that what made lier 
 happy would make the other children happy ; so in their phiy-'^ 
 time, she often persuaded them to c<nne and sit round her ; and 
 
208 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 she read out of her Bible, and taught them texts and hymns, and 
 read to them from her other little books, and the children liked 
 to listen. So it was that poor Patience, who seemed at schod 
 as if she could not learn, and would never remember any thing, 
 was the first perhaps of all the children there, except little 
 Ruth, to become a ministering child to others. 
 
 Poor Patience had never known a parent's tenderness ; but 
 she soon learned to love the strong kind woman who took care 
 of all the workhouse children ; the woman moved about quickly, 
 and spoke fast and loud, but her heart was kind, and Patience 
 loved her, and tried to please her. When the months of May 
 and June had passed away, and Patience was well again, there 
 came a day of holiday in the workhouse ; and the matron told 
 Patience that she might go to the town and see her friends. 
 Patience had no fiiends except Miss Wilson, and that lady far 
 away ! but she thought she should like to go and see Misa 
 Wilson. Though Patience looked very small, she was older 
 than she looked, and quite old enough to go to the town alone. 
 She knew where Miss Wilson lived, and easily found the house. 
 Miss Wilson was much surprised at seeing Patience, but very 
 glad to find how happy she was in the workhouse. And now 
 Patience not only answered every question put to her, but she 
 told how she employed her time, and how the workhouse 
 children came round and listened while she read to them, and 
 told them what she had been taught at school. Miss Wilson 
 gave Patience some new books for her own, to carry back with 
 her : and not being able to walk so far herself, she asked her fa- 
 ther to go, and one day he went, and found Patience happy her- 
 self, and drying to make others happy. And there for the pres- 
 ent we raust leave her — a ministering child in the workhouse. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 •Tl»e words that I speak anto you, they are spirit, and they are life."— Johs rt ttL 
 
 "TXrHILE Patience in the workliouse was gathering other chil- 
 ^ ' dren round her, and teaching them the blessed words that 
 had so long lain silently on her own heart ; little Jane led by 
 her mother's thoughtful care, had a mission 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 thb 
 red tiled roof. In the spring of the yeai', 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, and now all was gone — except one four-post bedstead 
 with its white dimity hangings, their two arm-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 refuge, but still they felt the change ; the 
 
210 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 old w<)nian 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 the silent dejection of both, 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 employ- 
 ment might prove a great 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, and I want my eldest little girl to learn the art, and if 
 you would not 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 thankfully pay a shilling a week for her in- 
 struction till she can manage it well enough to go on by herself." 
 
 "I am sure I should be thankful," rephed 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 lessons 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 to give her no 
 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, aj^d now you will learn." 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 211 
 
 Jane took the first opportunity of getting off to the nursery, 
 being alwayu 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 ?" 
 
 " 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 
 cry 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 the old \^ oman that you read to me 
 to make me happy, and that if she will let jou, you will read 
 to her." 
 
212 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " 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 a 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 stair- 
 case, 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 Httle 
 strange, and the color came to her cheek wheu 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 httle fingers, and she longed to get 
 to the pages of the Bible to which those same little fingers had 
 BO long been used. 
 
 " Is it three-quarters of an hour yet, do you think ?" asked 
 "ane of Mrs. Blake. 
 
 " No, my dear, not more than one as yet, I should say." 
 
 Jane knitted on in patience, but the time seemed very long, 
 while she grasped as tight as possible 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 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, a nd 
 T will sho\^ you all about it !" So Jane stood at the old man's 
 
p. 212. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 213 
 
 knee, and he taught her how to find out what it was o'clock, 
 and spun out his lesson till the throe 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. 
 
 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 com- 
 fort. 
 
 When Jane had done, the old man said, " Ah, thank you, 
 dear, those are cutting words !" but Mrs. Blake only praised 
 little Jane's reading. Jane looked at her, surprised and disap- 
 pointed — as having expected a far higher result than any 
 thought of her reading, and 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 gi-ant it may ! God grant it may !" he replied, and 
 
214 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 little Jane satisfied witli his words, shut up the great Bible 
 Mrs. Blake saw that she had answered wrong, and that the child 
 had expected what was read to have some effect on her ; sh<3 
 said no more then, but she determined next time to hsten,*that 
 she might see whether she could find any thing 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 ofiered it to her. She had 
 been used to bring out 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 from 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 book- 
 binding son, for him to see what he could do with them. The 
 book-binding boy set his little brother and sister to work, and 
 every evening after, they sorted the sacred pages, till they had 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 215 
 
 some Testaments complete, and some separate Gospels complete, 
 and some Epistles complete ; then the shoemaker's book-binding 
 son carried them ofl', 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 bo 
 my offering to those that have need." He brought eight 
 volumes — Testaments and parts of Testaments, refusing any pay- 
 ment, leaving the words that are " spirit and life," again ready 
 for the use of the poor and needy. So it was that the shoe- 
 maker'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 might 
 offer her ; the villagers looked fi om their labor when the car- 
 riage passed — and if she was in it, they turned 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, which 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 — he looked on her, but her smile, un- 
 changed, still threw its veil of beauty over weakness and pain ; 
 he looked no deeper than that smile, and thought that however 
 her strength might change, that smile would be always beside 
 
216 MINISTERING CHfLDREN. 
 
 him ; and lest he should find that others thought differently, he 
 never asked of any what they thought, and so lie 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 he 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 
 tiie old man's head ; he said nothing, but he kept d,way from 
 the cottage after that, afraid to venture again. 
 
 It was the close of June, the air breathed the fragrance of 
 the new-mown grass over the hills, the song of the birds was 
 hushed at mid-day, and the heavy foliage hung its soft shade be- 
 tween the earth and sky. Miss Clifford came down in her shawl 
 and bonnet, and Herbert, evei»on the watch, soon had her lean- 
 ing 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 
 can not talk while walking, we will sit down on this seat, and I 
 will tell you why." 
 
 Herbert sat ^own 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 to- 
 day 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 can not take 
 a little walk without bein^ tired, I am sure you must not go !" 
 
 " Yes, dear Herbert, mamma does not mind to-day ; 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 from all 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 217 
 
 Herbert was silent ; he thought, could he gc and tell the 
 dying woman of the precious blood of Jesus, that could cleanse 
 h'er from her sins ? No, he thought he could not ; he feared 
 he should not know what to say to her ; he had never seen 
 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 toward Miss 
 Cliflford, but did not speak. Herbert stayed by the open case- 
 ment, and Miss Clifford we^: to the bedside. "I am sorry to 
 see you so ill," said Miss Clifford. 
 
 " O, 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 every thing, 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, our minister has been here, and he told me 1 must re- 
 pent ; he said, that there was no mercy without that, and I told 
 him it was no use, for I could not repent ; I don't feel it, and I 
 told him so.'^ 
 
 " You can not get repentance any more ttan 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 who have not set 
 themselves against it all their life-long as I have done, but 
 there *8 none can tell how I have turned against it — therefore 
 there 's none can say that it 's for me !" 
 
 10 
 
218 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 "'Shall I tell you what God, who knows all things, says ip 
 His Word ?" 
 
 " Yes, I don't mind hearing now !" 
 
 " He says, ' Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself, but in Me 
 is thy help found !' " 
 
 The dying woman looked up ; those words, " Thou hast de- 
 stroyed thyself," reached the depth of her sense of misery ; they 
 included it all, and made her feel that if over those " destroyed" 
 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, " 0, how you comfort me !" then, clos- 
 ing her eyes, she listened while again the same words which 
 had proved so instantly " spirit and life" to her were repeated. 
 After telling her of Jesus — the One mighty to save, on whom 
 help for the sinful has been laid, whose precious blood can 
 cleanse from all sin, the young lady took her leave, and left her 
 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, and touched her heart; the seed of hope was 
 planted, and in the last great day it may be seen to have 
 brought forth fruit to life eternal. 
 
 Herbert led his sister gently home, he laid her on her couch 
 to rest — wearied with her effort she did not speak, but laid her 
 hand upon his head and smiled upon him — one long sweet 
 .smile that met his earnest 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 from his sister's lips he had but just seen change the face 
 of dull despair to the eqger gaze of sudden hope. He held his 
 Bible, he looked upon its pages, he saw the words so thickly 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 219 
 
 traced, And thought again upon the living, the creative p6wer 
 he had but now seen them possessed of, and he resolved that 
 the highest object of his Hfe should be to make them his own 
 by hiding them within his heart — that he might both live him- 
 self by their help, and use them in aid of others. He held the 
 sacred volume as the young soldier grasps his sword — ^for per- 
 sonal and relative defense : 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, to rescue all from Satan's 
 dreadful dominion. Happy the child who goes forth early in 
 this blessed warfare — who, taking the Word of God, first proves 
 its power in his own heart and Hfe, then tries to. use it for 
 others' good ; " he shall stand in the evil day, and having doEe 
 all, shall stand," and those beside him whom God will have 
 given him to be his glory and joy in the day of Christ's ap pear- 
 ingl 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 •*0, 1 stand trembling 
 Where foot of mortal ne'er hath been ; 
 Wrapt 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." 
 
 TT was the summer night. The heavens, so softly blue, 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 forever. 
 Horses' hoofe trod swiftly through the village street, but they 
 roused not the laborer 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 
 dc'Ctor's carriage, and affection's wakeful ear and heart were 
 roused — ^many a villager listened, and 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 
 his work and to his labor till the evening." Far over the 
 bright pastuies the grass had withered — the flower faded be- 
 ndath the mower's scythe ; and one, the sweetest flower that 
 ever grew within the village bound, one that every village hand 
 would have been raised to shield and to retain, had fallen too 
 beneath the scythe of death — ^the young sweet lady of *he Hall 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 221 
 
 lay dead ; that night her spirit had departed, and the place that 
 had known her, knew her no more. The villagers soon learnod 
 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 GONE !" They thought not of death, but of Heavon 
 as her portion ; so they said one to another, " She is gone !" and 
 the laborer 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 be- 
 side their untasted food — the village mourned, for the friend, the 
 loved of all, was gone ! 
 
 The windows of the Hall were curtained — ^the stately home 
 of her birth closed in ; guarding the stiD 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, entered in ; and 
 for a time the glory that received her, struggled with the sadness 
 her departure had left behind — even as the sun's parting rays 
 cast their light back on the gray shades of advancing twilight. 
 Poor Herbert alone had been surprised as by a sudden sho( k, 
 he knew not that she was going, till, lo ! she was gone ! Grief 
 held him in 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 Heav- 
 en, to be able to feel communion of spirit still with her whom 
 he had lost on 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 : th( re 
 came the dark transgressor, whose chains of sin had melted 
 under her fervent utterance of Heavenly truth and love ; there 
 
222 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 came the strong-built laborer, whose dull mind bad gathered 
 light under her gentle teaching, whose hand of iron-strength 
 had followed her frail finger, tracing out the sacred lessons of 
 holy writ ; there came the village children, the lambs of the 
 Chief Shepherd's fold, whom she had fed ^vith the Uving Word 
 of the Lord of Life — all came to see the form they had loved 
 laid to its rest, till the resurrection of the just. Respect brought 
 some, but it was love unfeigned that led the many there : they 
 filled the 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 lean' 
 ing 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 honored 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 others* 
 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 Heaven, from darkness into light, from 
 death to life — ^has a record wiitten on human hearts whose 
 records are eternal. A suppressed sob heaved the breasts of 
 the villagers as she — who had ever come among them in fife to 
 bless — was borne into the midst of them sleeping in death. The 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 223 
 
 villag-6 children }^ad 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 forever. 
 
 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 he knew not the power of that love by which the min- 
 ister 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 com- 
 pany of mourning people — children whose sobs answered to the 
 silent tears of strong-built 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 awe-struck at the 
 church's porch. Meanwhile the bearers waited, they had reached 
 the churchyard gate, and would not enter without the words of 
 holiest greeting for the earthly form they bore ; then, in that 
 moment's solemn pause, old Willy, 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 came forward with the words of 
 Life, and the bearers followed him into the church. The ser- 
 vice went calmly on ; but when the white coflSn was borne 
 within the tomb, overcome by the hopelessness with which they 
 hid his sister from his sight forever upon Earth, Herbert 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 pat him aside, but the father 
 
224 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 moved his hand to them to retire, and lifting Herbert from tlie 
 ground, place'd him in the arms of the faithful Jem, sending a 
 servant hastily forward to prevent needless alarm to Mrs. Clif- 
 ford. The throng separated for Jem to pass, bearing his pre- 
 cious burden — the child of fortune — the only hope of his 
 father's house, trusted to one of themselves, borne by the vil- 
 lage 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, he thought of the day when he had 
 taught it first to use the tools so large and heavy for its strength, 
 in labor for the poor and needy ! and the tear of past and 
 present feeUng gathered in the eyes of the faithful Jem. Jem 
 was met on his way to the Hall, and accompanied by some of 
 the maid-servants to the house. Mrs. Clifford waited anxiously 
 at the door. 
 
 " It 's only a fainting, ma'am," said Jem ; " it was all over too 
 much for my young master, 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 here 
 and lay him 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 before 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 dwelling in 
 his arms, to bear him to his home ; but now that by daylight 
 he saw the rich carpet that lay before his feet, he held back 
 with his precious burden, hesitating in his rough shoes to tread 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 225 
 
 upon a thing so costly— even so it is that the poorest can r'se 
 in a moment to feel and act up to the universal tie of nature's 
 one brotherhood, but they pause at the threshold of wealth's 
 display ; and own, as if by instinct, that the separating line lies 
 there ! 
 
 " Bring him in," repeated the housekeeper ; and friends within 
 the house were gathering, and maid-servants were waiting round, 
 and so Jem bore the child of the mansion across the soft-car- 
 peted floor, laid him gently'down with his pale cheek on the 
 crimson cushion, and then, as he stepped back, while Herbei t's 
 mother knelt beside the couch, and friends drew nearer and ser- 
 vants waited — ^Jem, bowing, asked, " Will you please that I should 
 fetch the doctor ?" but the housekeeper shook her head and 
 whispered " No ;" then Jem, with another bow of lowliest 
 reverence, and a look of anxious love toward the fainting boy, 
 withdrew. He saw the long train of mourners descending the 
 hill, and made his way straight to the farm, there to solace him- 
 self among his sheep. 
 
 The evening shadows fell and closed that summer day ; the 
 folded flowers, the folded flocks, the birds with folded wing — 
 all sought repose ; while softly calm the moon rose over all in 
 the blue heavens. Old Willy had vainly tried to comfort his 
 troubled heart — his eyes were dim, he could not see the words 
 of the Book ; he sat awhile within doors, then stepped into his 
 garden, then back again within the cottage in wearied restless- 
 ness, wanting some human voice to fall on his aching heart 
 with tones of comfort ; but all that summer day were mourners, 
 and no earthly comforter drew near. When the hush of even- 
 ing shed its soothing silence round, and sleep seemed far away 
 trom old Willy's tear-dimmed eyes, he took his staff and set 
 forth to climb once more that day the steep hill-side, and lo 3k 
 upon tlie tomb where they had laid his blessed guide to Heavea 
 
226 MINISTERING CHI1.DIIEN. 
 
 All were goiie from the hill-side ; and the Hall, with its far- 
 Btretching slopes, lay silently and beautifully in the summer 
 evening twilight. Old Willy looked round once from the hill- 
 top on his lady's home on earth, then turned to the church- 
 yard gate, and leaning upon it, rested there a little while 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 tho 
 distant azure of the sky, looking' almost without sight or 
 thought, his senses lost in one deep feeling — they had laid his 
 sweet young lady in the grave, they had 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 him, it seemed ! " Ah ! sure I see it," the old man said, 
 in a low tone, " sure I see it 's no use looking down in 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 toward 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 fresh-gathered 
 flowers. " Poor dear," said the old man, " she has fallen off 
 asleep ; why, '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 from her pinafore ; but when she 
 saw it waa old Willy, she stood still, looking down on the fallen 
 flowers. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDIiEN. 227 
 
 " 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 
 nave not been so near to her since that last day she came 
 and stood among us all in school, only 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 still he saw 
 that beauteous star shining so brightly down from the blue 
 Heaven — looking full upon both him and the young child, as 
 they watched there beside the tomb ^vithin the churchyard 
 dreary ! and he answered quickly, " Why, child, your blessed 
 lady is not here, look there, she 's shining bright in Heaven !" 
 The child looked up with sudden start, as if expecting that 
 angel face to beam upon her from above, or to get some distant 
 glimpse of her lady's white-robed form in glory ; she looked 
 where the 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 you see ? Is not that star 
 enough ? is n't it just come shining down from Heaven upon you 
 to tell you that the blessed lady is up above it far away in 
 glory? For what did God send it in the sky there, 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 He took the blessed 
 lady straight up to it to dwell with Him forever ?" 
 
 " Yes, I know- it," said little Mercy, "and I wish I was with 
 her there !" 
 
 " Tb ■'.n, child, you must be walking the path she went." 
 
228 MINISTERING CHILDREN 
 
 " What path was that ?" asked Mercy, looking up to the old 
 man's face. 
 
 " Wliy, the blessed path of love, child ! love to God and man ; 
 her mind was always on her Saviour, and trying to bring others 
 to the love of Him. Oh, child! it's written in the Book that 
 ' God 18 Love,' and there 's none but a path of love that can 
 lead up to Him." 
 
 Little Mercy was silent ; she had tried to tread the path of 
 love, in which her lady had taught her to walk, she had tiied 
 to please God her Heavenly Father, and Jesus her Saviour, and 
 to be a ministering child to others ; and now she knew not 
 what more to do ; all looked dreary and dull around her, and 
 she was silent. 
 
 " Come now, child," then old Willy said, " it 's best to begin 
 at once ! You know right well your poor grandmother is fret- 
 ting at home for that blessed lady that 's gone, now, do you go 
 back, and be cheerful, and comfort her up." 
 
 " Yes," said little Mercy, " I came here because I could not 
 bear it. — Granny cried, and said, *the summer time seemed 
 gone from the earth!' and though I had set the supper all 
 ready. Uncle Jem turned away and never eat a bit ! so I went 
 and gathered those flowers and came here." 
 
 "Well, child, you know you have seen that star, there it 
 is, look at it, see how it shines right down upon us here — a 
 bit of glory as it is ! Now, you go and be like that, you go 
 and try. He who sent that star to light us up with comfort 
 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 gfound, 
 and the old man laid his hand upon her head, and blessed 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. *2'A\} 
 
 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 from the old man's words and the bright star in 
 Heaven. Old Willy, too, went home, and from his cottage 
 door beheld the same bright star, then laid him down to rest- — 
 to sleep and dieam of glory. 
 
CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 '•llie memory of the just Is blessed." — PROVKRBi x. T. ' 
 
 "Being dead, yet speaketh."— Hebrews xl. 4. 
 
 rriHE old clergyman could not forget the scene he had wit- 
 -*- nessed, but the love and the sorrow were both incomprehen- 
 Bible to him ; he felt their reality, but could not understand 
 their cause. At length it occurred to him, how often, in driv- 
 ing out, he had seen Miss Clifford's ponies at the cottage doors ; 
 he instantly concluded that it must be the notice she had 
 taken of the poor that had endeared her to them ; and think- 
 ing 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, from 
 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 
 gifts of money, and saying a few words to all, but he returned 
 dissatisfied : he had met no smile of welcome, seen no tear- 
 dimmed eye grown bright ; heard no blessing. What made 
 the difference ? Why had he no power, and she — the departed 
 so young in years ! why had she so much ? He could not tell : 
 he did not know that a difference, as real as that of Earth and 
 Heaven, 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 dol* of the richer to the poorer ; his object 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 231 
 
 was to please, and to win affection and gratitude to himself; 
 but she they mourned, had gone to none but in the Name of 
 Jesus ; her words breathed to all the love and truth of Heaven : 
 her gifts were ever the expression of her thoughtful sympathy 
 — warm with compassion's tenderness, and bright with the 
 glad power of administering 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 
 toward 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 He glorified in them : therefore an over- 
 flowing recompense was poured out for her — for " with what 
 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 wide as the east 
 is from the west. He was disappointed, and resolved to give 
 up the vain attempt, and go on as before. But then a recol- 
 lection 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 what he would say. 
 
 Old Willy saw his minister coming up his cottage garden, 
 and stood at his door with his hat in his hand to receive him : 
 old Willy had learned to behave himself lowly and reverently 
 to those whom God had placed above him in station, and cour- 
 teously to all. There is no such teacher of true courtesy as pure 
 Religion — if we would only learn of her ! 
 
 " Sit down, my good friend, sit down," said the clergyman. 
 " What 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 !" 
 
232 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 ** I tliink I saw you at Miss Clifford's funeral the other day f 
 observed the clergyman. 
 
 Old Willy sobbed out, " Yes, sir !" overcome at the suddei^ 
 mention of the subject. 
 
 " Never mind my good friend, I am sorry to distress you. I 
 suppose Miss Clifford was very good to the poor ?" 
 
 " Ah yes, su- ! if I might have given my old life for her-g, 
 there 's hundreds would have blessed me !" 
 
 " Miss CHfford 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 any where to my 
 belief without Him, and you never saw her but you seemed to 
 get a fi-esh sight of Him." 
 
 The clergyman was silent ; at length he said, " Well, my 
 good friend, you come very regular to church, I wish I could see 
 a few more of your neighbors there." 
 
 " Yes, sir, but then you see we want teaching ! and there 'a 
 some of them that can walk after that." 
 
 " To be sure they want teaching * and have not I 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 any body 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 him that is the Light of the world, with- 
 out 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 all the good that lies round ; but when there 's no 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 283 
 
 getting a sight of Him, why it seems all the same as leading a 
 poor creature out when the sun is not in the sky — there 's no 
 getting a right understanding of any thing.'*" 
 
 The aged minister was silent again ; old Willy waited, but 
 when the silence lasted, he laid his hand upon the Bible at his 
 side, saying, " I never look in here for teaching, but I see Ilim 
 before me ! He is just the very light of my old heart, that was 
 as dark as death before. I first got a sight of Him, out of this 
 Book, and now I never so much as look into it but I see Him, 
 and I find that it holds but dark where there 's no jetting up of 
 Him." 
 
 " Well, my good friend, I will think of your words," said the 
 old clergyman, and with that 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 cheek almost as pale as then ; his Bible lay beside 
 him, but he had ceased to read, and was lying with a look of 
 sad and earnest thought : his mother watched him anxiously, 
 but feared to question him, lest she should but wake her own 
 deep grief and his into expression. 
 
 " Mamma," at last he said, " you see it is harder for me thar 
 for any one." 
 
 " What is harder ?" asked Mrs. Clifford. 
 
 " To lose Mary, mamma." 
 
 " Why is it harder for you, dear Herbert ?" 
 
 " Because you and papa are so good ! but I was always get- 
 ting wrong, and never should have got right again if it had 
 not been for Mary's smile." 
 
 Mrs. Clifibrd was silent, she could not question more on such 
 a subject. Herbert soon went on to say, 
 
 " You see, mamma, when J got into trouble, you and papa of 
 wurse were displeased, and you looked so grave, and then I lost 
 
234 MINIST£RING CHILDREN. 
 
 all hope in a moment, anl it was so dreadful to feel as if one 
 could never be riglit again ! - And I never felt as if I could or 
 seemed to know bow ; but wben I went to Mary, she always 
 smiled at me still, and said sbe knew I was sorry, and wanted to 
 do right again — and so I am sure I did, though I did not always 
 know it till she told me ; and then she used to say it would 
 soon be all bright again ; and when I looked at her, and heard 
 her say so, I believed it, and then I tried, and she used to tell 
 me what to do, and help me ; and then I was sure to get right 
 again ; only you and papa did not know how. But now I don't 
 see any hope for me, I don't know what will become of me." 
 
 " Do you know who gave you your sweet sister to help you 
 on your way ?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma, of course it was God." 
 
 " And has God, your Heavenly Father, given you no better 
 gift — one that still remains, one that death can never take away ?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma, I know that God has given us Jesus Christ, 
 and that He helps me when I pray to Him, I know that, mam- 
 ma ; but then I can not see Him, or hear him speak to me, as I 
 could Mary." 
 
 " You have not seen Him yet perhaps, dear Herbert, but you 
 may see Him. He can and he does show Himself as clearly to 
 the eye of the spirits of His children sometimes, as earthly ob- 
 jects are seen by the eye of the body ; and he speaks as distinct- • 
 ly to their hearts as earthly voices to the ear." 
 
 " But would Jesus smile on me, mamma, when I get wroDg, 
 and am in trouble for it, as Mary used to do ?" 
 
 " O yes, he would ! Whatever may have been your fault, if 
 you only turn to Him you will find His tenderness the same : if 
 you only look up to Him — the moment you see His face you 
 will see the smile of forgiveness and love upon it. His love, 
 my child, is more than a mother's; and what His tenderness 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 236 
 
 leads you to liope, His power can enable you to accomplish — 
 He can work in you both to will and to do according to His 
 own good pleasure." 
 
 Herbert lay silent, thinking on his mother's words, and she 
 had gathered strength from speaking of Him who is the Life, to 
 speak of her whom death had taken, and went on to say to her 
 listening child, " It was so with Mary, she lived always in the 
 presence of God her Saviour, always able to look up to Him 
 and see His face at any moment, she lived in the sense of HJis 
 love, it was her greatest joy to try in all she did to please Him, 
 by doing His holy will — this made her Hfe 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 1" 
 
 " 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 read 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 from our earthly view. 
 
 Days passed away, and Herbert returned to his studies ; but 
 the paleness did not pass from his cheek, nor the sadness from 
 his brow : he had not mounted Araby, nor taken a single walk 
 by himself since the day that saw him bereft of his sister. He 
 was sitting one morning in the window of his father's study 
 with a lesson-book before him, but his eyes were far away on 
 the park's green slopes, where the deer were feeding. His 
 father came in, and, going up to him, 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 
 face. Herbert looked up, then, after a minute's silence, said, 
 "Papa, sha/1 1 tell you what I was thinking V^ 
 
 h 
 
236 MINISTERINU CHILDREN. 
 
 " Yes, my boy, what was it f 
 
 " 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 carriage for him, to save 
 your mother's fears ?" 
 
 " 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 any thing 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 Snow- 
 flake alone in the pony-chair, I know he broke her in first to 
 that !" 
 
 " 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 energy than he had felt sinco 
 the day that the stroke of bereavement had first fallen on him. 
 Mrs. Clifford made no objection, any personal fear being over- 
 come by the sense of the new interest for her child. David met 
 the proposal still to stay as groom very gratefully ; and Jenka 
 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 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 237 
 
 after one or two days' trial b} Jenks, Herbert sbould drire 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 the hand and voice she loved, would not be now 
 awaiting her. Herbert 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 from nervous apprehension, never really considering 
 herself safe except when old Jenks was her charioteer — she had 
 only yielded to the proposal for the sake of the interest to Her- 
 bert ; and now her feeling also at sight of the snow-white creature 
 was lessened by a sense of personal apprehension : she took her 
 seat, and Herbert his, by her side, and Snowflake gently trotted 
 from the door. There 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 ; Herbert had not yet summoned 
 courage to see old Willy, though the old man had been many 
 times up to the Hall 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 that way, because of passing his 
 cottage. Another road led up the steep hill-side to the church, 
 past the churchyard gate, and then round by farmer Smith's, a 
 longer way to the town ; that could not be ventured on ; so Her- 
 bert drove out by the gamekeeper's lodge, and took a long 
 winding shady lane that led round by the back of the park. 
 Snowflake trotted swiftly and smoothly along ; but gentle as 
 the creature was known to be, Mrs. CHfford was still on the 
 
238 MINISTEEING CHILDREN. 
 
 watch for fear of some miscliance. On they went beneaih 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. While she 
 spoke, Herbert touched Snowflake with the whip ; but all the 
 advance that was gained was a few steps to a little window of 
 one pane, rather high up in the wall — a window that opened 
 with a push from within or from without, directly underneath 
 which Snowflake took a determined stand. Herbert gave her 
 a harder stroke ; she shook her silver mane at the unwonted 
 indignity, but did not move a step. Herbert's color mounted 
 to his cheek, and Mrs. Clifford exclaimed, " Take care, Herbert, 
 something will certainly happen !" But at that instant the door 
 opened, and out came a neatly-dressed woman, courtesying, as 
 if to expected guests. 
 
 " Do go to the creature's head while we get out !" said Mrs. 
 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 !" 
 
 " dear me, no, ma'am, the pretty dear is always 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 have wanted the 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 i' 's just above my old mother's bed, and there she 
 would speak a cheery word to her, and then be off" again ; and. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN^ 239 
 
 dear me, how that word would hft up my poor mother's spirits 1 
 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. Clifibrd had taken, and now the sud- 
 den 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. Herbert 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 hastened 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 bed-clothes, 
 whispered, " Here 's Madam herself from 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 hand in hers, 
 and sat down, but vain were all attempts to speak. The poor 
 old woman felt her silent grief, but while the big tears from her 
 sightless eyes rolled down her cheek, she said, " Oh ! my lady ! 
 this world is the place for weeping, but the blessed dear is gone 
 to Him who wipes all tears away ! Don't I see her with my 
 eightless eyes, shining as bright as the morning's ray up above 
 in the holy Heaven ? and don't it lighten me up, as the sound 
 of her tongue did here ! I never thought to hear her horse's 
 feet ring down the lane again ; and now that you should 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, hvd 
 onable to say more, pressed her hand, and left the cottage. 
 
24C MINI8TERING CHILDREN. 
 
 It was the first visit Mrs. Clifford had ever paid to the poor 
 and needy. The deep feeling and touching expression, and 
 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 seed of a personal 
 interest in the poor ; she felt too the peace of having shed com- 
 fort on another, and she stepped from the cottage door, unwill- 
 ing so soon to leave the spot, yet feeling unable then to stay. 
 The fear too of safety with Snowflake seemed lost 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 seat 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 the oppression of feeling. The drive was a lonely one, 
 farm-houses and cottages stood right and left among the fields, 
 but none by the road-side, till at the foot of a hill, sideways 
 from the winding lane, they saw a cottage : a little boy stood 
 beside the wicket-gate, clad in a coarse round pinafore, his little 
 cap, crushed up in his hand, left his fair curls 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 widow 
 Lambert's only child. Quick as thought, the listening boy at 
 sight of Snowflake darted into the cottage, calling, " Mother ! 
 mother ! the lady 's coming !" then back he ran to the wicket- 
 gate, while the mother looked from the door. 
 
 " Stop and let us speak to that child," said Mrs. CHfford, for 
 she saw the white pony was well known to the boy. 
 
 The child made his dehberate and never-forgotten bow, and 
 then raised his bright face as if to meet the look of some loved 
 ^miliar friend, but instantly the blank of disappointed hope 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. - 241 
 
 chased liis glad smile away, and running to the pony's head, lie 
 sheltered himself there. 
 
 Seeing the pony stopping at the gate, the mother stepped out 
 and courtesied low. 
 
 " Your little boy knows the pony ?" said Mrs. Cliflford. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, — Johnnie, come here and make your bow to 
 the lady !" but Johnnie was giving his tears to Snowflake. " He 
 takes on, ma'am, 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. 
 
 " 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 Heaven — all 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 all as fresh as 
 yesterday ! He lay six weeks in his bed, and all that time he 
 never saw the dear young lady, only she used to send and in- 
 quire for him, but he seemed past the want of her then, though 
 before when he was about he would sit all day long and watch 
 for her coming by, but when he took to hi« bed, and she could 
 not come, he seenled to be hanging only on his Saviour. I 
 have heard him say when I sat by his bed, " Oh ! I see Him ! I 
 see Him f' and then he would let me leave him and get my 
 
 11 
 
242 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 night's rest — though he could not sleep a wink for pam, but it 
 seemed as if Heaven had opened above him. Oh, 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 thing 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 come down the lane again !" 
 
 " Tell him that we will come again !" said Mrs. Clifford — ^with 
 an effort to retain composure : and Herbert, hearing this assur- 
 ance, took his seat, and they drove on — watched out of sight by 
 the widow and her oi"phan boy. 
 
 But now it was necessary to decide which way to return — 
 either back through the lanes, and so to 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 toward them, 
 
 " There is old Willy himself !" said Herbert. 
 
 " Do not pass him by," replied Mrs. 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 feeling the 
 old man made no reference to the one of whom each heart 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. . 243 
 
 was full, his feeling only struggled througli in silent tears ; ho 
 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 come and see you with 
 my son." 
 
 " A thousand thanks," replied old Willy, as he bowed low to 
 the lady, but his look of love turned full and rested on Herbert. 
 
 " Yes, I shall soon come, Willy, very soon, and mamma too !'' 
 added Herbert 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 ride, but not less to soothe 
 and elevate. The mother and 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. Herbert now often drove 
 his mother out, all fear of Snowflake was gone, the creature was 
 allowed to stop at pleasure ;* 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 her- 
 self 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 wit b 
 personal and relative happiness. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 •Be« /e one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ."— Galati Aim yl % 
 
 rPH X summer months left Patience in the workhouse restored 
 -*- to health. And now another place of service must be 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 when Patience 
 went in, she saw so many children crowded together in one 
 small kit»3hen, that she supposed it to be an infant school ! But 
 no, it wae a family of ten children, the youngest a baby of some 
 few weeki^, 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, who, with the four elder boys 
 and girls, vent to a day-school. The mother was busy at the 
 washing tub, and the children were all sitting and standing 
 about, the elder one« home from their afternoon school ; but 
 when Patience ^ame in, they all with one consent looked round 
 on her. 
 
 This was now to be the place of service Patience was to fill — 
 maid-of-all-work in the family of the foreman in Mr. Mansfield's 
 shop— there were 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 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 245 
 
 remember tliat work proving liard or pleasant depends far 4nore 
 upon the minds of those who rule, and those who serve, than 
 upon the amount of labor to be done. Robert, the eldest boy, 
 had opened the door, and then run 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 timid, 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 mo- 
 ment's stop in her washing. Then, looking hard at Patience 
 in the firehght, 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 work^ — and 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 early autumn evening was damp and cold, and 
 when Patience returned to the family party, preparations for tea 
 were beginning. The little parlor opened into the small kit- 
 chen, and Robert, the eldest boy, was kneeling down before the 
 parlor-stove, blowing up the flame he had just lighted. Polly, 
 the second girl, was setting out the tea-things ; and the moment 
 Betsy returned, she began to take her part 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 sHces 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 ?" ii qiured the 
 
246 MINIeJTERINQ CHILDREN 
 
 motLer, still wringing 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 need of patience her<% 
 though there is no hardship for all that ! I hope you have at. 
 apron ?" . . 
 
 " Yes, in my bundle," replied Patience. 
 
 "Have it on then, as fast as you can!" And up stairs 
 Patience ran with a light quick step, there was something so 
 animating in the universal stir below stairs, that she longed to 
 be one among them 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 parlor fire." 
 So Patience gathered up the cinders, and laid them on the top 
 of the knobs 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 had drawn the chintz 
 curtain within; Polly had lighted one sohtary candle and set it 
 in the middle of the tea-table ; the mother had wrung out the 
 last little garment — and the whole collection lay piled in the 
 large white basket ; the water was poured from 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 all went to tea. The baby sleeping in its 
 cradle had waked 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 parlor-fire, received it The chil- 
 dren dragged out their stools and chairs, Jttle Esther, the child 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 247 
 
 of five years — not having yet learned the division of labor, 
 pulled hard at a parlor chair for herself with one hand, and at 
 the poor little cripple's high chair with the other. Patience 
 caught sight, amid the active group, of little Esther's attempt, 
 and, running up to her, reached over her head, and laying hold 
 of both chairs pulled gently also, when, to the child's perfect 
 satisfaction, both chairs moved slowly and steadily to the table. 
 Esther would 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 
 parlor chair, gravely observing, " I did pull two chair !" And 
 through ihe heart of Patience passed a warm feeling for the 
 child ; and a sense of active life, with its native charm of cheer- 
 ful energy, rose still more freshly within her at this first success- 
 ful 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 chair !" and Betsy said, " Good Esther !" ar.d 
 hastened away to fix up the next baby of eighteen mouths 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 to her of 
 food, but Patience, whose attention was 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 but- 
 ter, 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, while 
 all the little ones looked on. This divided labor was quickly 
 
248 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 accomplished, after which the mother stood up witn her baoe 
 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 hoarty 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 
 to good order, found no pleasure in confusion ; and having had 
 no food since their early frugal dinner, their 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 in 
 their arms to bed, and the mother bid Patience follow with 
 Esther, who looked very grave, but quite willing to go with her 
 helper of the tea-table. Patience found that Esther was to share 
 hor 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 parlor, the tea-table was cleared of all that had been 
 used, and what remained wa.s set in order for the father's return ; 
 .;he 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. 
 "Die 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 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 249 
 
 was no damer, she had never been taught, for there ai"e bat few 
 schools in which any pains is taken to +,each children to mend, 
 though to the children of the poor the skill to mend 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 would begin, and the timid child, only so lately 
 warmed with the glow of kindness, dreaded a sharp word more 
 than any thing ! But shai'p words were not given in this her 
 new abode without a needs be. The good mistress saw the 
 color 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 
 beginning !" So Patience took her seat by her mistress, and 
 learned to dam, 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 sit- 
 tmg 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 iu 
 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 to eight, no more time was given, as the les- 
 sons were not hard or long, and learned in less time whenever 
 the children were diligent ; and the mother's principle was, nei- 
 ther in work nor lessons to allow time to be wasted. Then the 
 girls sat down to their work of mending or making, and Robert 
 to knilting — the boys being never idle when the girls were 
 
250 MINISTEUING CHI1.DKE1J 
 
 busy. Presently home came the father to their glad weicome ; 
 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 chiMren brought theirs. Patience was sent 
 to fetch her's — her own little Bible that Miss Wilson had taken 
 her in her first place of service ; and then father and mothei 
 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 ofiered 
 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 sui'prise she found her work 
 was done ; in fact every body's work was done, for all the house 
 was in order, and Patience went up to her closet of a room 
 where Httle Esther lay sleeping. With what a thankful heart 
 did the orphan child offer up her evening thanksgiving and 
 prayer ! and then taking her ti'easured 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 of her own. 
 
 The next morning her mistress called her at six o'clock, and 
 to her mistress's surprise Patience came out from her closet 
 ready dressed. She had heard her mistress rising, and had 
 risen herself. 
 
 " What, up and dressed !" said her mistress ; " 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 
 
MINISTERING CHILDKEN. 251 
 
 itself, to light up the back-kitchen fire ; then to brighten up 
 and lay the parlor fire, while Betsy followed to sweep the 
 room and dust the chairs ; and while the chairs were dusting, 
 Polly set the breakfast. Robert was out in the little garden fix- 
 ing the linen poles ; and Thomas the second boy, chopping 
 wood and filling the coal-scuttle, while the good mother fried 
 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 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 repeated a 
 text from the Holy Bible, and the father asked Patience if she 
 could remember one, and Patience repeated the words — " I love 
 them that love Me ; and those that seek Me early shall find 
 Me." After breakfast the father read a Psalm, then offered up 
 the morning prayer, and hastened away to be at the shop by 
 eight o'clock. Then Patience went up stairs with Betsy and 
 Polly to dress the children — the mother prepared their break- 
 fast ; 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 some- 
 times 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 w?lk together — Robert and Betsy taking charge. Then 
 
262 MINISTElllNU CHILDREN. 
 
 Patience and her mistress ironed away till one o'clock, when 
 they all returned. Betsy and Polly made ready the little ones ; 
 Kobert 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 secret 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, wi'ote 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 in Mr. Mansfield's shop, wheref 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 
 stout and strong, 'seemed made for untiring work. She had 
 taught Esther her own short morning and evening prayers — 
 learned by her when at school, and the little girl now never 
 lay down at night or rose up in the morning without oflTering 
 them up. She had become a monthly subscriber to the Church 
 Missionary Society — her master with his ten children was a 
 subscriber ; the children would often earn or save some offering 
 for it also ; and when Patience received her monthly wages, 
 6he always paid sixpence for the same blessed object. A year 
 passed away, and Patience went to call on Miss Wilson, but 
 Miss Wilson did not know her — could not believe the change, 
 till on talking with lier she found this rosy, strong, active- 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 253 
 
 looking gir], full of life and cheerful spirits, was tlie pale, thin, 
 silent child, she had known so long at school. Patience told 
 Miss Wilson of her happy life in her mistress's house — ^with ten 
 children, and she, 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. 
 
 Rose had done with school, happy at the thought of living 
 always at home. It was not long, however, before her happiness 
 met her first sorrow in the loss of Miss CHfibrd — she had stood 
 between her father and William at the funeral, and in the long 
 summer days she and little Mercy had cried together. The 
 yellow harvest came ; and when the reapers' work was done 
 and the last sheaf carried, and 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 
 had sung the " Harvest Home ;" and the fields were left bare ; 
 and the thresher's flails sounded from the barn : then another 
 sorrow came for little Rose — 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 had always been a favorite with his uncle, and now 
 tiis uncle's son had left the shop to follow a business he liked 
 better, and the place of trust which he had held was offered to 
 William, and a high salary was offered with it — for his uncle 
 washed much to have him, and knowing William's- love for the 
 farm-work, he was afraid unless he made the offer very tempt- 
 ing, that it would be declined. But it was not money that 
 would have tempted William away from his father's farai, if it 
 jad not been for his father's and his young brother's sakes. It 
 
254 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 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 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 
 might put him in difficulty again. William worked like a 
 laborer on the farm, 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 pro- 
 vide for theuu If William went to London, it was not unlikely 
 that he mia:ht find situations for some of his brothers there. 
 So fanner Smith decided that WilHam 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 he 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 nev^er gave so much as one pleasant look, 
 from the time that it was decided for William to go. 
 
 Mr. Chfibrd 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 en- 
 tered, out of breath with haste. 
 
 " 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 
 \s from the place for any thing, and I am sure he would not go 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 256 
 
 if he could lielp it ! don't you think something could be done 
 to prevent it, papa f 
 
 " We must first know whether his friends and himself would 
 wish any thing to be done to hinder his going ; perhaps they 
 may feel it to be to his future 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 and tell you." 
 
 So the father sufiered the boy to go in his warm impulse to 
 the farm ; seated in the great farm-kitchen he gave full expres- 
 sion 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 home-made 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 child 
 as he was, told him the hopes he had built on his eldest son's de- 
 parture, as if he had been a long-trusted friend — a due recom^ 
 pense for the boy's warm feeling ! Herbert returned to his father 
 more than ever interested for the Smiths, and for William in par- 
 ticular — 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 warm feeling that had been expressed soothed th^ 
 pain he 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 softened into more gentleness on the subject, now she 
 knew that her favorite William was not likely to be forgotten in 
 his native village. Such the large results that oftentimes might 
 
266 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 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. Clit- 
 ford his anxiety and regret, that Herbert engaged by so many 
 objects of interest, did not make the progress he could wish in 
 his books. 
 
 Mr. Clifford replied, " It is very natural, and very right, that 
 you should feel anxious on such a subject ; but we shall gain 
 nothing by straining a point, no compulsion will implant the 
 love of books ; and we have need to remember that books are 
 but the scaffolding for erecting the mental structure. A mere 
 man of books is rather a ready-made collection of material, than 
 a living influence. It is my belief that a circle of human life, 
 gathered by sympathy's natural tie around a child, exercising 
 every good and self-denying feeling the young spirit has, is 
 likely to rear and leave a far nobler character, far more excels 
 ling in power and influence, than the mere student of books. 
 But I would not have you discouraged even as to Herbert's 
 book-learning — I find him an increasingly intelligent companion, 
 awake to every subject I bring before him, his mind free and 
 unburdened by the weight of mere acquirement. He is follow- 
 ing on in the right order — things Heavenly before 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 poverty 
 may yet bnng down his country's blessing on his head." 
 
 The tutor pressed his patron's hand and withdi'ew. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 keI" — Luke xvi 25. 
 
 "TiniEN the next summer-time had come, filling the land with 
 "' beauty, and fragrance, and plenty — telling of His rich 
 bounty who " is kind to the unthankful and to the evil," " and 
 sendeth rain on the just and the unjust," a messenger anived at 
 the Hall, 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." Herbert 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 he wished 
 before he died to do something for old Willy *?— but old Willy 
 bad all he wanted now ! 
 
 Herbert arrived at the house, and one of Mr. Sturgeon'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. 
 Yon 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 fel- 
 low-men, I- have heard th^ best of preachers and the best o<* 
 
258 MiNISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 discourses, but from all this I could — I did sliield myself. OIl, 
 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 Herbert 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 l^rned by heart. " It is written 
 in the Bible," said Herbert, " ' The prayer of faith shall save the 
 sick, and the Lord shall raise him up ; and if he have com- 
 mitted 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 
 I turn I seem to hear a voice, and it says to me, " Son, remem- 
 ber ;" — ^it says no more, but in those words there seems destruc- 
 tion. I do nothing but remember, and in remembrance there 
 seems despair !" 
 
 *' But," said Herbert, " our Saviour said we were to remember 
 Him — and that must be hope 1" 
 
 " Yes, I know it — He said we were to remember Him ! and 
 if I had remembered Him then, now I might have hope ; but 
 I have lived to forget Him — I have forgotten Him in the very 
 church, where I professed to worship Him — I have forgotten 
 Him in secret, where I might have found Him and made Him 
 my own forever — I have forgotten Him in business, where I 
 have taken the opinions of man, and not the heart-searching law 
 of Christ for my rule — I have forgotten Him in the world, 
 where I have been more careful to honor myself than to show 
 forth His praise — I have forgotten Him in my so-called chaiities, 
 
p. 25S. 
 
MINISTEiiING CHILDREN. 259 
 
 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 Him, and now He knows me not !" 
 
 The dying man made no mention of old Willy ; he could 
 take a just estimate of sin now, and the sin of forgetting God, 
 of thinking more of himself than of Hina — ^the Lord of Glory 
 — who died to open Heaven's gate to sinners, swallowed up the 
 sense of all beside. He 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 freely that you was right 
 and I was wrong, and that ' the way of transgressors is hard !' 
 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, and 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 cot*^ge. 
 Swiftly had he run up that same path at the head of the 
 game-keeper's boys, to rear up a blazing fire on old Willy's 
 hearth ; he had rushed up the same nan-ow 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 with light foot, bearing 
 the old man's coat, his father's Christmas gift : but now his step 
 
260 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 was slowor, 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 speak, to hear him tell of Heaven 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 awake his aged friend ; he stopped and looked at him — his 
 feeble, wasted frame, his white locks on his shoulders, his labor- 
 worn hands ; and that green life and fragrant blossoming of 
 nature round him — ^its bright freshness in strong contrast with 
 his withered form. Herbert felt how he loved that lone and 
 frail old man ; and as he felt how he loved him, he looked on 
 the cottage his love had prepared — there rose the firm whit© 
 walls, its close-fitting window and door, its warm and sheltering 
 roof; there lay the little garden before it, where plant, and herb, 
 and tree seemed to grow rejoicingly out of the ground — ^pleas- 
 ant to the eye, and good for the food of that old man : and then 
 in the hush of that summer 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 to see Him whose wordS then spoke within him ; 
 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 from 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 or sleepeth, and He hath said, " If thou draw 
 out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul, then 
 shall thy light rise in obscmity, and thy darkness as the noon- 
 day!" 
 
 Now Herbert felt as if he no longer needed to stay and 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 261 
 
 speak to old Willy, for Heavenly peace had come without ; 
 and thouirh he still felt solemnized and sad — ^for the sorrow 
 he 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 !" 
 
 " What for ?" asked Herbert, as he turned again, and sitting 
 down on the bench laid his hand, on old Willy's arm, making 
 him sit down by his side. 
 
 " Do you know, Willy, that Mr. Sturgeon is dying ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; sure ! not dying !" 
 
 •* Yes, they think him Hying ! and he sent for me, to tell me 
 that I was right when I pleaded for you : but, O Willy, it was 
 dreadful, for he has no hope, and I could not comfort him !" 
 
 " Well, 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 Hope be not 
 there, 'tis better to have lost hold of every other ; for then maybe 
 they will feel after the true Hope and find it : maybe they will 
 look up to their Saviour from the very gate of death itself as the 
 dying thief did. Oh what a look he 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 Willy fervently. 
 
 " Oh, I wish he might !" exclaimed Herbert. And then giving 
 a smile to old Willy, in which love and hope struggled with hia 
 lingering sadness of expression he departed. 
 
262 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 Tlie dying man passed away from Earth, and never could the 
 boy, througli life, forget the death-bed where the Saviour was 
 not. 
 
 The traces of bereavement and sorrow were marked most 
 visibly in Mr. Clifford. The mother and the boy 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 turned ; they 
 had taken their departed Mary's bright ministry, and the heai'ts 
 that mourned for her now looked to them for comfort. To 
 Mrs. Clifford the personal work was new, and its results 
 charmed with the sweet surprise of a power to bless, compara- 
 tively untried before. And then she was not companionless in 
 the work ; her boy, her precious boy, once so wild and willful, 
 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 by 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. It soon 
 became evident how high the fountain of eternal Truth rues 
 above its purest streams, how deep the well-spring of eternal 
 Love, compared with the most purified of earthly vessels. 
 Continual converse with the Dinne Word irradiated all his life 
 with Heavenly Light — the " conversation in Heaven," the con- 
 stant thought for others, the tone of deeper feeling, the calmer 
 firmness even of censure, all bore witness of a drawing nearer 
 to the Home of perfect Love and Truth, a rising now in spirit 
 to breathe more of its pure atmosphere while still on Eaith. 
 But failing health denied him all active effort ; and his bowed 
 form and feebler step told of Earth's decay. Change of scene 
 and climate were urged as the only hope of imparting new 
 vigor. Mr. Clifford at first refused, but at last yielded te Mrs. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 263 
 
 Clifford's anxiety a reluctant consent, and arrangements wer<5 
 made without delay for going tliat autumn to Italy. 
 
 Wlien Mr. Clifford had consented to leave his home for a 
 foreign land, he sent for the aged Minister of the place, and re- 
 ceiving him alone in his study, addressed him, sajring, " 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 He in whose light alone any 
 can see the light of Life you shew 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 alone He can bo 
 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 to- 
 ward you and toward all men, one whom you may make a 
 stay and comfort in your declining years ; but one also who will 
 teach and preach Chnst Jesus — 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 
 
264 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 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 m the gospel." 
 
 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 of his people who 
 wept at their young teacher's grave, then in old Willy's simple 
 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 de- 
 pendants 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 shoulder of his boy, on whom 
 he leaned '.'then uncovering his head, he said, in a voice dis- 
 tinctly heard, " My friends, 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 may be ; but our own feelings must some- 
 times yield to the judgment of others. I wished, before I left, to 
 thank you for the affection you- have manifested toward 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 fiiendliness 
 of feeling toward them, to come and state it to me before I go, 
 that, God permitting, I may leave no thorn behind in any heart 
 without the prayerful effort to remove it thence. For all in 
 which I have been wanting toward you, I ask your forgiveness 
 in the s^'ght of Heaven : and most of all, that I have not done 
 
MINI3TERING CHILDREN. 266 
 
 more to teach you the good and the right way. I have desired 
 you should know it, but I have made too Httle effort to accom 
 plish that desire ; I pray you seek it for yourselves more 
 earnestly than I have sought it for you, for the promise that 
 they shall find the Lord and Giver of Life is given to none but 
 those who seek with all their heart. One blessed child I had 
 who hved and died among you, and I may safely say to you, 
 * Be ye followers of her, as she was of Christ.' I commend 
 my son to your prayers, that he may have gi*ace from above to 
 commend himself to your affections. And now, my friends, * 1 
 commend you to God, and to the Word of His grace, which ia 
 able to build you up, and to give you an inheritance 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 see 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, and age, and place of 
 residence, and this text, " Remember ye not, that when I was 
 with you, I told you these things ?" 
 
 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 every body will be kind to you when they 
 know I am gone !" And the old man blessed him, weeping ! 
 The family drove from the Hall — the road side lined with those 
 v/ho 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 
 impetuosity of his character deepened into quiet strength. Mr. 
 Clifford lived six months abroad, and then he died. He said, 
 " I have not the same radiant sunbeam of faith that lighted my 
 
 12 
 
266 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 xMaiy's steps througli the valley of the shadow of death ; hut 
 I have the peace of an assured hope that my Saviour hath loved 
 me, and washed me from my sins in His own blood ; and that 
 because He lives, I shall live also." 
 
 Mrs. Chflford felt unable to return to her home after this be- 
 reavement ; 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 
 parting gift to Herbert. With this he would wander forth be- 
 fore his mother's time of rising, while the early morning glowed 
 in rose and purple on the snowy mountain heights and the 
 overhanging clouds, winding alone through the steep mountain- 
 path ; or, when evening fell, 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 whose span 
 was infinite, and date eternal — with that wondrous Book, Her- 
 bert would talk to the benighted sailors, or the traveling 
 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 beauty ; the volume 
 of man's recorded thoughts ; and the volume of Di^^ne Inspi- 
 ration. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Pure religion and nndefiled before God and tie Father Is this, To visit tho father^ 
 leas and widows in tlieir affliction, and to keep Idmself unspotted from the world." 
 —James i. 27. 
 
 " Why should we fear, youth's draught of joy, 
 If pure, would sparkle less ? 
 Why should the cup the sooner cloy, 
 Which God hath deigned to bless ?'* 
 
 rpHE arrival of the curate in the village was a subject of great 
 -*- interest, and . tended more than any other event probably 
 could, to alleviate the sorrow felt on the departure of the Squire's 
 family. Many there were who went to church on the first Sun- 
 day, in expectation and hope, and among these was little Rose ; 
 her face gathered bngktness when the prayers were read with 
 fervent distinctness, but as the new minister preached, it became 
 beaming with joy ; and no sooner had they passed the Church's 
 door, than Rose exclaimed, " Oh, father ! that is just liko our 
 Minister at school, that is exactly how he preached, Oh, I am so 
 glad ! Did you not like that father ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear, I could sit all day to hear such 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 she was too full of delight to question the possibility 
 of any one feeling different ; so she ran into the family kitchen, 
 
268 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 and exclaimed at once, " Oli, 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 !" 
 
 " What ! did you not like it, mother ?" 
 
 " Like it, child ! I don't know who would like to be told that 
 when they had done their best, and lived respected as I have 
 done, and always kept their church, that for all that they must 
 turn and seek the same way to Heaven as the worst of sin- 
 ners !" 
 
 " O, mother ! that is because Jesus our Saviour is the way, as 
 the minister said in his text — ' No man cometh unto the Father 
 but by Me.' " 
 
 " Well, child, I don't know as to what the way may be, I only 
 know I have lived a very diflferent life from many, and I don't 
 choose to be mixed up with them, as if I were the same as 
 they !" 
 
 " But, mother, it 's because Jesus our Saviour is the only way 
 to Heaven, and every one must come to Him who wants to go 
 to Heaven ; and He can take 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 ; but 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 disappointments 
 From this time Mrs. Smith made a point of never going to 
 church when she knew the cui'ate was to preach ; her temper 
 became more trying to all around her, and if it had not been 
 for the comfort of the Sunday's sermons. Rose and her father 
 would have found it hard to keep up their spirits through the 
 week. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 2G9 
 
 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 hia 
 staflp, 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 hia 
 young master ; and he said it was a heart-aflfecting thing that 
 he, an old man as he was, should hve to see the young and 
 good pass clear away like that — one taken up above, and the 
 other into foreign parts ! Eut 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 again 
 before I die !" The faithful Jem 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 care — ^there, early and late, was heard 
 his busy spade ; it was Jem who dug up and stowed under 
 gi'ound the bright red potatoes, to protect them from the snow ; 
 Jem, who managed to buy the old man's coals at less cost in 
 the town, and brought them back in a return waggon 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 William left 
 his home, and he had not been down once to visit it. Hia 
 
270 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 father had written in the autumn, and wi'itten again at Christ- 
 mas, to ask him to come ; but William returned for answer that 
 he could see no prospect yet of doing any thing 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, and not return to his work in Lon- 
 don any more. But he sent his love to his mother, and he still 
 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 
 first ; 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 sfee 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 afiairs 
 were left in such perfect order, that no tenant's sense of the loss 
 of a friend was turned into anxiety as to pei*sonal concerns ; all 
 felt a friend and counselor 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 moumed 
 the loss, and doubted now that he should ever live to see his 
 young master any more ! 
 
 The hay-time was scarcely over when an invitation came to 
 Rose fi'om 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 countiy -house, 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 27l 
 
 Bome 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 besides. Her uncle's house was very differ- 
 ent from her home ; there was a carpet all over the floor, 
 paintings round the room, a pier-glass over the mantle-piece, 
 and more than one sofa ! Her aunt and cousins were very kind 
 to her as well as her uncle ; but 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 of the sights that make the great city so famous — Rose 
 saw the wild beasts ; she saw also the Tower, where, in days 
 gone by, so many a noble prisoner heard the key turn that sepa- 
 rated between him and all he loved on earth forever. Rose saw 
 the river with its forest of masts ; she saw the street again, and 
 wondered how they could be all so 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 would go home again 
 She saw but little of William ; he could seldom get down, ex 
 cept on Sundays, and then she could not talk much to him, 
 before her aunt and cousins. 
 
 Had the ministering child then nothing to do for others away 
 from her home ? 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 very 
 happy, and did not seem really to want her ; her uncle was very 
 kiad to her, but he never seemed to want her ; the servants, too, 
 were attentive to her, but they looked well and satisfied. Wil- 
 liam could seldom come ; and Rose thought of her own villajjo 
 
272 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 far away — she knew mat tnere were many who wanted her 
 there ; some of the poor old people wanted her, she knew ; and 
 her father she knew must miss her sadly, and little Tim, and 
 her mother also — and Rose felt she would rather be where she 
 was really wanted, than seeing all the fine sights in the world. 
 Was there no one, then, who wanted Rose 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. He 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 ladj 
 went round to collect a little money, that a mangle or some- 
 thing 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 something to get her a living with ; and she is so 
 distracted wdth grief 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 
 w^ould 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 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 narrow pathway that 
 led to the house ; she thought if she could not comfort her she 
 could give her some money sh i had, that would buy her food 
 
^^'^'"oT". 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 273 
 
 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 widow looking very pale, as if she had 
 cried for days and nights. 
 
 " I am so sorry for you," said Rose, " I came to see you !" The 
 poor woman sat down, and wiped away her tears with hei 
 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 for 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 in the morning to take her into London to the 
 coach ; and as soon as he was alone with Rose in 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 ?" Rose 
 promised not to tell, and William talked low and 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 
 ^tood her father, and the horse in the gig, waiting for her. Very 
 joyful was the meeting between Rose and her father. " And 
 
274 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 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 !" repHed Kose, 
 " 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 always, for any 
 money ! but he would not leave it 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 any thing 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." 
 
 " father, Will does not pine up there ! Why, he is grown 
 into such a man as you would never believe — and as busy as 
 any thing. I wish you could see him ; and I know a secret, 
 father, only I am not to tell you or any one, so you won't say 
 any thing, 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 subject-matter of a secret was not revealed, the 
 fact of its existence could only be an allowable communication 
 of satisfying interest ; 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 intima- 
 tion of the existence of a secret — ^for how should her inexpe- 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 276 
 
 rienced childhood understand a parent's anxious question- 
 ing! 
 
 Chestnut in the gig trotted swiftly along, and Rose soon gave 
 a shout at siarht of her home — with its white vine-covered walls, 
 its sheltering barns and stacks ; and then the yard-boy driving 
 Fillpail, and Cowslip, and Rosebud, and all their companions 
 lack from the 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 her mother, in her afternoon gown of red-pat- 
 terned 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 Rose was seated down after tea, her eager brother 
 Joe and the little sprightly Ted, began their questioning, and 
 Rose with no less animation replied. At last Joe said, " Well, 
 I suppose WilHam begins to find out that there is something 
 better to be done, than walking backward and forward 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 ha\ing him back again for 
 good !" 
 
 " 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 oflf to them — I never did, 
 and I never shall see the reason of !" 
 
 " Well, wife," said Mr. Smith sorrowfully " it seemed as if it 
 
276 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 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 1 
 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 took a thing up you were for doing it — and then let the 
 feeling come after as it might. I could have told you that you 
 never would get over the loss of him, only you would not have 
 minded it if I had!" 
 
 Mr. 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. 
 
 " I wish enough," said Joe that evening to Rose, " that I had 
 not said any thing about William 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 teb 
 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 Wil- 
 liam say any thing about me ?" 
 
 Rose hesitated a little ; Joe's quick eye turned instantly at 
 her silence, and fixed upon her. " He said," rephed 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 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 277 
 
 tlieiD out again, and cutting them up for the sheep — all ovei 
 and over year after year ! what I should like, would be a mer- 
 chant's office, wnere some day I might travel, and not have 
 nothing but what grows at one's door to do with all the daya 
 of one's life ! Did Will say any thing about that ?" 
 
 " He said," replied Rose, " that he would never give up trying 
 after it, for he did not beheve that, so much as you had read 
 and thought about it, yon would ever settle to any thing else." 
 
 " What a good fellow he is !" said Joe, " he always did seem 
 to care as much about what one felt as one did one's self — 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. Juat 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 any thing to keep off that harass that's 
 always upon him ; but somehow there seems no getting on, 
 and no spirit in any thing here !" 
 
 " O, Joe, the spirit is not in things, the spirit is in us 1 I 
 have heard William say that you may put spirit into any thing ! 
 And he thinks there 's nothing like farming for the pleasure of 
 it." 
 
 " Well, I am sure father says I do work well, but William 
 eaid it was hard to settle to work you can not 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 comfort, and went 
 the nexf morning, with fresh spirit to his work. 
 
278 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 Rose was often seen looking out from door or window about 
 the hour of ten, at which time the postman generally arrived, 
 and when she saw him climbing the gTeen ascent to her home, 
 Bhe would run out to meet him and receive his store, but she 
 still always returned with slower step — no letter from 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 
 wath an open letter in his hand ! The heart of Rose beat quick 
 for she guessed that the secret had come at last ! Farmei 
 Smith shut the parlor 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 often and often 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 pro- 
 mised 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 w^as so certain nothing else would con- 
 tent him that I always kept that 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 home, I had to go a journey on busi- 
 ness 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 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 279 
 
 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 V 
 * 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 fanning, 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 nc 
 end of questions to me, and I found he knew pretty well about 
 farming himself ; he told me he was bom 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 enough now up- 
 on two years. In all that time uncle Sampson has never asked 
 me half so many questions about you, and the farm, and the 
 boys, 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 re- 
 turned to London, for he was going to return the next day. I 
 found by his card that he lived not very far from my uncle's, 
 and when I showed it to him, he told me that he knew him 
 well by name, and that he 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 ! T went down the 
 very first evening to see him ; he seemed to be living alone by 
 what I could make out, m a beautiful house, and certainly he 
 was one of the pleasantest persons I ever spoke to ; he remem- 
 
280 MINISTERING OHILDREN. 
 
 bered every word I had told him, and there I sat, talking to 
 him, just as if I had been at home. Well, it so happened that 
 Joe being so much on my mind, I had told all about him out' 
 side 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 liked 
 to speak about it then, I could not have done it half so well. 
 The old gentleman never said a word of what I was so full of 
 hope about, and when I went away I thought all was over, for 
 he only said he should hope to see me again some day. Well, 
 two days ago what should come but a note from him to invite 
 me to dine with him. And then he told me that he had called 
 on my uncle, and satisfied himself as far as he could, that 
 he was not venturing too much, and that he now offered me a 
 situation in his office for my younger brother, provided he 
 proved capable on trial. 'But,' he said, 'rpy premium is 
 a hundred pounds ; I require two hundred with the sons of 
 gentlemen, and I have never taken any with less ; do you 
 think your father can provide that sum?' Well, I knew, 
 let it be where it would in a merchant's office, there must be a 
 premium, and I would not for any thing have put a hinderance 
 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 r*eady at once, saved out 
 of these two years : then, to meet the rest there is but one 
 
MIKISTERING CHILDREN. 281 
 
 thing to be done, Black Beauty must be sold ; don't keep vex- 
 ing about it ; but let it be done, and you will never repent it, 
 I say the more because I know you will think most about mo 
 in selling him, but I have made up my mind, and it would 
 hml 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 her another such, some day, when I am your 
 farming-man again ; he ought to fetch seventy pounds to say 
 the least, but if you can not 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 any thing 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 ?" / 
 
 " And what do you mean to do ?" asked Mrs. Smith of hei 
 husband. 
 
 " Well, I suppose we" can't do better than take William's ad- 
 vice ; these are no times to bring up five boys on one smaU 
 farm, and Joe has no mind to the work.'^ 
 
282 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " 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 WilHam says ?" asked 
 the father of his little daughter. 
 
 " O yes, father ; Joe is bent on. London, and 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 contrary, 
 makes them a heavy burden. I am sure I am sorry enough 
 foi the poor beast ; but it 's better than borrowing !" and farmer 
 Smith took his. hat; and Rose ran to 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, by which 
 it was to be obtained. Joe rushed to the house, wild with joy. 
 The first person he found was his mother. 
 
 " mother ! I am to be a merchant, after all ! William has 
 found me a place in London !" 
 
 " Well, 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 
 T dare say you will like London no better !" 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 288 
 
 " Why, mother, Will never did like it ; lie always said it was 
 only for us he went away ; but it 's the very thing I have al- 
 ways longed for, so I ."im 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 can not be helped !" 
 
 "What horse, father?" 
 
 " Did not Rose tell you ? We must sell Black Beauty, to 
 pay the premium." 
 
 " Sell Black Beauty, father ! no, that you must not ; William 
 would never bear the sight of me, if his horse had been sold to 
 get me up there : I 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. " Well, 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 car- 
 riage ; and he had more thaji 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 caUing 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 he made no inquiry as to why the horse had to be 
 Bold ; he only said, " T have stated the price I will give, you must 
 
284 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 take it or not, as seems best to you." Farmer Smith sat a fei» 
 minutes in harassed thought; he wished his little Rose had 
 been at his side, to say one way or the otl >er ; at last, feeling for 
 the creature outweighed the hope of a larger price, and he re- 
 plied, " 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 from Molly what. was about to happen, came 
 running and crying as he ran, and hsping out his sobs, " No, no, 
 naughty man. Black Booty not go ; Will said, ' Tim, take care 
 of Black Booty !' " Ted had filled a measure to the 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 face to him, 
 as if to caress and soothe. 
 
 Then fanner Smith and the coachman entered. Farmer 
 Smith looked on the group one moment in silent feeling almost 
 as strong as his children's, then stroking down his favorite's silky 
 mane, he said, " There 's the horse ; I give him to you in good 
 condition, and a better horse you can not find." 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 286 
 
 ** I am sorry for you sir," said tlie coacliman ; and farmer 
 Smith left the stable, unable to stay and witness the scene. 
 
 " You will let him get his supper first ?" said Ted, look- 
 ing up, and holding the measure afi'esh 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 its 
 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, his 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 led the horse at once away, but the creature threw 
 up his head, his eyes that had looked so mildly on the child 
 grew fierce and snorting, he seemed to bid the stranger defi- 
 ance in his attempt to secure and lead him away. Then Joe 
 looked up in blank distress, and said, " It 's of no iJse, 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 he has to go !" 
 So Joe took the halter, the creature hung down his head and 
 followed, and the children followed also — little Tim stampiDg 
 with impotent distress. The heavy laden wagon coming in at 
 the stack-yard gat« stood still, and the men looked round to 
 watch ; and the laborers, winding up the hill with their rakea 
 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 Mr. 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 hung their arms round his neck and left 
 
286 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 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 !" 
 
 " 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 any where !" 
 
 " 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 that I should ever for- 
 get 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 
 mil." * 
 
 Perhaps Mrs. Smith was really more capable of understand- 
 mg Joe's feelings than she showed signs of being ; but so it 
 passed off, and Black Beauty's old piece of rope was tucked in 
 the corner of his box. And Joe went to London, and the mer- 
 chant 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 }^^tlet Tim. 
 And Black Beauty drew the minister's carriage. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 •"Warm'd underneath the Comforter's safe wing, 
 They spread th' endearing warmth around." 
 
 "Putting on the breastplate of faith and love."— 1 Thess. v. 8. 
 
 \TrHILE 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 gi-ew with her growth — a sympathy inherited by birth from 
 her parents, and constantly nourished by the atmosphere of he* 
 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 favorite walk with 
 Jane and her little brothers, and here they used to run, and play 
 with the snow, in the winter time, to which we have now come ; 
 — while WiUiam and Joe were together in London, 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. Thus on the fresh-blowing heath, Jane and 
 her little brothers grew rosy with their play. There were scat- 
 tered cottages and huts upon this open heath, and Jane often 
 
288 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 Stopped in her play and looked at them, or passed them by with 
 slower step — she felt that the poor were there ! But 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 smoldering 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 look- 
 ed, wondering who might live there. At last one wintery 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 beside the door ; the aged woman 
 wore an old print gown, with a small black shawl pinned over 
 her shoulders, and an old black bonnet on her head, her head 
 shook with the palsy of age, and it was evident at first sight 
 that she was old and poor — very old, and very poor. 
 
 " Look nurse," said Jane, " that poor old woman lives there 1" 
 
 " 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 round 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 win- 
 tery wind. Jane watched her as she passed, but said no more 
 to 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, an<^ 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 289 
 
 her head shook, and she was hanginp" 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 cottage — alone 
 by itself! I am sure she is very poor, and she must be very 
 cold." 
 
 " I don't think I know any thing of her," replied Mrs. Mans- 
 field ; " 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." 
 " O, 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 any thing 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." 
 
 " O, 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 make it, and take it to her some day 
 in your walk with nurse." 
 
 "Do you mean I may take it 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 ?" 
 
 " 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 often suffer a great deal ; and when 
 
 thev havf» not the fear and love of God to comfort them, suffer- 
 
 13 
 
290 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 ing often makes them speak, and feel, and act as they would not 
 if they knew the love of God." 
 
 " Can not 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 patient — even 
 in suffering. So when we find any one unkind to us, whether 
 poor or rich, we must try and show them 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." 
 
 "Then if the old woman is unkind, what will you do, 
 liiamma 1" 
 
 " I do not think she will be : but if she should, we must speak 
 Jie more gently and kindly to her, and perhaps she will soon 
 £nd that we want to be a help and comfort to her, and then she 
 will be glad to see us ; and our love may lead her, perhaps, 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." 
 
 Jane was satisfied, and asked no more ; she had learned an 
 added lesson of truth ; no suspicion had been taught her ; her 
 liiother had only reminded her of the fact — that from sin's evil 
 root we must not be surprised to find its bitter fruit ; and 
 she had bound upon her child " the breastplate of faith and 
 love," to shield her from the painful effects of a surprise, llie 
 youngest soldier of the cross needs to be so prepared and 
 guarded, when venturing on ground untried by others for his 
 sleps ; and care is needed — is greatly needed — lest the older 
 mind should teach by infusing suspicion and doubt, instead of 
 giving the simple knowledge of the universal fact of man's evil 
 heart, and carefully binding on the child's young spirit that 
 breastplate of faith and love which can alone guard it for ita 
 safe conflict with the world. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 291 
 
 The next day Jane set off witli her mother for the cottage on 
 the heath. It was true she walked with more silent question 
 ings in her heart — 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 pre- 
 pared 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 ?" 
 
 " It 's no place to come into," said the aged woman, " but you 
 can if you like." 
 
 So 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. Man* 
 field. 
 
 " Yes, it 's enough to perish an old woman like me ; but 1 
 could never make up the high rent down in the town, so I am 
 forced to bear it as I can." 
 
 " We thought that you might like a coal-ticket ; they are giv- 
 ing some in the town ; do you know about them !" 
 
 " Oh yes ! I know 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 could not carry them yourself; but I see some other 
 cottages near ; perhaps you have a neighbor who ccnld ?" 
 
 " No, there 's no one who neighbors 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." 
 
 " Could you not manage if you had a shilling with it ? Then 
 
292 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 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, thcK ? I have a pen 
 and ink in my basket" 
 
 " You can 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 His 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, can not come at the understanding of it." 
 
 " Oh yes you can, by God's help. It is to the poor, above 
 all others, that the good news is sent. It is all wiitten 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." 
 
 " Oh yes, you are quite fit for that ; there are many who have 
 worshiped 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 am 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 you — those blessed words that are writteo 
 for the poor 1" 
 
MINISTEEING CHILDREN. 293 
 
 " I an) sure you are very good !" said the ola 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 from her old 
 tt^oman. 
 
 " No, dear, she was not at all unkind, 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 
 sooi 1 begin to love you, Jane ; and then perhaps you may teach 
 her to know the love of God her Saviour, and then she will soon 
 feel very different, and look very different." 
 
 " Shall I go to-morrow, mamma ?" 
 
 " No, I dare say she will go for her coals to-morrow ; 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 every 
 hing !" 
 
 " But I mean her tea-pot, mamma ; did you see it was tied 
 together with a string ?" 
 
 "No, I did not se^that. 
 
 " It was, indeed, mamma ! How much would a tea-pot cost ?" 
 
 " You could get a small black tea-pot for tenpence." 
 
 " Ten 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 pewtei 
 tea-pot, a good deal bent, but it has no holes in it." 
 
 " May I take it, then, mamma, when X go 2" 
 
294 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " Yes, and if you like, you shall make her a warm garment, 
 and take lier that as a present from me." So Jane, with delight, 
 gave her play-time to work, till in three days the garment was 
 ready ; 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 a parcel, the happy child set forth with her 
 brothers and her nurse. O, how she longed to reach the cottage ! 
 And when at last it came in sight, she said, " Nurse, may I run 
 on now 1" and then swiftly she crossed the wintery heath, and 
 knocked at the old woman's door. 
 
 " 0, it 's you r' 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 !" 
 
 " Why, I never had the like of this before !" said the old wo- 
 man, with evident surprise. 
 
 "And mamma said I might bring you this tea-pot," 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. 
 
 " No, I am not busy, I have nothing to be busy about." 
 
 « Shall I stay a little while ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear, if you can content yourself." 
 
 " O 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 Heaven in the Revelation," said 
 Jane ; and she read from the seventh chapter of Revelation, the 
 ninth verse to the end of the chapter. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 206 
 
 ** It 's very fine, I dare say," said the old woman, ** for those 
 who can get hold of it, but I have no understanding." 
 
 " Can not you understand it V asked Jane, with disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 " 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 them once over again 1" 
 
 " As you please," replied the old woman, " but 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, God's Son, because he died for us !" said 
 Jane. Then Jane read on about the white robes, and stopped 
 again, and said, " Every body in Heaven wears a white robe, 
 because Jesus has washed them all white in His blood ! I can 
 teach you a prayer about that — ^it is a veiy short prayer out of 
 the Bible — " Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow." Do 
 Bay it after me, and then you will know it !" 
 
 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 
 w^oman's heart, before we can estimate the value of the lesson 
 given and received. " Wash me !" there lay the assertion of 
 her need of cleansing — a need only to be truly learned from the 
 entrance of that Word that enlightenefh the eyes. " Whiter 
 
296 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 than snow ;*" — there lay the assurance that there was a power 
 that could make clean, make 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 thus jBxed within the heart, the nail i& 
 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. 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 neat- 
 est 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. Mansfield found a shawl 
 of her o^vn for the old woman ; and so, richly laden and over- 
 flowing 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 woman — ^tears 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 wanned and cheered her ; there were tones that make 
 the heart's music now on earth for her ; and, led by these, she 
 
l-. 200. 
 
vi^^^"or\,c. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 297 
 
 went to hear of the love that these bore witness to — the love 
 that passeth knowledge ! 
 
 Before the cold of winter had passed away, Jane discovered 
 that her own old woman had stiff limbs from rheumatism ; she 
 told this, as she told every thing, to her mother ; and on Mrs. 
 Mansfield's learning from Jane that the old woman's floor was 
 often damp, and she without any covering for it, Mrs. Mansfield 
 found up a variety of pieces of carpet, some old and some new, 
 and showed Jane how to join them. With an old 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 rugs. 
 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-colored 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 vaiiety of patterns and colors the old 
 woman's dreary dwelling; the little window had long been 
 cleaned by the ^Id woman's own thought, to let in more light 
 for Jane to n ad, and Jane had secret thoughts of asking her 
 mother if she might not make a new curtiiin 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 vanous-shaped pieces. One day, 
 while Jane was intent on her work in the middle of tJie nursery 
 floor, the daughter of a neighbor and friend of her mother's 
 knocked at the nursery-door, and on nurse saying, " Come in," 
 she opened the door, saying, by way of excuse for her appear 
 ance there, " I found your mamma was out, and I got the serv 
 ant just 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 iiew best frock of 
 
298 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 green silk, and I shall wear it then ! What is your best 
 frock?" 
 
 " I have no best frock," said Jane, " only one old stuff and 
 one new stuff, and I wear white on Sundays in sammer, 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 frock, then?" 
 
 " 1 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 the summer-time." 
 
 " Well, but you will ask, will you not ?" 
 
 " Yes, I will ask mamma," said Jane. 
 
 " What are you dojng here, then ?" said Jane's young visitor, 
 looking down on the patchwork carpet ; " sowing 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 !" 
 
 " O, well, I don't know any old women, but if I did, I think 
 I should 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 ray old woman will like it a 
 great deal the more for my having made it. And mamma says 
 it will be much stronger and warmer than a new piece, because 
 of all the joins I have made !" 
 
 " O yes, I dare say it will ; but if you come and see me on 
 Fiiday, 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 finished 
 it, but I don't know, because mamma says she is tired of the 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 299 
 
 sight of it ; but if I don't give it to mamma, I shall find some 
 one 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 
 cliildren sitting on a stool for her ?" 
 
 " Nonsense !" said nm*se, " your mamma sees enough of chil- 
 dren sitting on stools, without your wasting your time in show- 
 ing 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 any thing for mamma," said Jane. 
 
 " Well, you may be sure your mamma is best pleased when 
 you are working for the poor ; but if you want to make some- 
 thing for her, I can tell 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 can not do netting, nurse." 
 
 " 0, 1 can soon teach you that ; if you save up youi 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 may work an liour 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 patch-work cai-pet, and Jane, with her nurse's help, carried 
 it up to the old woman, and laid it down before her wondering 
 
SOO MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 eyes, and then looked round with delighted feeling at the change 
 in the cottage, and the change in the dear old woman since the 
 day when fii-st she entered it. 
 
 The purse could not be begun till the first three-pence was 
 saved up. 
 
 " You don't know why I save up my money now, mamma !" 
 said Jane to her mother. 
 
 " No, indeed, I can not tell ; do you want a few of my pence 
 to help yours a little, that I may know the sooner ?" 
 
 " O, no, mamma, that would not do at all, it must be all my 
 own money !" but while the child answered so, she felt the con 
 fidence 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 some- 
 times 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 satisfactoiy to Jane in 
 her nurse's reply, that she thought no more upon 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, she still 
 thought it would be very pleasant to do some work with colored 
 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. " Mamma," 
 said Jane, one day, " should you think that children sitting on a 
 Btool would look pretty done in worsted-work ?" 
 
MINISTERING CHIJ.DliEN. 301 
 
 " I do not know, unless I saw tliem," replied lier 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 r' 
 
 " Yes, mamma, I should like very much, only nurse said it 
 v^ as nonsense to do children sitting on 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 sHppers, to put on 
 when he comes in from the shop ; nurse would not think that 
 nonsense." 
 
 " O, yes, I should like that a great deal the best ! May I do 
 that, mamma ?" 
 
 " Yes, you shall go to the 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 present- 
 ing her gifts, and seeing the lasting pleasure with which they 
 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 her home, every pure and hallowed 
 sympathy was strengthened in her young life by natural and 
 easy exercise. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 ■' The world's a room of sickness, where each'heart 
 Knows its own anguish and unrest ; 
 The truest wisdom there, and noblest art, 
 Is his, who skills of comfort best" 
 
 I N tbe following spring an invitation came for Rose, from her 
 ■*-. mother's only brother, a farmer on a large grass-farm in Der- 
 byshire : 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 thouglit 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 now 
 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. 
 
 When Molly, the maid at the farm, found that Rose was to 
 leave for another long visit, her patient endurance gave way to 
 despair, and after nine years' faithful service slie told her mis- 
 tress that she must leave her place — unable to bear the prospect 
 of her mistress's trying temper without Rose to soften it. Things 
 were not improved in the house by Molly's giving warning ; 
 Mrs. Smith really valued her and was very sorry to lose her j 
 302 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 803 
 
 but tlie pride of heart whicli made Mrs. Smith's temper so trying 
 to all, would not now suffer her to express any regret>— -she only 
 showed resentment at what she called Molly's ingratitude ; and 
 Rose left her home with a sorrowful heart. 
 
 When the time for Molly's departure arrived, she came to take 
 leave of hex mistress in tears-=-little Tim had run off crying, to 
 hide himself in the stable — and Molly gathered courage and 
 said, " I am sure, ma'am, I never would have left your place for 
 another, if I might have but reckoned on a, pleasant word some- 
 times ; but I don't think, since master Joe and the horse went 
 away, you have given me so much as one smile — 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 had 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 serv- 
 ant stood before her and confessed that her mistress could hav« 
 bound her to her service by a smile, when that servant was 
 really departing, Mrs. Smith found the only disguise for her 
 feeling would be silence — she did not therefore speak a word — • 
 she held out Molly's wages without looking at her, and then 
 turned another way ; while poor Molly, quite overcome by what 
 seemed to her the unkindest act of all, left the farm for her 
 mother's distant village, with a feeling of unreturned affection 
 and heart-broken 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 favorite William ; 
 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 faiiii 
 
804 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 put together, because she said, " If you make him understain^ 
 what is to be done, you may give up the worry yourself!" But 
 it was not her grandmother's and her uncle's good qualities that 
 procured such favor for Mercy, Mrs. Smith was a strict examiner 
 of each individual with whom she had to do, and nothing but 
 personal integiity 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 her 
 lack of strength ; and now that for the first time in nine years 
 the farm was left without a maid, widow Jones and Mercy both 
 came in to help. It might have been supposed that these two 
 helpers would prove equal to Molly's former service, and so they 
 might have been but for Mrs. Smith's apprehensions on Mercy's 
 behalf: "Here, give that to me, girl," she would continually say, 
 taking the work from Mercy's hands, and finishing it up with 
 equal energy and sevenfold power ; then, kindly adding, " 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's too willing, and the work 's beyond her, and 
 an orphan too as she is — I wish enough I could meet with some 
 one I should not always be afraid to put upon !" Many girls 
 came and offered themselves, but Mrs. Smith declared that there 
 was not so much as one among them who had any right 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, over-work- 
 ing her own strength, and objecting to every girl who came 
 before her, Mrs. Smith never named the absent Molly : in all the 
 vexatious trouble she daily made for herself, she cast no fresh 
 censure on Molly ; and could Molly have seen her mistress's real 
 feeling, the probability would have been her instant return to 
 offer her services again; but pride lay between Mrs. Smith'a 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 806 
 
 heart and her lips, and kept lier continually back from the con- 
 fessions 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 both felt that the best way of teach' 
 ing 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 can not 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 that the good 
 woman's resolution failed her, but now it did ; and her husband's 
 mild firamess came in to the rescue of their home principles. 
 He told Patience quietly and decidedly that he felt the time had 
 come when his girls must do all the work of their house ; that 
 both he and his wife valued her faithful services, but 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 she 
 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 color left the cheek of Patience, 
 l)ut ^AB could not speak; her master added, kindly, that they 
 should not think of parting with her till she met with a comfort- 
 able place, and that, therefore, she need feel no anxiety on that 
 subject, and then left her. When Patience returned to her mis- 
 
306 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 tress and the children, her tears broke forth, her good mistress 
 cried also, and the children cried, but her mistress making an 
 effort, said, cheerfully, " Come, child, it 's not for you to fret ; you 
 have done your duty here, and your reward will follow ; you arc 
 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 as 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 her's no longer ! she must wander out again into 
 the world her childhood found so rough ; and thoughts of her 
 early life and of her first place of se^pvice came back with a sink- 
 ing 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 serv- 
 ant girl, for your's knows the value of her place, it seems, too 
 well to leave it !" 
 
 "Ah, she is gone at last!" replied farmer Smith, gravely. 
 " Yes, her's 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 farmei 
 Smith, and Mr. Mansfield waited on his other customers. 
 
 Now, Mrs. Smith had often said that she would rather by far 
 leach a girl &rm-work and farm-ways from the beginning, than 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. S07 
 
 have one who thought herself clever at every thing ! 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 thing, or any body, and only replied to 
 fanner Smith's pleasant description : " And what 's the use of a 
 girl who 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, 1 
 suppose, as well as she learned the town ways — if she has a 
 mind to them !" 
 
 " But it is not 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. 
 
 Mr. Smith found it was hopeless to urge the point; so he 
 dropped 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 Mrs. Smith replied, that she 
 could judge about it quite as well, without having to go seven 
 miles to come to an opinion ! So Mr. Smith took his drive to 
 the town alone. He called at Mr. Mansfield's shop, and re- 
 quested 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 remained nine years ; 
 farmer Smith's <;haracter also stood very high, and Patience 
 was quite willing to go. " Moreover," the foreman added, " my 
 opinion is, that the girl will settle all the better a little distance 
 from 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 Mrs. Smith'a 
 change of feeling b\ another market-day. 
 
308 MINISTEEING CHILDREN. 
 
 The week ^^assed by ; every girl that applied for the place 
 wa? pronounced by Mrs. Smith to be as unfit as could be, and 
 the last person she would think of engaging with ! while she was 
 stil. vexed at having no servant to do the work, and protested 
 that Mercy would be ill with overdoing — but Mr. Smith heard 
 all in perfect silence. The next market-day arrived, but Mr. 
 Smith asked no questions; he prepared as usual for market; 
 when, just as with hat and whip he was leaving the house, Mi's. 
 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 Hkely to 
 come, or to stay if she did come ; but if she has a mind to come 
 after the place herself, w^hy, that 's another thing !" 
 
 "When would you like her to come then?" inquired Mr. 
 Smith, " supposing she is willing ?" 
 
 " Why, the sooner the better ! I am sure I am 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 is !" 
 
 Mr. 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 calmly, *' 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, 
 
MINISTEKING CHILDREN. 309 
 
 There stood Patience, a stout, strongly-built young woman, 
 with a fresh color and pleasant face, her dress neatness itself 
 When she saw her expected mistress. Patience made a low cour* 
 tesy, such as she had always been used to 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 unre- 
 strained, that blinded her to the feelings of others ; but when 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 made her take a comfortable tea ; and said 
 that as she w^as 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 w^ondered at the fragrance of the 
 air ; she looked over the land, and while she sighed for the sleep- 
 ing children far away, and the cheerful call of her mistress's kind 
 quick tone, chat 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 her 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 strange contrast with her active figure and step, quick 
 without haste, and quiet without dullness — it might be that the 
 exterior of her early sorrow had never been quite effaced, but 
 
810 MINISTERING CKILDREN. 
 
 left its gentlest shade upon her life's after vigor and briglitneas. 
 There was also a propriety of manner about Patience that could 
 not fail to produce a pleasing impression, and a readiness of at- 
 tention and willingness of movement that made it no effort to 
 tell her to do any thing ; while her thoughtful care more fre- 
 quently 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 con- 
 sider 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 instmction in 
 milking and other peculiarities of the daiiy. 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 to discontent. " But, 
 surely," said Mr. Smith, " the girl does every thing in as pleas- 
 ant a way as can be, and what would you have more ?" 
 
 " ! 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 
 manners are above it !" 
 
 Mrs. Smith did not know she had one beneath her roof who 
 had been humbled in sorrow's bitter school ; one who souo-ht 
 not pride but love ; whose heart no money could win to her 
 place, but which affection's power or feeling's claim could bind 
 to any service ; and 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 perhaps a dozen girls one after 
 another, for she was sure the place would nevei suit this girl, 
 and it was not likely she would find a girl in a hurry that would 
 suit her ! Mr. Smith heard in silence. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 811 
 
 The end of the week came. Patience said nothing ; so Mra. 
 Smith felt it incmnbent upon her to speak. 
 
 " Well, girl," said Mrs. Smith, " you have done full as well aa 
 any one might expect ; but of course the place is not one to suit 
 you, any oiie 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 color deepened in hei 
 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 
 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 im- 
 pression a wrong one. So Patience stayed. 
 
 But from the day on which Mrs. Smith looked upon Patience 
 as really her servant, she began her usual tone of harsh authority. 
 Patience was neither slow to learn nor frequent in forgetting ; 
 but the dread of her mistress's voice made her painfully anxious 
 about every possible thing that could be expected of her. The 
 heavy, anxious look of her childhood began again to steal over 
 and shadow the pleasant expression of her face. She would 
 stand sometimes and 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 sel- 
 dom within, always running away as soon as possible from his 
 mother's harsh voice. He was a favorite with all the laborers, 
 and they would do any thing to please him. But Jem was his 
 chief friend. From the time that William had left, he had 
 
S12 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 taken to Jem, as if lie considered him to be most like bis lost 
 brother, and no one could so easily wake the clear tones of his 
 merry laugh as honest Jem. He would ride on his shoulder, 
 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 Jem ; 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 
 provision on his return. It was evening, and Patience was sit- 
 ting 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 back-kitchen bench, cutting his 
 bread and meat with his great pocket-knife, he ventured a re- 
 mark : " Living out here in the country, I take it, does n'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 have n't happened with any misfortune." 
 
 "No, not that exactly," Patience slowly replied; and then, 
 encouraged by Jem's friendly tone, and not less by the expres- 
 sion of his honest face, which she had seen most days since she 
 had been at the farm, she went on to say — " I was thinking how 
 little wae:es I could do with ! I think I could do with less than 
 my last mistress would have liked to offer me ; only then I re- 
 membered there 's the food, and one must eat if one 's to live !" 
 
 Jem had no skill in arithmetic, and could not render much 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 818 
 
 aid in such a calculation ; but lie had a far quicker estimate, 
 pel haps, than many an arithmetician of the heart's joys and sor- 
 rows, and he came in with his friendly aid at the root of the 
 matter. " Are you after a change, then ?" he asked. . 
 
 " Well," rephed Patience, " I was thinking if I could get back 
 anyhow where I came from, I would rather live there on dry 
 bread, among those that were one with me, than here, where no 
 one 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 !" 
 
 " Well, now," said Jem, " take my advice. You will never do 
 yourself or others a straw's worth of good thinking on what can 
 not be, and don't be down-hearted 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 from her again. 
 She is always for thinking eveiy 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 
 efibrt, and after a while she lost heart again, and began to think 
 
 14 
 
814 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 she must give up, and try to find some other place. But whert 
 could she turn ? She had no opportunity, so far from 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 
 stranger to tears, especially since Rose had been away ; so he 
 went up to Patience, and said in his kindest little voice, " What 
 for you kie ?" 
 
 " Because no one loves me here," said Patience. 
 
 " I will love you," said little Tim, putting his hand upon her 
 cheek, and then, when Patience still cried, slipping • his arm 
 round 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 seemed 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 Lou- 
 don — a grave and silent person, of whom Rose felt afraid ; but 
 her aunt's kind face, and her cousins' warm greeting, soon made 
 her at home among them. She found every one of them fuU 
 
p. 314. 
 
MINISTliRlNG CHILDREN. 315 
 
 of occupation ; but each one seemed ready for her, and always 
 able to find her a help and comfort. She helped her cousins 
 tend tneir poultry, and make the summer preserves — learning 
 manv things unknown in her home. She helped them in their 
 garden, where she learned from them to bud roses, prune trees, 
 and as the summer advanced, to distill 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 mission.^ all new to her ; and read 
 of other countries, also new and strange to her. She 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 
 any thing. She wondered how she could have lived so long with- 
 out 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 so far away. But when 
 the harvest-time came, and Rose was 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 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 
 SG8 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 th€ 
 Saviour who can comfort any heart that turns to ITim. 
 
816 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 Little Tim lay in his cot at home, and the doctor said that his 
 life was 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 be- 
 fore 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 
 senise of years of harshness and ill-temper, of peace destroyed 
 by her, and sorrow made for others ; she thought too of how 
 the child had always seemed glad to slip away from her, as if 
 uneasy in her presenco, 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 to do the work, and asking 
 of all who came from the room how the child seemed now ? 
 
 Mrs. Smith was leaning over the cot, and Patience kneeling 
 beside it, when httle Tim called " Rose ! Rose ! do come to Tim, 
 come now?" "What do you want, my darling?" said Mrs. 
 Smith, "I will do it for you." "I want to pray," said Httle 
 Tim, "and Rose can teach me, I forget it now!" Mrs. Smith 
 was silent 
 
 " Motlier, can you pray ?" 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, she could 
 think of nothing ! 
 
 " Can you pray, Patens ?" asked little Tim, in his anxiety. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 317 
 
 * Yes, dear, I do pray for you." 
 
 "'Oh, then you can teach it to me ! I forget it all qow 1" said 
 little Tim, and he joined his hands together in act of prayer. 
 
 Patience repeated the prayer she had taught to little Ruth in 
 her last place, and Tim, quite satisfied, repeated it after her. 
 
 " Can you say my texes, too ?" asked little Tim. 
 
 Patience made a guess, and said, " Suffer the little children to 
 come unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom 
 of Heaven ;" it proved quite right, and Httle 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 ; 
 put Thy gracious hands on me, 
 And make me aU I ought to be. 
 
 " Make me Thy child— a chad of God, 
 "Washed in my Saviour's precious blood ; 
 And my whole heart from sin set free, 
 A Uttle vessel full of Thee. 
 
 "A ptar of early dawn, and bright, 
 Shining within Thy sacred light ; 
 A beam of grace to all around ; 
 A little spot of hallowed ground. 
 
 " Lord Jesus, take me to Thy breast, 
 And bless me that I may be blest ; 
 Both when I wake, and when I sleep, 
 Thy little lamb in safety keep." 
 
 And then, satisfied, he said, " Mother, don't kie any mop^^ 
 
818 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 Patens can teach it me all !" and turning his choet on his pil* 
 low, he fell peacefully asleep. 
 
 Day and night Mrs. Smith repeated to herself, and tried tc 
 keep in her memory continually, the prayer that Patience had 
 said for little Tim, in the hope that he would ask her again tc 
 teach him — ^but he never appealed to his mother any more : 
 when he woke from sleep, if he had his senses, his first look was 
 for Patience, and with folded hands he waited fbr 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 fell asleep, and 
 woke no more on earth. 
 
 It was grief for all : but the mother's heart was broken up ; 
 she took to her bed, the fever that had taken Httle Tim from 
 earth came upon her, and her mind wandered in sorrowful deli- 
 rium. Patience was her devoted nurse; while widow Jones 
 sometimes gave Patience a little rest from the sick-room, or 
 helped 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 right I should be left to 
 die ! I turned fi'om 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 many 
 times to ike dying ; but he had never unlocked the exhaustless 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 819 
 
 treasuiy of the love of God in Jesus Christ for his own heart- 
 therefore he knew not how to dispense its balm of Life, its sooth- 
 ing peace to others : widow Jones had never seen the servant of 
 the most Hio-h God, the faithful 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 
 awhile, 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 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 for it, I should have to answer 
 for it. I dare not engage with it !" 
 
 So Patience returned to the sick chamber. The sun was set- 
 ting 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 look 
 ing down below again, she saw a distant figure crossing the pas- 
 ture 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 
 cAtages by the wood? Patience watched, breathless betweeo 
 
320 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 hope and fear ! He crossed the farm-stile, he turned to the 
 bridge over the brook, and then began to ascend the green slope 
 — ^he was coining indeed ! Patience ran down. Farmer Smith 
 was still within. He hastened out to meet his visitor, and Pa- 
 tience to see that all was in readiness above. 
 
 " I am grieved to hear of your heavy trials," said the curate, 
 as he entered the house 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 com- 
 fort to you." 
 
 " I am sure, sir, it is more than I could have expected !" said 
 farmer Smith, hardly able to speak from overburdened feeling. 
 
 " It is a dark and cloudy day for you !" said the curate. " In- 
 deed a storm has bm-st 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 of sickness and sorrow. He stood a moment by the 
 bed, and looked upon the poor unconscious sufferer, then said, 
 " Let us pray," and kneeled down beside the bed, while fanuei 
 Smith and Patience knelt also. 
 
p. 320. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 321 
 
 "0 God of the spirits of all flesh, thou whc 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 hands 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 
 honor 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 plowed 
 up her soul with affliction, 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 distill as the dew, at this time, upon the parched 
 spirit of this poor sufferer, that she may know the power of its 
 heavenly refreshment. We ask -all for His sake whose precious 
 blood cleanseth from all sin, and whose spirit quickeneth the 
 dead, even Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen." 
 
 Then, sitting down beside the bed, the minister repeated softly 
 ind slowly, " Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy 
 laden, and I 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." " Tlie blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth 
 from 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 
 
322 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 be opened unto you ; for every one tliat asketli receiveth, and 
 he that seeketh findeth, and to him that knocketh it sliall be 
 opened." The words, the tone of peace, seemed to soothe the 
 sufferer — she lay still and composed. Standing up, the minister 
 said, fervently, " The Lord bless thee and keep thee ; the Lord 
 make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious 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 long with farmer Smith below, and farmer 
 Smith found, to his surprise, that there was no resentment at 
 the conduct poor Mrs. Smith had shown toward him. He only 
 spoke the words and breathed the spirit of sympathy, and coun- 
 sel, and comfort. Oh, what a weight was Hfted that evening 
 fi'om the heart of farmer Smith ! The opposition expressed and 
 shown in his home to the curate, had kept farmer Smith back 
 from venturing to speak to him ; but now he had been seated 
 with him in his own parlor without fear, and there had been 
 able to utter the long pent-up and hidden feelings of his heart. 
 Oh, how the father thought of his little Rose as he returned with 
 thankfulness and peace to his kitchen ! 
 
 " Patience, child, is it you ?" asked Mrs. Smith that evening, 
 when the light of day had faded, and the candle 'was Kt. 
 " 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 ! O how 
 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 then I thought I looked round 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 823 
 
 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 seemed 
 to know he was gone to that " rest" that the minister was preach 
 ing about. O 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 ?" 
 
 "0 yes, dear mistress, I do think you will Hve, 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 !" 
 
 " What ! our rector ?" 
 
 "No, the curate himself! and O, 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 here by the bed, and he said those 
 words, ' Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, 
 and I will give you rest.' " 
 
 " Why, those are the very words I thought I heard him preach' 
 upon; Who could have thought it! 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 — ^not thinking he would come 
 again so soon : she was much overcome at seeing him, saying to 
 him, " O 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." 
 
 " O, 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 quick- 
 
324 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 eneth the dead. He can not only restore you, but comfort you 
 also" 
 
 " Ah, sir, I fear you don't know how bad I have been ! I wa^ 
 set against your preaching from the first, because you said there 
 was but one way for all, and you invited the worst 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 t^om — 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. ' K we say that w^e 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 from all unrighteousness.' You see, then, there is forgiveness 
 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 comfort. Till at last 
 from that sick-bed, the tones of hope, and peace, and praise were 
 heard : and the always 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 when Mrs. Smith first came 
 iown to tea. Samson and Ted had done their best to make all 
 .hings cheerful and full of comfort. Widow Jones had put away 
 into the parlor the chair of little Tim — ^but the motlier's eye tell 
 on its vacant place. It was a long sad lesson that mother's 
 heart had still to learn ; but, sweetened by Heavenly mercy, and 
 goothed by Heavenly peace, the longest lesson will only the more 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 326 
 
 ent'^b.isli 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. Rose was to return, and 
 her two brothers also, William and Joe, were to join her in Lon- 
 don, and letum with her. O, what a day of expectation that 
 was ! 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 had an extra baking, with widow Jones to help, 
 and all her skill could do to welcome was added to the prepared 
 reception. Patience had never seen Rose as yet, and even 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, " IMother ! oh, mother !" said the child, and 
 the mother held her long pressed in that close embrace — as if 
 she feared that she too might pass away firom 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 repast. 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 *♦ 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 1" 
 
 niHE winter passed peacefully away at the farm. There was a 
 -*- hush about the place — a sh^ow evidently 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 shadow beneath 
 which the best feelings of the hearts there, str.engthened 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 hei 
 mother's hasty feeling at every fresh proposal or event, changed 
 now to an expression of peace — yet with a quietness about it 
 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 tb 
 first rerse of one of Mercy's hymns-r^ 
 
 " There is beyond the sky 
 A heaven of joy and love : 
 And holy children, when they die, 
 GrO to that world above I" 
 
 And though her mother never noticed it in words, yet did she 
 often listen to the low tones as Rose sang on to herself, listened 
 in fear lest the sweet words should cease ; but happily Rose ao- 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 327 
 
 quired the habit, till she would begin and keep on almost uncon 
 8cious]y to herself. Sunday was now a day of rest indeed, a day 
 made holy and a delight by the glad sounds of the good tidings 
 of great joy, preached every Sabbath in the village church 
 I*atience had again found a home, and the heart of her mistress 
 cherished for her a deeper feeling than any that Patience had 
 known in service before. With Rose it was always pleasant to 
 work, or to speak — and when Patience discovered the mutual 
 friendship existing between Rose and a variety of the hving 
 creatures upon the farm, Patience took pattern, and trained her 
 cows to an intelligence that seemed to give promise of rivalling^ 
 in time, tl e very horses themselves ! 
 
 In the following summer, to the delight of Rose, her Derby- 
 shire uncle and aunt and two of her cousins came down, at Mrs. 
 Smith's earnest request, to make a visit at the farm. Mrs. Smith's 
 brother soon returned to his home, on account of his business ; 
 but he left his wife and daughters, who made a stay of six weeks 
 — to the comfort and profit of Mrs. Smith, the satisfaction and 
 pleasure of farmer Smith, and the ceaseless enjoyment of Rose. 
 This intercourse tended to raise and enlarge Mrs. Smith's already 
 softened and rightly directed feelings. And six weeks of so 
 much peaceful enjoyment had never been known before within 
 the farm. 
 
 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-time. How merrily did 
 Rose prepare the hai*vest-cakes the last baking before their re- 
 turn, obtaining from her mother's pleased and willing hand a 
 large supply of plums — because Will and Joe would be among 
 those to be fed with the harvest-cakes? And though it was 
 four years since William had held a sickle, the reapers declared 
 that Master William might stand king of them, for all he had 
 
328 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 been up in London so long ! But it was only a foilniglit — and 
 the time diew to its close. The father had felt again the comfort 
 of his eldest son at his side in the anxiety and joy of harvest, and 
 hia spirits sank at the approaching separation. 
 
 " Do you see any prospect for returning for good ?" asked the 
 father, a few evenings before the last, as they sat together, after 
 supper — the young boys having retired to rest. 
 
 " 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 — on which he seems so bent — 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 sfyirit 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 tiial ; 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 Christmas, 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 he was inclined 
 for it himself ; and Mrs. Smith said she should be satisfied if the 
 boy made fiis own choice. So the next morning, before separat- 
 ing after breakfast, the proposal was made to Samson. He waited 
 a minute in grave consideration, then said with a deliberate tone — 
 
 " I should wish to come and see the place sometimes ; but foi 
 the rest — I would as soon be up there as down here !" * 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 329 
 
 Mrs. Smith looked out of the window, and tears started to hei 
 eyes. 
 
 " jN'ever mind, mother," said William in a low voice, " there's 
 many a heart wakes up away from its home, that lay fast asleep 
 in it ! " But Mrs. Smith made no reply : she felt again the reflu- 
 ent wave of bitter memory, reminding her how little she had 
 done to caU 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 feelings 
 " Mother ! oh, mother !" and looking round, as if to see whether 
 the child who breathed them still were her's, she met the earnest 
 eyes of Rose — ^bent in their full and tenderest expression 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 waa 
 enough, the mother felt one child to be at least a gift from 
 Heaven to her — a gift most undeserved ; and her strengthened 
 heart was ready to endure in patience and in hope ; to wait the 
 influence of better feelings — now breathed and lived by her — on 
 all around. So it was decided for Samson to go. 
 
 Ted had stood 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 hastened 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 foi 
 myself f 
 
330 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " Heyday !" answered William, " I shall look after Rover's old 
 :nain ! 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 
 betrn-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 WiUiam, stopping sud- 
 denly short, as Ted was leading him to the barn, " I shall not 
 go a step further, nor see 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 dis- 
 course. 
 
 " 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 was to go to London, — ^yet he is to 
 go, and I am not 1" 
 
 " 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 
 not 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 that '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. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 881 
 
 **How can I earn it ?" 
 
 " By trying to do your duty now — being a comfort wliile yon 
 are at home ; and learning all you possibly can to make you 
 worth taking on board ship." 
 
 " But I tell you I can climb — and that is all a sailor wants 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 ijing in the 
 harbor waiting for you." 
 
 " 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 what 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 cUmbing — 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 begin to 
 think we may look out for your ship." 
 
 " But, Will, what must I learn ?" 
 
 " Why, go off to Lewis, the basket-maker in the next village, 
 and get him to teach you how to twist the willow withes, and 
 don't you give over till you can make mother a basket strong 
 enough to send her eggs to market in. And then get old mastei 
 Newsom to teach you carpentering ; and help him make hi 
 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 ready for a life that may cast and leave you 
 any where ! And I advise you these next winier 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 
 
832 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 cobbler, and mend and make shoes, wbat fim! I will make 
 haste and learn every thing !" 
 
 "Yes, to be sure," replied WiDlam, "and then think of what 
 use you might be ! Why, you v^^ould be the last man to be 
 parted with, if you were of use for every thing — ^what a busy, 
 happy life you might lead ! 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 has gone to dwell ?" 
 
 "Did Tim know the way?" asked Ted. 
 
 " Yes, don't you remember how he loved to pr^y, and to learn 
 and repeat the texts and hymns Rose taught him, which told of 
 Jesus who is the way to Heaven?" 
 
 " Yes, I know that," answered Ted. 
 
 " Then don't you think you will want to know 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 teach 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.'^ 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 339 
 
 ** Very well, then, we will go ; and I think by when we have 
 bund the ship you will be ready for it — with knowledge to 
 flake you happy j'ourself, and a comfort and blessing, I trust, to 
 • thers." 
 
 William returned with Joe to London, leaving Ted full of 
 /pirit for his trades; and received under the Curate's care to 
 'earn that which hath the promise, not only of the life that nox^ 
 tjs, but of that which is to come. Ted inherited his mother's 
 energy, and being a general favorite, he found little difficulty 
 11 persuading the village tradespeople to teach him something 
 rf their skill — some idea how their work was done, and their 
 t x)ls handled ; besides, a refusal was not very easily given to one 
 V ho 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 
 dllage winter. 
 
 Old Willy's health had long been visibly declining; there 
 were those who thought. the old man would not see another 
 ipring, and not without reason — ^for in the frost of Febmaiy he 
 took to his bed, from which he never rose again. Widow Jones 
 tras his nurse, Mercy his comfort, and Jem his earthly stay and 
 dependence. Rose was often sent by her mother with some- 
 thing warai 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 nothing was to be paid, 
 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 
 Boon 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 
 
834 MlNIbTERINtl CHILr.REN". 
 
 made tria. of the first completed effort of liis sldll. But old 
 Willy had trod the rough path of the world to its end ; he had 
 put off his shoes from his feet, and he 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 heavenward 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 father- 
 less son. The day was not made known, in order more effect- 
 ually to prevent an assembling of the people. Jem now watched 
 with anxious impatience and 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 circum- 
 stance 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 traveling carriage, and 
 there could be little doubt that it was on its way to the Hall, but 
 no one was visible within, no one looked out as it swiftly passed 
 i)j 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 
 should come, after necessary rest, to relieve him. The evening 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 335 
 
 closed in, Jem drew the little window-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, hia 
 mind was full of the young Squire's return — would he be alto- 
 gether changed ? Jem feared it must be likely he wcoild — 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 Sqiiire was good if ever any were ! so it might be he 
 would prove, still the same. Then rose the question, would old 
 Willy know him if he came to see him ? Was there conscious- 
 ness enough still left for the old man to know his hope fulfilled ? 
 And Jem looked round on old Willy in anxious inquiry. While 
 thought was thus busy within, he heard a knock at the door \ 
 then a hand, to whom its latch seemed familiar, opened it ; and 
 and a stranger gentleman looked in ; Jem started up, but in a 
 moment he knew the face, he knew the friendly 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 low- 
 est bow, then took the offered hand, and grasped it in both of 
 his, while such a light of sudden joy sufi'used 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 hig 
 work of love was net even begun, he remembered how hard that 
 work had seemed at first — then how pleasant ; how the difficulty 
 Rgain grew worse thar before — then brightened into joy. And 
 
336 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 with that remembrance came the thought of his father- -how 
 he had met him in his childhood's feehngs and made him posses- 
 sor of the home where old Willy dwelt — the recollection of all 
 passed before him, till he wiped away his starting tears, and 
 turned round to Jem, saying softly, " He sleeps !" 
 
 "No, sir," Jem replied, " I doubt if he does ; he hes mostly in 
 that quiet way— as if his doings with Earth were all over, and we 
 don't disturb him except for his food. But I will just speak to 
 him now, 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 here !" 
 
 The old man looked up, the voice had aroused him and called 
 up his half-slumbering senses. Herbert knelt down before him ; 
 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 those 
 eyes that have been its earthly portals of vision. The old man 
 gazed on Herbert, but he did not speak. It might be he thought 
 himself lost in some dream of a hope yet unfulfilled ; howevei 
 it, might be, the old man gave no sign of recognition — save thai 
 fixed, earnest look on the face that now, after long years, was be 
 tore him. Herbert in that sacred moment felt afraid by the namo 
 BO familiar to appeal to the old man — who seemed so calmly de 
 parting ; afraid to bring back before him the dim visions of 
 Earth, when he* was just landing in Heaven. So he thought of 
 tre words that old Willy most loved, and said in his clear, 
 St ^.ened tone, " Let not your heart be troubled ; ye believe in 
 God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many man- 
 sions : if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare 
 I place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I wUJ 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 337 
 
 come again and receive you unto myself; that where [ am, there 
 ye may be also." The old man's dying ear caught the joyful 
 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 still stood beside him, and 
 called, in his feeble tone and words of endearment, " Jem, my 
 poor boy !" Jem stooped to his pillow again, and the old man 
 said, " I have seen him ! he is grown up to a heavenly man ! and 
 he spoke those same words from my Book that he had read me 
 often and often before. I knew him, for the voice was his own !" 
 There Herbert still knelt — by the side of the bed, but the old 
 man had 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 softly 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 
 then! my young 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 from my Book, and they have lifted me 
 up to those mansions above. I am now at the door, I shall soon 
 be gone in, and you will come to me there ! You have sheltered 
 me here, I have not known a want ! but the good Lord above 
 lias sent for me home. His angels are come, but He would 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 brought me — ^it will serve 
 
 16 
 
S.'iS MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 him for years. And when I am gone, let them lay nr e tc 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 'tis there I would lie — where I always have stood to keep 
 watch over her. I know that the angels keep sight of her gra\'e, 
 and they '11 watch over me — whom she taught the way to Heaven 
 where they dwell. She is sure to see me when I enter in— with 
 robes all washed white in the blood of the Lamb ! She will 
 know then how fast in my heart I have kept the Name of my 
 Saviour; long nights as I lie here, I still say to myself, 'Jesus, 
 my Saviour, Lord Jesus, my God 1' and it keeps me so close by 
 the Heavenly gate that I have only been waiting for you! I 
 leave you my blessing, dear young master, God grant you may 
 know what the blessing of the poor man can be ; 't is the God up 
 above who makes the poor's blessing rich, and with my dying 
 prayer 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 further assistance to watch through the night, but Jem 
 said his mother had had already 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 arrived at 
 the cottage bringing warm cordials ; Jem again roused the old 
 man, to take some, and he well understood who had sent the 
 warm cordials for him ! then turning again to rest on his pillow, 
 he «lept. Jem watched by him there, while his breathing be- 
 came stiller, till it ceased ; and Jem — ^watching beside him — 
 knew not when he died. 
 
 Herbert called at the cottage again the next day, and looked 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 339 
 
 on tlie smile that still lingered on the lips of the departetl. 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 Herbert, " I made my promise to the old man, sir, that I would 
 give that for his burying ; he said he considered it was right that 
 he should make a provision for that." 
 
 " Keep it then for yourself," replied 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 appeared 
 on the Earth, the time of the singing of birds was come, and the 
 voice of the turtle was heard in the land — ^then it was they bore 
 the old man's body to its rest. Herbert walked on one side of 
 the coffin, and Jem on the other, and the village mourners fol- 
 lowed. They had dug the old man's grave, at the young Squire's 
 direction, across the foot of the lady's tomb, and there, with the 
 words of blessing and the tears of affection, they laid him to his 
 rest. Herbert lingered the last — Jem waiting near, at his desire ; 
 Herbert spoke not of the past, but it rose in fresh remembrance 
 before him ; till at last, turning slowly away from the hallowed 
 spot, he descended the hill in heavenly converse with Jem. 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, a»d now lost from its shelter for ever. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 " Ready to give thanks and live 
 On the least that Heaven may give." 
 
 "Godliness with contentment Is great gain." — 1 Tim. vl 6. 
 
 "XTTE 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 useful to her mother in the 
 errands she could do for her. She still looked upon Widow Jones 
 and her granddaughter Mercy, the old people in the almshouse, 
 and the lone old woman on the heath, as her particular friends ; 
 and now a whole family were to be added to the number. Jane 
 heard of a poor old man in the town, a cobbler by trade, but 
 scarcely able to earn bread for his family. He had been a shep- 
 herd on the very heath where Jane's old woman lived ; but he 
 was obliged to give up keeping sheep, and now he earned his 
 food by mending shoes. Jane heard that he was as happy as he 
 was poor : and she thought how delightful it would be to help him. 
 So she told her mother all she had heard ; and asked if she might 
 not go herself, and take her own boots to be mended by him. 
 
 Mrs. Mansfield replied, " Yes, you may take them if you Uke, 
 and tell the poor man to mend them up for giving away ; he 
 will be able then to do them in a stronger way and for less money, 
 or I should not think them worth doing at all. But are y }v 
 eure you know exactly the place where he lives ?" 
 
MINISTERINJ CHILDREN. 341 
 
 " yes, mamma, I know it exactly ! I liave 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, ghding through the busy 
 streets of the town ! Her's was the joyous sense of powjer — how 
 easily taught, how easily learned, and yet how often unthought 
 o^ unknown ! She had love in her heart, work in her hand, and 
 money in her purse — what could she not do ! One thing was 
 certain — she could help and comfort ; and strong, and bright, and 
 fearless in this undoubting faith she hastened on. She reached 
 at last the narrow door at the top of the steep flight of steps that 
 led to the little court where the cobbler dwelt. Jane stopped a 
 moment, looked down into the strange place, then carefully 
 descended the steep steps, made of red uneven bricks, and edged 
 with rotting wood, till she arrived in safety at the bottom. The 
 cobbler's dwelling was No. 2, and at the second cottage before 
 her Jane noticed the clean-washed bricks before the door — ^it 
 looked like the entrance to a good man's dwelling. Jane gath- 
 ered fresh pleasure at the sight, but now the shyness of a stranger 
 came over her, and she knocked with some trembling at the door. 
 A tall woman in a brown calico gown opened it, with a snow- 
 white handkerchief under her partly-opened gown, a cap of thick 
 muslin as white, and her sick-looking face, almost as white also. 
 
 " Does Mr. May live here ?" asked Jane. 
 
 " Yes, miss," said the woman, with a curt'sy ; '" will you please 
 to walk in ?" And Jane entered as neat a little dwelling as ever 
 met a visitor's eye. A very small fire a few inches wide and 
 deep, burned in the grate ; over the fire was a high black mantle- 
 piece ; on one side of the fireplace was a black closet-door, and 
 on the other another black door leading up stairs ; the walls 
 were white\^ ashed, and one little book-shelf suspended upon 
 
842 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 them, with a small store of books in neatest order. There was a 
 long hutch opposite the fire, and on it a store of large new-baked 
 loaves ; the floor was neatly sanded, and before the large lattice- 
 window stood the cobbler's low stall — not even a straggling 
 leather or tool had escaped from it, to litter the brick floor ; and 
 before it sat the small old man on a low round stool of homely- 
 manufacture, with his apron tied roimd him, busy at work. Two 
 daughters rose up at Jane's entrance, and the old cobbler took 
 his spectacles from his nose and looked round. Jane turned at 
 once to him, and said, " I have brought a pair of boots, which 
 mamma thought you might like to mend, and I was to tell you 
 that they were 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, and lasts all 
 the longer — because it don't wear out the old leather, like so many 
 stitches as you must set into it for that fine particular mending 
 that must be done for gentlefolks." The old cobbler had risen up, 
 and did not begin his response to the message till Jane was seat- 
 ed, so that Jane listened with a settled feehng to his long reply, 
 which gave her complete satisfaction, as she had not quite liked 
 to say they were to be mended for giving away ! But she thought 
 now how wise her mother was — who must have known all that 
 when she gave her the message ! Though only a child had en- 
 tered, the mother and daughters still stood, and Jane, uncomfort- 
 able at that, said, " I may stay a little while, if you are not busy, 
 and can sit down ?" upon which they were all seated. The old 
 cobbler had fastened his spectacles again on his nose, and was 
 busy at his work ; but he seemed to feel the responsibihty of en- 
 tertaining 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 
 
p. Ui. 
 
MIlilSTSRING CHILDREN. 343 
 
 eats mjikes it seem to be doubly sweet* and I believe too that it 
 does do you more good, for I believe that s tne order God has 
 written upon this world — that the bread of idleress 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 a moment, " she is nfever well. I do what I can, but one 
 pair of hands can hardly keep four in food and clothing and 
 house-rent, 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," the cobbler went on to say, " 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 be gra- 
 ciously pleased to keep them from evil, and teach them the 
 knowledge of Himself, why that 's mercy enough to keep from 
 fretting about the other. My poor boy is much the same, but lie 
 has got a place, and I hope he may keep it, for it brings in a 
 little." Jane looked at the daughters, clean and neat as their 
 mother, and almost as pale ; they sat upright on chairs by the 
 wall, and the unexpressive stare of their large round eyes gave 
 evidence of some want of sense within. The father's face was 
 very like his children's, except that in his eyes and on his lips 
 isras a smile as bright as a sunbeam ; and the whole expression 
 of his face when speaking, was of one in earthly want already 
 in-adiated with heavenly faith. 
 
 " Can youi daughters do needle-work ?" asked Jane. 
 
 " Yes, miss, they can sew very neatly, when they can get it 
 tc do ; and the . eldest has been in a place, but she had not the 
 
S44 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 strength to keep it. I hope, however, she may get the better of 
 it again, and look for another situation before long, for it 's try- 
 ing to sit at home when there is not work or food ; but, thank 
 God, we have managed as yet, and we would do any thing we 
 could to keep the house and home together." 
 
 " You have bread now !" said Jane, in a tone half expressive 
 of her pleasure at the sight of the large loaves on the hutch, and 
 half inquiringly as to the reality of the fact. 
 
 " O yes, miss,- and I don't know that we have ever been a daj 
 altogether -wdthout. That bread that you see will all wait for a 
 fortnight. We always bake one fortnight under another ; that 's 
 a rule we never break when we can possibly buy the flour, for no 
 one would believe the difference it makes — how far a httle bread 
 will go to satisfy your hunger, when once it begins to turn moldy. 
 My wife can show you our bread now ; we are now beginning the 
 last fortnight's, and that must hold out, or we should never be 
 able to manage at all." All this was said in the earnest cheerful 
 tone of one who had discovered a fortunate secret of suflSciency, 
 while the wife and daughters removed the hot loaves, lifted up 
 the hutch, and showed the hard-looking bread now coming 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, 
 and therefore the suffering of which she would not fully have 
 realized. The 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 feith and the riches of 
 His blessing — and thanks be to Him, we have that ; so we can 
 Bay, He is faithful that promised ! And 't is my belief there 'a 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 346 
 
 nothing makes tlie true nches increase so fast as trial does : so 
 we must beware liow we fret at the one, lest we lose our best 
 gain of the other along with it !" Jane looked at the beaming 
 face of the cobbler, with its kind and lingering expression of 
 inquiry on her, as 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 liis 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. 
 
 •" Well, 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 
 80 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 cloud 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 from her purse, into the cobbler's 
 hand, saying softly, " Will you take that little present from me ?" 
 and then, in a minute more, she was climbing the steep stairs that 
 led out of the court. 
 
 Jane waited in hope of some more shoes needing repair, ana 
 it was not long before her mother, who never forgot a case of 
 want when once made acquainted with it, called her, and packed 
 into a basket some of her children's shoes, which she told Jane 
 «he plight take to her cobbler. So Jane set out on the pleasant 
 
846 MINIBTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 errand. As she descended the higli steps she heard some one 
 singing ; it was a bright spring day, and the CQbbler's lattice 
 window was open ; Jane felt sure the voice came from there ; as 
 she passed the window it stopped. Jane delivered the work she 
 had brought into the hands of the cobbler, and then sat down 
 on the chair he had set for her near his stall, quite disposed to 
 linger in the tempting-looking cottage, now lighted up by tte 
 spring's sweet sunshine. 
 
 " Do you sing at your work ?" asked Jane. 
 
 " Well, miss, I do amuse myself a little that way sometimes," 
 said the old man, going on as fast as possible with his work, " 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 — 
 
 " Though vilely clad, and meanly fed, 
 And, like my Saviour, poor, 
 I would not change my Grospel bread 
 For all the worldling's store." 
 
 Now Jane was surprised at the cobbler's happiness, and could 
 not quite understand why he should seem 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," rephed the cobbler, " perhaps it is not given to 
 all alike — we see a deal of those difierences 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 he 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 im- 
 press thiat truth en her mind. " All must have a trial some 
 
MIMSTERIIJa CHILDEE^ 
 
 34'? 
 
 way — ^because it is written, ' Ye must through much tribulation 
 enter into the kingdom of Heaven !' " 
 
 " But," asked Jane, " is it not very difficult to be always hap- 
 
 py'" ^ 
 
 " Well, miss," answered the cobbler, without pausing in his 
 busy labor, " I should soon be dull enough if I were left to my- 
 self ; but I will tell you what I find the best help, I always try 
 to keep a flame of praise ht up in my heart, and that burns up 
 the dross of unbelief and discontent in a wonderful way ! That's 
 one reason why I so often take to singing a hymn — when I find 
 that flame of praise is getting low, and I can only work on, and 
 so little coming in often for my work when it is done, then I get 
 singing some hymn of praise to that Saviour, who worked out 
 my salvation at such a cost as His own blessed life, and gives it 
 to me without money and without price ; and then when praise 
 to Him kindles up in my heart, it burns up the discontent in no 
 time. And 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 the 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 Mary we 
 read of in the Scriptures, but I did not say any thing to her , 
 well, this morning she said to me, ' Father, there was a text in 
 my mind last night that I could not seem to forget, " Mary had 
 chosen the better part, that shall never be taken from her" — I 
 hope I shall do that ! father.' Now what a mercy that was : who 
 could but know that must be the Lord's doing !" 
 
 It was no wonder that Jane loved to visit the cobbler's bright 
 cottage. There she saw faith, not so much contending with dif- 
 ficulties as triumphing over them, and its victory could not bul 
 
348 M^NISTERl^G children. 
 
 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 
 the greatest feeling of interest ; and her mother, always quick to 
 meet and strengthen every pure and hallowed feeling, found ar 
 embossed card she had somewhere laid by, and in her plainest 
 writing copied the favorite verse, in the center 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 all into Jane's possession, who went the next day, after her 
 morning school, by the 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 mantle-piece, while all the family stood ad- 
 miring ; and there the cobbler, whenever he looked up, was re- 
 minded of his hymn of praise. Jane gave so wann an account of 
 the feeling called forth by the card upon the wall, that her 
 mother said, " If you save up your pence for a month, I w^ill show 
 you what more you can do to adorn the cottage." Jane could 
 not imagine what fourpence could do to adorn her old cob- 
 bler's walls ; she tried to find out, but she could not | "uess, 
 and her mother still kept back the secret. At last the fourth 
 Saturday came, and Jane was possessor of fourpence. " Now, 
 mamma, what 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 her mother, and when Mrs. Mansfield had ac- 
 complished her business, she took Jane to a stationer's shop, 
 and asked for some pasteboard ; she chose three penny sheets, 
 dark purple on the wrong side, and white on the right ; then 
 Mrs. Mansfield asked for some tissue-paper, and chose a penny 
 sheet of lilac color. " Now, Jane," said Mrs. Mansfield, " you 
 hare spent your fourpence, and this afternoon you shall see 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 849 
 
 what you can do!" On- their return, Mrs. Mansfield looked 
 out with Jane some of the most interesting pictures on the 
 Church Missionary papers ; then making some paste, she bade 
 Jane put on her pinafore, and laying the nursery ironing-board on 
 the nursery table, Mrs. Mansfield showed Jane how to divide the 
 large sheets of pasteboard in half, then to cut the tissue paper in 
 broad strips, and paste it round the margin of the pasteboard, 
 laying the Missionary picture in the middle ; then pressing them 
 under something heavy, and large enougK to cover them, they 
 looked, when dry, like pictures mounted on colored cardboard, 
 and the broad lilac margin made the eflfect very pretty — but it 
 required care to lay the thin tissue-paper smoothly on, when wet 
 with the paste. Jane was delighted with her work, and the 
 next week, when the pictures were quite dry, her mother pro- 
 \aded the scarlet cloth to be cut into very small rounds for each 
 nail, and 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 cobbler's small wooden hammer should not prove 
 sufficient; and attended by the cobbler's wife and daughters, 
 while the old cobbler looked up from his work continually, Jane 
 put up the pictures to the pleasure and admiration of all. Then 
 the old cobbler stood up and looked round with delight, not 
 alone on the bi-ightened aspect of his walls, but on scenes that 
 told of the triumphs of his own pure and Heavenly faith over 
 the dark and cruel superstition of idolatry. From that time it 
 was a favorite amusement with Jane, to save up her weekly 
 pence and make pictures to adorn the walls of all her poor friends. 
 And now we must say farewell to Jane in her childhood. 
 We leave her gathering around her the hearts of the poor. 
 And He who guides the sparrow's fall, guided her steps, so that 
 never breath of evil, or sia^ht of sin, fell on her childhood's ear 
 or eye, among the poor. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 *• It gi ew up together with him, and with his children ; and was onto him as I 
 daughter."— 2 Samubl xiL S. 
 
 ITTHEN three •months had passed away, the young Squire 
 went alone to old Willy's cottage ; he stayed some time in 
 the house, then walked in the garden, and seemed engaged in a 
 general consideration of the place. The next day workmen 
 arrived, and the young Squire went down to meet them. Then 
 began 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 rooms were added be- 
 hind, till the dwelling rose with its three chambers above, ita 
 back kitchen and little dairy, and out-houses, complete. Some 
 said the young Squire was going to turn the place into a farm ; 
 but no, it was a simple cottage still, too large for one person, 
 but with every comfort for a family. The young Squire often 
 walked down to the spot, looking with interest on all, and giving 
 his directions to the workmen. 
 
 Meanwhile the summer months were gliding by. Snowflake 
 and Jet again drew the pony-carriage, and Herbert again drove 
 his mother out ; and still sometimes Mrs. Clifford would call at 
 a cottage, but more generally she only stopped in passing, to 
 make kind inquiry ; it was evident that any general intercourse 
 with others, was, as yet, an efibrt to her. But one day she 
 stopped at widow Jones's door, and finding her at home, went in. 
 Mrs. Clifford had never forgotten Mercy — the child in whom 
 
MIlilSTERING CHILDREN. 861 
 
 Miss Clifford had always seemed, perhaps, to take more inteiesl 
 fhan in any other ; and Mrs. Clifford, knowing her to be of an 
 age for ser\ace, and remembering her delicate look, was afraid 
 lest any place of common work should prove beyond her strength, 
 so she called on the widow Jones to ask whether she had any 
 ■wish about her granddaughter that she could be aided in. 
 Widow Jones replied that she had long been on the look-out for 
 a situation for Mercy ; the field-work was too much for her, she 
 had not the strength for it — and that was her fear about service, 
 but she believed she must make inquiry for a plafce in the town 
 before another winter came on. Hearing this, Mrs. Clifford 
 offered to take ISIercy, and have her trained under her own 
 maid, adding, " I should have her a good deal with me, she would 
 have to read to me, and to cany out many little plans I may 
 not feel able to undertake now myself, in the village. I believe 
 her to be capable of this, and if it meets your wish, I shall be 
 quite willing to try her." This proposal was received with over- 
 flo'wing gratitude by widow Jones; and when Mercy heard 
 of it, with delight by her. To live still in her own village near 
 her grandmother, to live in her young lady's own home, and 
 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 peace- 
 ful. Then early one autumn evening, just as Jem returned home 
 from his work at the farm, the young Squire called at his cot- 
 tage, saying, " I came to ask you and your mother to come and 
 see the dear old man's dwelling. I have had it enlarged ; and 
 
852 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 you always took so mucli interest in it, that I wish to show it tft 
 you myself." 
 
 Widow Jones put on her bonnet, and walked up the lane 
 with her son Jem and the young Squire. The sun was set- 
 ting, and his parting beams 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 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 cushion, was 
 there ; there stood the little table, and the very stool on which 
 the young squire used to sit The bed '^vas 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, T 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 bring- 
 ing 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 tenanted 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, for many rea-. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 868 
 
 sons, and so long as I can find a faitliful heart to inhabit it, ] 
 mean never to let it for money ! I make it your home 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 furniture 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 Hall 
 the first dish of rosy apples you gather from the trees I planted 1 
 There is a small field, that was part of the little place when 
 bought; 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 as blessed and peaceful an old age as 
 he enjoyed beneath this roof!" Widow Jones and her son were 
 filled w^ith surprise and gratitude. The Squire let them speak 
 their broken words of thankfulness, that they might not after- 
 ward feel distressed at havang said nothing. And then talking 
 a few minutes more with them, and telling widow Jones that he 
 should request his mother to let her granddaughter be sent to 
 them the next day to help them move in, he left them with the 
 key in their possession. 
 
 The move was soon effected — where every thing was pre- 
 pared beforehand for use and comfort. Widow Jones sold off 
 most of her old furniture, saying there 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 Jem ! and there, with Mercy's 
 help, they slept in peace the following night ; widow jTones 
 only expressed her fear, as to how she could ever bring her 
 
854 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 wind to tlie care of such things as stood on every side there 
 — look which way you would ! When the young Squire went 
 to college in October, he left Jem quietly settled in his new 
 abode. The whole village rejoiced in the good fortune of Jem 
 —honest Jem ; for Jem was, as may be supposed, a general 
 fe,vorite. Was he 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 honest Jem. But among the 
 general pleasure felt, none was more warmly expressed than 
 Mrs. Smith's ; her regard for both mother and son seemed to 
 make her pleasure in the event double : and never could honest 
 laborer, and faithful servant, and dutiful son, have entered a 
 new abode with more pleasant feelings to himself and others 
 — than honest Jem, when he called the home of old Willy his 
 own ! 
 
 William's return had been anxiously looked for this year at 
 the farm; but when the time drew near, he wrote word to his 
 father, that though very sorry to be absent longer, he did feel 
 a wish to stay one year more. His uncle, he said, would be 
 glad to detain him, and offered 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 was willing, he certainly should wish to 
 stay till the following July, when he hoped t<^ be down in time 
 to put the first sickle to the com. Samson was getting on well 
 in his uncle's business and favor ; Joe was as happy as possi* 
 ble, and plainly giving satisfaction in the merchant's office — 
 and by next year Joe hoped to have found a ship for Ted 
 So the hope of the parents was still deferred ; and a short visit 
 from their three sons, all they could that year enjoy. Wilham 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 366 
 
 said nothing as to Ms reason for wishing to remain longer in 
 London ; but every thing seemed going on well with the three 
 brothers ; and it was not difficult for fanner 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. Much 
 anxiety was felt in the village as to whether the Curate would 
 remain ; the anxiety of Mrs. Smith equaled that felt by farmer 
 Smith and Rose, and great was the universal joy when it was 
 known that Mrs. Clifford had presented the hving 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 every thing went on as before ; till 
 one day farmer Smith returned from 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." 
 
 " Well, 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 yours 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 you must think of that. 
 If Will laid the first stone of Joe's good fortune, it was the horse 
 helped you set him on it, you could not have done it without 
 him. I am sure I made sin enough of it before, so I have 
 reason to bear with it now. I am only thankful the child does 
 not know of his going — he used to count so of seeing th« 
 
356 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 srea ure pass by ! but lie is better off ; and we, why we must 
 take the rougb with the smooth as it comes, and be thankful 
 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 favorite 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 
 favorite, and then the creature would but have exchanged one 
 good stable for another, still in sight of his 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, " Mother, where 's father ? 
 there's to be a sale at the rectory, and Black Beauty's do^vn in 
 the list ! the bill is up on the blacksmith's shop — I saw it my- 
 self!" 
 
 " "Well, child, the rector's lady has as much right to sell the 
 horse as your fether had — ^it was his then, and it's hers now." 
 
 " What, don't you mind about it then, mother ?" 
 
 "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 for- 
 get it if he can." 
 
 " But, mother, father can't forget ! How 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 oft 
 and tell William !" 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 357 
 
 "No, that I do forbid;" said Mrs. 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, 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 and over again to be only 
 yard-boy on father's farm — ^if there had been none but himself 
 he had to tliink of! so I am sure he can't care for money; and 
 every body knows how he 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 saia as easy as not, 
 *If there's a sale, you might let me know!' but he never said 
 a word about it in any letter, and if we write him word, why it 
 will put him up to do it just to please us, and I would not 
 have that on any account. I will Hot 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, and 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 
 
358 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 bought, and led off, and no one to speak a word for him for any 
 thing!" 
 
 " Very well," replied Mrs. Smith, " so long as you keep to what 
 our Minister says, you are safe 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 compos- 
 ing and recomposing it to make it as brief and forcible as pos- 
 sible, 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 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 ihe sale. Tell mother not to think about dinner 
 for me, there's no saying when I shall be back." "Take care 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 869 
 
 what you are after ?" said the father. But off ran the minister 
 ing 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 
 favorite horse, close by his own door, and he not able to pur- 
 chase it back, nor now to have any control over the hands into 
 which it passed, troubled him not a little. 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 bom, and 
 reared, and trained, that the feeling becomes all but a familj 
 bond! 
 
 Mrs. Smith took the event more quietly ; her heart had beei 
 broken up by the bitter anguish of remorse — remorse for yean 
 of pride of heart and self-will; and though the balm of Heavenl} 
 love may bind up such broken hearts, yet must the surface- 
 changes 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 been to 
 have had his favorite 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 dis- 
 tress 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 din- 
 ner, said, "Never mind, father, I think it's better the horse 
 should be taken quite away before Will comes home, or he 
 
aCO MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 would always be seeing him, and then you know, father, perhape 
 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 : 
 80 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 longer we must leave them to Him. 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 Almighty ; 
 and you know it says in the Bible, the sparrow does not fall to 
 the ground without our Heavenly Father !" 
 
 " So it does. Rose ; 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 Heaven, 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, each 
 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 P* 
 at length said Mrs. Smith. 
 
 " I dare say Black Beauty came near the end of the sale," re- 
 plied Rose, " and he said he should not stir from the place till he 
 saw what became of him." 
 
 Mrs. Smith 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, and the table was set, the toast made, Mr. Smith came in, 
 but no Ted appeared. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 361 
 
 ** I can not think what the boy is after !" said Mrs. Smith. " T 
 wish you would just step and see ; and tell him he must coma 
 liome. I would not have him stay after dark among a set of 
 horse-dealers for any thing !'* 
 
 Mr. Smith took his hat and went ; and Mrs. Smith watched 
 at the window — watched 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 tal^e any harm," replied farmer Smith. 
 " I saw Beetlebright, the horse-dealer, there, and I asked him to 
 have an eye on the boy — who was in the very thick of it 
 among them all, looking on as earnestly 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 am sure I am 
 thankfid enough ! Did he say who ?" 
 
 " No, he turned off at that ; and I thought no doubt he would 
 not be free of speaking beforehand, 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 of mind than hunger of body. 
 
 " Just you 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 
 
 16 
 
862 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 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 j3ew down the sloping green to the 
 valley at the foot of the hill, where Black Beauty stopped of 
 his own accord, and arched his neck, and put his nose into her 
 hand. 
 
 " Now, Rose, that will do ; do n't you see I want to be off 
 to father ?" said Ted. And off Black Beauty started on the ac- 
 customed 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. Smith beside the gar- 
 den-gate, at which, in a minute more Black Beauty made a 
 stand. 
 
 " What in the world have you been after, boy ? "WTiat are 
 you doing with the horse ?" asked Mrs. Smith ; while Rose came 
 breathless from her run, and stood beside. But now Black 
 Beauty's turn was come to give expression to his feeHng : 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, reached 
 down his nose and courted the caress first of one and then the 
 other — ^while all seemed to fail in its power to express the noble 
 creature's joy. The men were turning home from the farm, la- 
 den with the implements and baskets, and they gathered won- 
 dering round. Jem and the yard-boy and Patience too, jrere 
 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 !" 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 863 
 
 " Now, motlier," said Ted, seated like a chieftain on his charg- 
 er, " ion'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 T' 
 
 " Well, mother, I did nut 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 father 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 ho 
 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 creature — ^yet 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, and he 
 kept so quietly at it, that at last I did not know who had the 
 horse ; but I found he was gone down to some one, so I kept 
 asking, ' Who has hira ? who has him V and they pointed to 
 this man. So I watched my opportunity when he was pretty 
 well alone, and then I went up and just said what I had to say 
 to him ! Well, he listened, and when I had done, he said, ' You 
 come along with me, and see what you think of my usage V 
 80 I went with him, and he never said a word more, but un- 
 
364 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 packed this saddle and bridle — only you see, father, what a sad- 
 dle it is !" said Ted, tumbling himself off and lifting up the lappeta, 
 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 V and before I knew what to say, he had lifted me up. 
 how the good creature did paw the ground when I was once up- 
 on him ! he knew me as well as any thing ! 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 
 m-cm had lifted me on, he said, ' You go and preach your sermon 
 to jour 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, he has 
 a son that can teach him ! And I will be down after you pres- 
 ently, when I have settled some other business.' " 
 
 " Was it Beetlebright, the horse-dealer ?" asked farmer Smith. 
 
 " I don't know, father, but I think I have seen him before in 
 the town." 
 
 " But did not he say a word of who sent him ?" 
 
 " Why, he sent him, father ! he bought him, and sent him !" 
 
 " Nonsense, 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 Smith soon descried 
 the substantial figure of Beetlebright the horse-dealer, who made 
 his way to the assembled group. 
 
 " I am afraid," said fai-mer Smith, stepping forward, " we are 
 under some little mistake in stopping the horse at our gate !" 
 
 " Not a bit of it," replied the horse-dealer, " if you can trust 
 that hand-writing, and I think it 's as good and honest a hand bs 
 
MINISTERINa CHILDREN. 866 
 
 I have seen for many a day." So saying, the lioi> j- dealer gave 
 a sealed letter to farme^ Smith, who opened it, and read : 
 
 " Dear Father, 
 
 " It was my sorrow to cost you your favorite h f se ; you did 
 not spare him, neither did William, and now it h my joy to 
 have earned him back again. I have been so ar/il I should 
 not get money enough before — for some reason jf other — he 
 might be sold off ! I have never spent so much s.?. a sixpence, 
 no, nor a penny, I think, that I could do withovi,; und now I 
 have twenty pounds in hand, over and above wh.tt ) 012 had for 
 him, so I 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 WilMam, but when 
 he comes home let the horse be taken to meet him — be sure you 
 aon't let him know till then ! My love to mother, and Rose, 
 and Ted. Your affectionate and dutiful son, 
 
 "Joseph 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 horse-dealer. " 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 he 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, 
 1 don't know who will." 
 
 " Who 's done it, father ?" a.sked 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 creatui e might 
 come !" 
 
866 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " Well done, Joe !" said Ted. " I '11 be up to you, when I 'm 
 a sailor, tliough !" 
 
 " WTiy, it's master Joe ! it's master Joe has done it himsell*'" 
 was repeated among the men ; and casting a pleased expressive 
 look at the father of such a son, they began to disperse to their 
 homes, to tell them how master Joe had never rested till he 
 brought back the black horse to his father's stable ! Mrs. Smith 
 gave 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 ofip 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 un- 
 saddle him, and Rose followed also. Ted made all haste to give 
 the horse a feed, but the creature, while 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, " do n'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 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 
 bow good Joe had been !" 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. €61 
 
 * Well, mother, I would wait till Joe was bad, before I cried 
 about bim !" said Ted. 
 
 " Ab, Ted," replied bis motber, " perbaps you may know some 
 day wbat it is to sbed a tear for goodness you don't deserve ; for 
 the Lord's goodness, if not for man's !" 
 
 " But was tbat all you were tbinking of, motber ?" asked Ted, 
 concerned at tbe sigbt of bis motbei's tears. 
 
 " Well, I was tbinking of Httle Tim, and bow deligbted be 
 would bave been to see tbe borse come back." 
 
 " Well, motber, you need not cry about bim ; we read in our 
 class to tbe Minister bow tbey ride on wbite borses in Heaven ! 
 and be is better off tbere, motber." 
 
 " So be is, dear !" replied Mrs. Smitb ; and kissing ber boy, 
 sbe left bim to sleep on bis pillow, and turned away to tbink 
 of ber cbildren on Eartb, and ber youngest in glory in 
 Heaven. 
 
 Tben came tbe warm brigbt barvest montb, July ; and before 
 tbe sickle was put to tbe corn, William was to return. And 
 Joe got leave of a few days' absence also, baving obtained a 
 bertb for Ted on board a mercbant-sbip. Tbe two brothers 
 traveled outside tbe coach. Ob, what a day was tbat for 
 William ! all bis best hopes fulfilled, and he returning, after so 
 many years of absence, to live at home again and farm bis 
 father's land ! Chestnut was put in the gig ; and Ted was to 
 lide Black Beauty for William, with the new saddle and bridle. 
 What care bad been taken to rub down the glossy coat of Black 
 Beauty, to comb bis mane, and show bim to best effect ! All 
 day the farm had been in commotion ; Patience scrubbing and 
 cleaning the always clean bouse ; Mrs. Smitb baking ber 
 largest variety of best approved viands ; Rose banging the new 
 little curtains she had made at the window of what was now 
 to be William's room ; men and boys getting all things in thcii 
 
SbO MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 best order — in preparation for Master William's return ! whil» 
 Ted devoted himself exclusively and entirely to tlie grooming of 
 Black Beauty. Then came the starting-time, when farmer Smith 
 drove ofl in the gig, and Ted — in blue jacket and straw hat — on 
 Black Beauty, who ambled and capered along as if he knew it 
 to be a festive occasion. 
 
 " Ah ! you good old fellow," said Ted, " you little think who 
 you will have to bring home again with you !" 
 
 Mrs. Smith watched from the door till the gig and the horse 
 were out of sight, then turned within to hasten preparations with 
 Rose. The coach was still miles away, when the 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 gray 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 con- 
 cealed 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 is n't Black Beauty waiting for some one ! how 
 unfortunate, just when father's come there !" 
 
 " O, father 's got over all 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 then — quite unable to resist the 
 temptation, turned to speak to Black Beauty. The faithful crea- 
 ture knew his young master, and had chafed and stamped after 
 William's descent from the coach till he turned and laid his hand 
 «pon his neck. 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 369 
 
 " Why Ted, my boy, what are you doing here ?" said William, 
 suddenly perceiving his young brother. 
 
 " Holding your horse for you, sir !" 
 
 "OTed, Ted!" said William, half reproachfully, *-do you 
 know who the horse is waiting for ?" 
 
 " For you, sir !" 
 
 " Come, come !" said William, " no joking about that ! Now, 
 father, if Joe has the luggage, we '11 be off." 
 
 Joe had been engaged in securing what William had 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 back — the 
 first-fruits of his earnings !" 
 
 " 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 !" Wil- 
 liam looked at 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 
 horse bore him, to the home of his heart and toil ! There, in 
 that sweet summer evening, his mother stood and 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 heanng his master's 
 greeting whistle, tried once and again to leap upon his hor-se, 
 and welcome him there. But on Black Beauty bore his rider-'- 
 till he sprang from the saddle to meet his mother's kiss and tear 
 t>f welcome, and fold his sister to his heart ; while Black Bea'itv 
 
870 MINISTERING CHILD HEN. 
 
 stood imheld beside liim, looking on as if witli sympathizing 
 feelings. 
 
 It was finally decided by force of William's and Joe's per 
 suasions, 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 cap- 
 tain and ship, and for their own refi'eshment and interest; 
 while William and Eose kept the farm and house at home. 
 So they went up accordingly, Ted in high spirits at the prospect 
 before him, with William's full approval of the attainments he 
 had made ; and neither father nor mother 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 chil- 
 dren's friends ; the old merchant receiving them at his country- 
 house to dinner, and promising Mrs. Smith the first opportunity 
 that 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 expenses of the 
 visit, which he said was a pleasure his labor had earned — and 
 that having bought back Black Beauty, had his parents in 
 London, and obtained a place on shipboard for Ted — he should 
 begin life again with fresh spirit, but with, he still hoped, the 
 same principles. Ted was left with Joe and Samson, ready to 
 take his place on board ship as soon as necessary ; and farmer 
 and Mrs. Smith returned, greatly refreshed and benefited by the 
 inspiriting change. 
 
 On the evening of the day after their return, William asked 
 
MINISTERING CHILDIIEN. 371 
 
 both his father and mother to take a walk acrc:>-i the farm with 
 him and Rose, to which they agreed and started; but Rose 
 seemed to find it difficult to keep his meditative pace ; while 
 William, with gravest composure, walked and talked at their 
 side. Rose was always before them, leading the way, till at 
 last they came in sight of the two white little 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 bor- 
 rowed. Rose still led the way, till her parents had nearly 
 reached them, then turning round, she looked all expectation at 
 William. 
 
 " O you secret-keeper !" said he, " you would 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 grand- 
 mother'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 
 ap 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 sura than I had by mo, so the purchase was fixed for 
 this year — and I stayed on to earn .t. 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 will be 
 able, I should hope, with God's blessings to ea'xi bread for us all ! 
 
372 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 They are bought in father's name, and are as much his ag 
 they ever were. I know that was the best sheaf I could 
 reap and bring home for him and for you ! " 
 
 This was true — no earthly gift could perhaps have so met 
 and gratified farmer Smith. His mother's cottages, left to 
 him by will, lost by debt, and now restored by his son — 
 effacing the memory of the loss to him so painful, were a 
 treasured possession indeed ! 
 
 " There's a refuge 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 Heaven I" 
 
 So William, returned to his home, and began life as a 
 farmer again. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 "God aettetli the solitary in fiunilies."— Psaxm Ixrill. 6. 
 
 " For with the same measure that ye mete withal, it shall be measured to you again * 
 —LuKS vi 88. 
 
 rriHE sun rose bright one summer morning, over tlie misty vil- 
 -^ lage, over the Hall with its long verdant slopes and spreading 
 woods, over the farm with its barns and stacks and sleeping cat- 
 tle, over the lonely cottage of Jem — ^where fruitfulness and 
 luxuriance in trees, and vegetables, and flowers, bore witness to 
 " the hand of the dilio^ent which maketh rich." The villasfe was 
 still asleep, but Jem was in his garden, " tighting it up" as ho 
 called it, though all looked tight enough, and neither leaf nor 
 petal, tree nor flower, seemed there, on that bright morning, to 
 show one trace of Earth's decay. Jem 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, but a day of rest, and 
 gladness, and blessing — it was the wedding-day of honest faith- 
 ful Jem. Nearly two years he had held his new abode ; his 
 mother grew more feeble with advancing age, and Jem thought 
 to add comfort to her life, as well as his own, by the event of 
 that day. So thought Jem's aged mother also ; and when the 
 sun sent forth his first golden beam through her lattice-window 
 on that bright morning, she had left her pillow, and was prepar- 
 ing to put all things " straight" within doors : and all the while 
 she stirred about with her best strength, she said wHhin her- 
 self, " How tight and clean she will keep all when she takes 
 
874 MINISTERING CHILDREN. ' 
 
 charge ! I know she will, and comfort me up too, and learn 
 me a deal more of Heavenly things than I can come al 
 now!" 
 
 At the Hall, Mercy was up, before the lark had risen to 
 chant his first glad song at Heaven's gate, and now she has- 
 tened down thejnisty road, with her bridesmaid's attire in a 
 handkerchief on her arm, to help her grandmother put all 
 things straight, and then to hasten on to stand beside the 
 bride. 
 
 Mrs. 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 window-panes. Rose was 
 moving, working, speaking, as quick again as usual — as if all 
 the labor of that day had to be completed before the day had 
 well begun. Farmer Smith was out in the freshening morning 
 air, giving directions to his men ; and William was helping the 
 yard-boy sweep the garden walks, and the path down the sloping 
 greensward. And where was Patience — -the faithful servant al- 
 ways at hand when work was to be done, the faithful servant 
 through years of trial, sorrow, peace — where was Patience? 
 Kneehng alone in her chamber, looking up through its small 
 window to the rosy sky above her head, thinking on the past, 
 the present, and the future, till tears overflowed her eyes, and 
 she hid her face and wept ; then enshrining all her thoughts 
 and feelings in one fervent thanksgiving and prayer, she went 
 down to the family below. This was her wedding-day, and she 
 the afl5anced bride of Jem. 
 
 " Tliere now, child, we don't want you standing about in the 
 way !" exclaimed Mrs. Smith, as she saw Patience looking on, at 
 a loss how to act without being told. " Go and be after any 
 thing you may want to get done," added Mrs. Smith. So Pa- 
 tience had her time to herself. Rose at last went to put on hei 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 375 
 
 biidesmaid's dress ; and Mercy came down to the farm in her'&— 
 and slie dressed the bride ; and William put on his Sunday suit 
 for 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 say black should never be 
 worn at a wedding ! but you won't be against my wearing that 
 black silk, as I 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 hke for myself any other color in silk, and being 
 for him — it could not tell of any 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 still 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 con- 
 sent 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 mischievous spider to be lurk- 
 ing in some hole or corner, all ready to disfigure the pattern of 
 neatness she had finished ofi" within ; or whether she wished to 
 be there to give Jem and his bride a motherly greeting at the 
 threshold of their home, she did not say ; the only reason she 
 gave was the "keeping 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 universal use ! And it proved well that widow Jones 
 did keep her resolve to "bide in the house," for reasons fei 
 
376 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 more important than keeping dust or spiders at distance, with 
 apron or broom. 
 
 A dependable man and boy were in waiting at tbe farm, and 
 no sooner was the bridal party oflf 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 dependable man and boy to the 
 inirther bam, w^here the wedding-gifts had been placed in readi- 
 ness by William that morning. Mrs. Smith looked upon them 
 with fresh satisfaction. She 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 bam that morning, could doubt 
 Mrs. Smith having kept her resolve. First stood the gift of her 
 mistress to Patience, the prettiest of young cows, as black as a 
 raven's wing, with one star of white on its broad forehead. 
 Rose had named it " Black Beauty," after the favorite horse. 
 Mrs. Smith said, that as a bit of meadow-land went 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 wanted to be more done than it was ; she 
 was thankful that for her part she could say, that never 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 ! 
 Mrs. Smith knew how to give generously when she did give, 
 and beside the young cow, stood a new milk-pail, two milk- 
 pans, 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 had Patience 
 1, and her mistress was resolved to testify her sense of it 
 
MINISTERING CniLDREN. 37l 
 
 Next stood the gift of Rose to Patience : a pair of hens of per- 
 fect whiteness, with a black cock, all reared on the farm. The 
 fowls were in a basket, chiefly constructed by the hands of the 
 sailor-boy, his mother bestowed on Patience, 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 I 
 In a corner of the bfeirn a little black pig was inclosed, waiting 
 for his removal to fresh quarters — ^this was farmer Smith's gift 
 to his servant 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 child, and which the largest nails would 
 now hardly avail to hold together — ^this was William's present 
 to his favorite fann-servanti But these were not all : Mrs. 
 Smith had a maxim vfhich she often used, applying it variously 
 as occasion served, and this was the maxim, " There's no good 
 in remembering one to forget another!" Accordingly Mrs. 
 Smith said she was not going to overlook Jem, as if she had 
 altogether forgotten the value to be set by his services. What 
 she had saved by his care in eggs and young fowls when he 
 was yard-boy, she said she knew pretty well by the loss when 
 his master took him away to make him a shepherd — she had 
 never been able to get up, or keep, such a poultry-yard since. 
 But Jem should see his mistress had not forgotten him ! And 
 there, in demonstration of the fact, stood a small box containing 
 household Hnen, all bleached and made by Mrs. Smith. In this 
 same box was a shawl from Samson, chosen and bought by him 
 in his uncle's shop, and sent down from London for Patience. 
 While, from all the great city could offer, Joe had chosen for 
 Jem an engraving of the Good Shepherd, with the sheep 
 gathered near Him, when He said to Peter, "Feed my 
 Lambs :" and having it put in a frame, with a glass before 
 it, Joe sent it down to gleam from the cottage walls of the 
 
3l8 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 Tillage sliepherd, with its light of holy and blessed remeK 
 brance. 
 
 No sooner did Mrs. Smith with hasty step arrive at the barn, 
 tban the whole array of gifts began to receive their dismissal. 
 Farmer Smith haltered the young cow 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 the little 
 black pig, the box in the barrow, and the 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 cow — 
 widow Jones in the midst of her business within, was still look- 
 ing from time to time from the window, to see what might be 
 liappening without. And now she saw farmer Smith at the 
 stile with the cow. " Why, if there isn't our master himself, 
 and that handsome black heifer !" said widow Jones, with sur- 
 prise ; and making haste from the door, she got down to the 
 stile just as fanner Smith had succeeded in removing it to lead 
 in the cow. " Well, neighbor," said kind farmer Smith, in hi? 
 most cheerful, pleasant tone, — which tone always rose up as 
 by instinct when his words had to do with a gift or any token 
 of goodwill, — "Well, neighbor, I am sure I wish you joy of 
 to-day; 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 any thing money could have bought — but for her 
 who's your daughter by this time, if the Minister kept to his 
 nour at the church. I made her servant-girl to my wdfe, 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 lilack heifer for them ! Could it possibly be, 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 8^9 
 
 that farmer Smith had led down the handsomest of all his yovng 
 cows for her children! "Come, then," said farmer Smith, "there's 
 plenty more things on the way, let's make one safe at a time. 
 You tell Patience, her mistress has sent her this cow, 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 warmly-thatched shed ! But there was no time 
 allowed for expressing her feeling; fanner Smith hastened 
 back to the stile where the tumbril was waiting, and widow 
 Jones hastened after, and then she stood by w^hile its stores 
 were unloaded. Out tumbled the little black pig, and the boy 
 jumped down just in time to secure him : then the milk-pail 
 and milk-pans, the cream-pot and skimmer ; the box tied 
 round with a cord and directed ; 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 listen- 
 ing beside him in the midst of the things ; there she stood in 
 her short-sleeved, half-length, large-flowered, print bedgown, 
 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 it — saving all need of strings, and her 
 white apron tied on, all ready for whatever on that summer-day 
 might befall ; there she stood wiping away with the coiner oi 
 her apron her fast-starting tears, as she hstened to farmer Smith 
 and looked on the gifts — all telling the praises, so sweet to her^ 
 
880 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 Oi her Jem and his bride ! "The box," said fanner Smith, "will 
 speak for itself when it 's opened, which need not be done till 
 your children return. The fowls are from Rose, her present tc 
 Patience ; my wife says Patience will know who made the 
 basket, and she is to keep it for our poor sailor boy's sake. My 
 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 serve him through life, in remembrance 
 of the child. But I must be off, for my wife entirely set her 
 mind on my being and knowing the things safe here, before 
 they returned from the church." So farmer Smith saw the little 
 black pig secure in the stye ; and then leaving the man and 
 the boy to help in with the rest, he hastened back again to the 
 farm. 
 
 Mrs. Smith was impatiently waiting her husband's return, and 
 losing more time by her looks from 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 bestow- 
 ment 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 brida) 
 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 parlor tc 
 be assured all was right there, then hastened to the door-step 
 to receive them. Fanner 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, 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 881 
 
 upright on the* door-step, but when Jem led up his bride, she 
 stooped her tall figure, and kissed the cheek of Patience, and 
 led her in herself, as with a mother's feeling. The water was 
 boiling, so the tea was soon made ; the coffee was ready before- 
 hand; and full of gentlest cheerfulness they all sat down to 
 the wedding-breakfast. Mrs. Smith poured out the tea, and 
 Rose the coffee ; Jem and his bride sat on one side of the 
 table ; and Mercy between farmer Smith and William on the 
 other. No pains had been spared in preparing the feast : a 
 plum-cake, black with richness, was placed in the center ; it 
 was not frosted over with snow, which the art of the confec- 
 tioners alone can accomplish — such borrowed skill was not 
 needed at their wedding-feast, nor would Mrs. Smith have seen 
 the merit of cmsting a cake with a coating of ice for a table, 
 round which only affection could gather. Ornaments they had 
 — nature's own, and not wanting in taste of arrangement. 
 Rose had gathered white lilies, and laid them all over and in a 
 circle round the large 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- 
 easCc Among the frail flowers stood the solid mass of the 
 dishes — a great pie filled with rabbits, a ham dressed for the 
 0(3casion, a fresh-cut cheese from the dairy, with butter 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 do\vn 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 : foi 
 
382 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 the recklessness that can gather together the faiiest flowers of 
 the Earth, to please the eye of those who will take no care to 
 preserve their frail 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 interests of her newly arrived 
 charge. " 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 with such leaves as a 
 cow, she well knew, would like, and then strewed it before 
 the black heifer, who hcked the old woman's hand before feed- 
 ing, 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 said at 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 fa- 
 tigued, she told them all, gravely, that they must think she had 
 something else to do than to see after them ! and having ven- 
 tured so far in a reproof for their persevering demands, she 
 returned to the house, and putting 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 at last fell asleep in her arm-chair. She slept 
 quietly there for some half-hour or more, when a sudden sharp 
 tap at the door aroused her. " They are come !" thought widow 
 J ^nes, as she started up from sleep ; but no, it was not her son 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 888 
 
 who opened the door and looked in, it was a stranger. " Is this 
 Roode's plot ?" asked the man. " Yes," replied widow Jone-s, 
 rather in alarm at sight of the stranger. '' I suppose you aro 
 the mother of the man who lives here ?" " Yes," said widow 
 Jones, still more uneasy. " Then you will please to give your 
 son that letter, from Madam Clifford at the Hall, 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 be- 
 fore she had 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 situa- 
 tion, 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 the face a colored 
 picture of a shepherd-lad with a lamb on one arm, and his sheej. 
 feeding at his feet. It was well widow Jones had had her 
 cup of tea and her refreshing sleep, for most surely neither would 
 have been thought of after the arrival of the clock. " Then it 's 
 from Madam 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. 
 
 But when Patience at the farm at last turned to take leave, 
 Mrs. Smith's pleasant smile was gone, her lip quivered, and hef 
 
884 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 strong firm 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 moments passed, 
 and the maid and her mistress had parted, the record of her 
 years in that place of service was finished, and nothing of the 
 past could be altered. How often does that solemn moment 
 come and go unheeded — a service ended, a place left, and the 
 past is supposed to be done with ; but 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, till the day, 
 that bringeth 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. But there is One, and 
 only One, to whom they still lie open — even Jesus, the Saviour 
 of sinners ; and eai'nest prayer to Him may still avail to get all 
 the hand-writing against us blotted out in his blood ; only let 
 us not go thoughtlessly forward — as 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 — blotteth out all His peo- 
 ple's transgression, and maketh their imperfection perfect. So 
 Patience had parted in peace, beneath the blessing of Heaven 
 and of Earth, and was now descending the hill. Mi-s. Smith 
 waited a few moments looking out of the window, in the effort 
 to recover composure ; then turning to Rose, who was watch- 
 ing beside her, she said, " I wish you would run after Patience 
 with that," taking a book done up in paper from her pocket, 
 " you know what it is, I did not feel able to speak about it when 
 she went, as I meant to have done. You can tell her it 's foi 
 the sake of Uttle Tim !" Rose took the book, and her swifl 
 steps soon overtook Patience, who, leaning on Jem, was ascend 
 
p. 884 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 385 
 
 ing 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 for the sake of little Tim ; she meant to 
 have given it 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 favorite with all. And now at length widow 
 Jones looking out from above the bright geraniums in the win- 
 dow, saw Jem and his bride at the stile. Then she opened wide 
 the cottage door, and stood just within — where the sheltering 
 vine on 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 Jem followed close after, and the old woman 
 stretched out both her arms and clasped them round Patience, 
 and Patience threw her's round the old woman's neck, and felt, 
 for the first time in life, that she too had a mother! Then as 
 Patience imlocked that close embrace, the old woman turning to 
 her son, said, " God bless you, my Jem, and bless us all here to- 
 gether, for I am sure 't is his goodness that brings such things to 
 pass !" and Jem looked on as if he felt the sight he then saw was 
 the best sight of all. But just then, Jem started and stared, for a 
 loud-striking clock told the hour, with a slow decided c^il upon 
 the attention of all. 
 
 " Why, mother ! a clock ! where did it come from ?" 
 
 ** All ! never mind that !" rephed widow Jones, " look he^* m 
 this drawer, here 's a letter in Madam Chffbrd's own han<i i^ 
 that don't tell you all about it I am sure that I can't !" 
 
 Jem took up the letter. 
 
 17 
 
386 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 ** But now, child, come, sit down," said tlie old womat, tummg 
 to Patience. " Why, to think that you have never been insido 
 the door, and yet 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 again to his bride, and then leaning on the back of her 
 chair, told his aged mother, who wgs 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. Wliat comfort beamed upon her from every 
 comer : and there lay the large Bible, dear old Willy's own Bible, 
 of which Jem 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 she 
 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 any thing 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 all 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 blessing seems to bide with it all, 
 for it always looks as beautiful and cheerful as can be, just as you 
 see it looks now !" 
 
 " But what a clock that is !" said Patience, " do yo see that 
 shepherd with the lamb in his arms ? and the clock is so like 
 ours at the fann, it seems quite natural to look at it !" 
 
 " Yes," replied Jem, " I never was more taken by surprise in 
 my life then when it set up striking just as we had come in at 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. SSl 
 
 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 yet. I can't think," 
 added Jem, " what that kind of grunting is I hear, I could almost 
 have thought my poor httle pig that I lost had come to life again, 
 to welcome you here !" 
 
 Then old widow Jones rose up from 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 back kitchen 
 when a loud shrill crow from a cock burst on the ear of Pa- 
 tience. 
 
 " You come and all !" said Jem to Patience, who hastened 
 after him, the aged mother following — to the pig-stye; there 
 looked up the little black pig, grunting eagerly again as if quite 
 sure now of a feast ; and then turning away from Jem and Pa- 
 tience, looked up at widow Jones, as soon as she, his kind feeder, 
 arrived as the stye. 
 
 " Why, mother ! what a beauty of a pig !" exclaimed Jem, 
 " how ever 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 every thing in a moment !" said 
 widow Jones, decidedly ; while the cock, at the sound of pleasant 
 voices, crowed forth a further announceu jat of his presence on 
 the premises. Jem stepped oc to the shed and opened the door, 
 then holding it back, said in amaze, " Patience, only you look in 
 here !" Patience looked in ; there stood the black heifer, who 
 at sight of Patience pulled hard at the rope, by which she was 
 tied, to get to her side ; there stood the new barrow ; the hens 
 and the cock — in the basket made by the sailor-boy Ted. " Now 
 you just listen,"said widow Jones, " and I '11 tell you all." So Jem 
 stood there and listened, still all in amaze, and Patience beside 
 him — while the black heifer was happy with ter hand, which it 
 licked on both sides. 
 
388 MINISTERING CHILDRElsr. 
 
 " I was nere in tlie hous« then," said widow Jones, " keeping 
 all straioflit witliin; when, who should I see but our master 
 leading up the young cow ! Out I went ; and he told me he 
 had brought it from our mistress, a present for Patience — for her 
 very own, and he said she was to have it and sell milt to the 
 poor ; and it seemed to me wholly a beautiful thing, that she 
 who had 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 said ; 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." Back widow Jones hurried, and Patience and 
 Jem followed after, to see the milk-pail with its bright rims, the 
 milk-pans, and cream-pot, and skimmer, all set out in the dairy. 
 Then, returning again, widow Jones went on to tell all the his- 
 tory, not shortened the least by her remarks in between the 
 matters of fact that she had to relate : how the fowls were from 
 Rose ; the basket the sailor-boy's work, and all that their master 
 had said about it; and the barrow for Jem, to serve him for life, 
 in remembrance of the love of little Tim. Then 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 we do any 
 thing more T must go down to the farm, and you with me, and 
 speak about what we found here !" So Patience and Jem re- 
 turned agam to the faim, and going in by the back-door, found 
 Mrs. Smith still busy clearing away : Patience sat down on tlie 
 low-backed kitchen chair, where she sat in tears the day little 
 Tim first took notice of her ; she could not now speak a word, 
 but, quite overcome, she hid her face and wept, while Jem stood 
 silent beside her. " Wliy, Patience, child !" said Mrs. Smith, 
 stopping short with a cloth in her hand, with which she was 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 38V 
 
 rulbing up the tankard; "come back so soon! why, child, 
 what's the matter?" 
 
 " It 's only your goodness, and master's too," said Jem ; " in- 
 deed it's all over too much for us both !" 
 
 " Well now, if that's all," replied Mrs. Smith, "you have done 
 and said quite enough, so never let me hear another word about 
 that, nor your master either — here he is close by to say the 
 same." 
 
 " But the black heifer !" said Patience, without looking up ; 
 "I am sure I never could of 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 Mrs. Smith. " Haven't you and Jem just 
 tended them all with that care that nothing seemed to be lost 
 that was imder your hand ? You know that very well ; and 
 though it's just what every one who has a right principle would 
 do, yet I was not going to seem as if I did not know it, for I 
 did, and your master no less! And I do say, if there's one in 
 the ullage who has more of a right than another to sell milk 
 for the poor, it's just you and Jem ! I know I always have taken 
 a pleasure in that, and I am pretty sure you will no less ; and 
 such a fancy 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 do'vn 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 any thing — you re- 
 member I have said it !" And with that Mrs. Smith 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. 
 
890 MIKISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 " Wliy, here's Rose and Mercy coining off up to you, ana yon 
 not at home to receive them I There now, be satisfied, and 
 don't shed another tear over that which comes only as a bless- 
 ing!" said Mrs. Smith, and then adding, "Good-by to you, 
 my good girl, I don't think any the worse of you for coming so 
 soon dowTi!" and with fresh 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. Rose bear- 
 ing the round wedding-cake, her mother's own making; and 
 Mercy carrying all the white lilies in an 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 and delight of widow Jones. Then visiting 
 all the creatures with Patience and Mercy and Jem, she hastened 
 back again to the farm ; while Jem and his bride, and his 
 mother and Mercy, sat down at the round cottage table. Then 
 Mrs. Clifford's letter was brought out again ; and Mercy knew 
 her mistress's handwriting, 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 Mercy whether 
 she thought he might make bold and step up that evening and 
 ask to speak to the young Squire ; or whether he ought to wail 
 till the next day. Jem's grateful heart did not like to pavss 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 wedding-day over without so much as a sight 
 of the young Squire : he seemod to think that all could not go 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 391 
 
 BO well with him :f he went over the day without a sight of him ; 
 BO it was decided that after tea he should walk up. But while 
 they were still seated round at the table, (the cottage-door wide 
 open,) in that summer afternoon, and Jem seated in fidl view of 
 the road, he suddenly started up, saying, "There's our young 
 Squire himself at the stile!" So Jem hastened out; there 
 Herbert stood, with a noble dog waiting beside him. " Well, 
 Jem," said the young Squire, " I could not be the only one not to 
 wish you well in a friendly greeting to-day, so I walked down 
 this Way, expecting now I should find you at home." Then 
 Jem sent his best message of duty and gratitude to Madam 
 Clifford for the handsomest clock, Jem said, he ever had seen ! 
 And he asked the young Squire if he would please to walk in 
 and see how it stood. Herbert went in with Jem, and there he 
 saw that dwellipg of comfort and peace; the tall clock with 
 the shepherd-lad and the young lamb on his arm painted on it ; 
 the lily-covered cake ; the aged mother in her new array ; and 
 Patience and Mercy beside her. The young Squire sat down, 
 and the dog sat at his feet and looked up in his face. Then 
 Herbert said, " Jem, now you are a rich man, and I thought you 
 might manage to keep a good dog. I had this from some dis- 
 tance for you, the best of his kind, I believe ; he is a huge fel- 
 low, but he won't cost you more, I fancy, than you will be will- 
 ing to spend on him. What do you say to having him for a 
 helper ?" 
 
 " 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 httle notice of 
 him at first, or I am afraid he will run off to me, for I have 
 made a great favoiite of him ; we must tie him up for to-night. 
 And see here, I have brought a cord, for I remembered that 
 
892 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 you only engaged for a pair of hands — when I came to you sup- 
 posing 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 Jem 
 felt in them all : and if the black heifer was a treasure to Pa- 
 tience, 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 come. Then he 
 left honest Jem with his bride and his mother in old Willy's 
 cottage — and returned to the Hall. 
 
 After tea, while Patience and Mercy cleared away, Jem went 
 after food for the creatures ; he longed to take his dog with him, 
 but he could not venture so soon. Then the sun went do^vn in 
 the sky ; and when all the live creatures were provided for — 
 before Mercy returned to the Hall — Jem opened old Willy's 
 Bible, and while they all sat around, he read the 103d Psalm, 
 and then they knelt down, and he offered up the evening prayer 
 from the book Mrs. Smith had given in remembrance of little 
 Tim. And so closed that bright summer day. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 " WTien the ear heard, then it blessed me ; and when the eye saw, it gave witneM ta 
 mo : because I delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless and him that had none 
 to help him. The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me ; and I 
 caused the widow's heart to sing for joy."' — Job xxix. 11-13. 
 
 QOON after the young Squire came of age, it was necessary to 
 ^ appoint a fresh steward for the estate on which he resided, to 
 watch over and receive the rents of the farms, and for all such 
 affairs as belong to the office of a farm-steward. He had looked 
 forward to this change, and made his own choice as to who 
 should fill this oflSce — so important in the manner of its exercise 
 to the comfort as well as to the integrity of those over whom 
 the steward is appointed to watch. No sooner was the office 
 vacant than William was sent for to the Hall, and it was oft'ered 
 to him. Farmer Smith's farm was not large, and it would be 
 easy for William still to live with his parents, assist his father on 
 the farm, and yet accomplish all that this new employment 
 would require of him : while the yearly salary received would 
 make the circumstances of his family all he could desire — for it 
 was only the difficulty of always being ready with his rent that 
 kept farmer Smith's mind harassed by his business. So William 
 gratefully accepted the ofter, and was appointed farm-steward of 
 the estate. 
 
 A year passed peacefully over Patience in her new abode ; 
 and when the summer came again — with its long days and 
 refreshing fruits, she received a visit from her first master't 
 
S94 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 family ; they all came over to spend a day, to tlie joy of Patience 
 and the delight of all the children — but especially of little 
 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 brimming pail of white-frothed milk ; the poor 
 women and children coming to buy of Patience ; the white 
 hens, and little chickens who flew upon her shoulders ; the 
 shepherd's dog and the sheep ; and even of feeding the pig with 
 all that Patience put by in a plate for its food, of vegetables 
 and apple-peels — that she returned to her home in the town, 
 fully resolved on being a farm-house servant, and living with 
 Mrs. Smith — ^if she would receive her when her age was suffi- 
 cient. 
 
 Mrs. Smith had had a trying year with her 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 much, 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 of real honest work I 
 So thoughtless girls came and left a situation where Patience 
 had stayed to earn the favor of all. Mrs. Smith was quite in 
 despair, and said she saw no help for it but doing the work her- 
 self with Rose, for such servants were more trial than all their 
 service was worth. Patience often came down to the farm on 
 baking-days, or churning-days, or washing-days, and stayed for. 
 some hours to help ; and these were pleasant times both to her 
 mistress and hersel£ One day while Patience was busy taking 
 out the bread from the large brick oven at the farm, Mrs. Smith 
 being then without a serv^ant, a pleasant-looking woman came up 
 to the door and asked if Mrs. Smith was within. 
 
 " Yes," said Patience, and she went to let her mistress know. 
 
 " I daresay it 's only a girl after the place !" said Mrs. Smith. 
 
 " No, she looks over age to be after that," replied Patienca 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 395 
 
 So Mrs. Sniitli came down as soon as she was ready, to the back- 
 kitchen where the young 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 felt at home, or stayed long 
 in any place since I left you, and I think if I could but get back 
 here, I should feel settled again. I am sure I have often repent- 
 ed that I gave up as I did, instead of trying on a little longer ; 
 but I hope I should be wiser for the future !" 
 
 " Well, Molly," said Mrs. Smith, " I always felt I was to blame 
 for your leaving ; but I hope things are better now in some re- 
 spects, than they were : though the child is gone ! — ^you know 
 that, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Molly, " I vexed sadly for him ! it cut me up 
 more than any thing to have left him ; but I hope it was all for 
 the best for him, by what I heard." 
 
 " Well, 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 Molly 
 came back to the farm, a more patient servant, to find a more 
 patient mistress ; and comfort was once more restored to Mrs. 
 Smith's household arrangements. 
 
 Another pleasant event of this summer was the return of the 
 sailor-boy from his first long voyage. Full of spirits and bodily 
 vigor, sun-burnt, and laden with his gifts of love — he came to 
 gladden the hearts of all ; to shake heartily every friendly hand 
 — and none were foes with him ; to visit every familiar spot ; to 
 hold discourse with all the men of village-trade on the use he 
 liad made, or was likely to make, of their arts — though he had 
 
8^6 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 yet kuown no shipwreck ; to learn again from the lips of the 
 Minister — to tell him what he had seen and heard and done, and 
 to list(3n to his advice for the future. He made no little stir 
 both in the farm and village; and then, having formed a strong 
 friendship ^vith Jem's noble dog ; comforted his mother ; and 
 satisfied his father and William, he went oflf again — light and 
 swift as a bird of passage, to be tossed once more on the free- 
 crested waves. 
 
 Another year passed by, and when the next Autumn came, 
 the young Squire had completed his college life, and satisfied 
 the best hopes of his boyhood's tutor, and it was understood in 
 the village that he was going abroad again with his mother. 
 These tidings gave great disappointment to the hopes of those 
 who had looked to the comfort of his residence among them ; 
 but having assembled his tenantiy, he told them that he be- 
 lieved his absence would not be for more than six months, 
 and then he hoped to return and live among them for the fu- 
 ture. He had no sooner left than repairs and alterations were 
 begun at the Hall ; and the mansion, far from looking desolate 
 and deserted as before, was a scene of perpetual life and activ- 
 
 ity. 
 
 Two years of unclouded comfort Patience had enjoyed in her 
 cottage home. Jem's aged mother, relieved from all care and 
 toil, had regained fresh \ngor and spirits — she was always busy 
 in little ways, always at hand, always reflecting the brightness 
 of that blight cottage-home. But the winter of the Squire's 
 absence proved a severe one, and the sudden cold seemed sud- 
 denly to snap the old woman's feeble stem of life, and she lay 
 down on her bed to die ! Patience could not believe, when the 
 doctor told her that her mother's death was near. " Why it 
 was but a week ago," she said, " my mother was up and a? cheer- 
 ful and well as ever I have known her to be !" The doctor re- 
 
MINI6TERING CHILDREN. 397 
 
 plied, " It miglit be so, but ber hours are numbered now !" Stil] 
 Patience 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 grate 
 up stairs ; she made cordials, and Mrs. Smith came up more 
 than once in the day ; but the old woman smiled on them, and 
 said, " It 's just sweet to m}'' old heart to feel you all bent to 
 keep me still, if you could ! but I am going where I shall be far 
 better off even than here — though my last days have been my 
 best days !" Then, looking up at Patience, she said, " You 
 have just been my evening star, lighting me Home — for I have 
 gathered more knowledge these two years with you, than I had 
 in my whole life before — let the thought of that comfort you as 
 long as you live ! Jem, my son," she added, turning to him, " 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 fall upon you in the hour of 
 your need ! I know you will take care of Mercy ; she is not fit 
 to stand in this rough world alone, it would soon break her 
 down ; but the God of the orphan will not let his promise fail. 
 It is not darkness to me ; the light that has, but glimmered be- 
 fore me so long, shines all bright round me now ; and I hear 
 the voice of Him who says, ' Come unto me and I will give you 
 rest !' " So the widow departed, and her children mourned for 
 her. Mercy was far away with Mrs. Clifford in a foreign land . 
 but tears were shed for old widow Jones by the eyes of those 
 who owned no tie of kindred with her. The snow lay deep 
 upon the ground, and Patience, ill from the anxiety of nursing 
 and the shock of so sudden a loss — ^having also her infant child 
 to tend — was little fit to venture to the grave. Jem earnestly 
 persuaded her not to go, but Patience would not be persuaded ; 
 she said it was the only respect she could now show to one who 
 
608 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 had been all a mother could be to her ; and to have lost her so 
 suddenly — was a trial she had never so much as thought upon I 
 Jem gave way, and Patience followed their aged mother to the 
 grave by his side. But she took cold, as might have been ex- 
 pected, 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 eveiy way to min- 
 ister to her comfort: but, notwithstanding all this care, and 
 Jem's ceaseless anxiety, the spring was approaching before Pa- 
 tience was able to leave her bed and sit down stairs in old Willy's 
 arm-chair. 
 
 But the cheerful spring advanced — the frost gave way before 
 the sun's warm beams, the flowers raised their heads above 
 their wintery graves, the birds looked down from tree and hedge 
 and sang a welcome to them ; new life and vigor came slowly 
 back to Patience, and hope and cotnfort to the heart of Jem. 
 Patience had not yet milked the 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 his presence, and Patience 
 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 should 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 Pa- 
 tience to attend their mother's fiineral, and he now was resolved 
 to act prudently. At length as May was giving place to June, 
 the very last Sunday in the month dawned as soft and lovely a 
 day as the spring-time ever beheld. Jem could not refuse Pa- 
 tience her wish on such a day ; so, wrapped up and leaning on 
 the arm of her husband, with steps more feeble than she had ex- 
 pected them to be, while Rose kept house with the infan 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 39fi 
 
 in the ccttage, Patience went to the afternoon-service in the 
 church. 
 
 The Minister — their own Minister, preached a missionary ser- 
 mon : and when he told of the poor heathen without God — 
 because without Christ, and therefore without hope in the 
 world. Patience thought she could feel something of what it 
 must be to live, and sicken, and die, without one glimpse of 
 Heaven, one hope of entering there ! She thought of her dy- 
 ing mother's peace, she thought of her husband's Christian 
 life, she thought of their child baptized 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 
 
 o 
 
 back for it on the Saturday ; but Jem had not told her — most 
 likely he had forgotten it himself. What could she do ? Pa- 
 tience had still one treasure, a possession in money that she al- 
 ways kept with her. She had kept it through want and dis- 
 tress, through trouble and sickness, through prosperity and 
 comfort; she had thought to keep it through life, and that 
 nothing would ever win it from 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, 
 through all her Ufe's changes. But now the call to part with 
 it entered her heart — it seemed to come from Heaven, and 
 Earth seemed to repeat the same call — " Is it too much for you 
 
400 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 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 from the men . 
 benches, after sernce, 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 mis- 
 taken, but seeing her 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 aa 
 they descended the hill. When they reached their peaceful 
 cottage the door stood partly open, and they heard the voice 
 of Rose singing to their infant ; the kettle was boiling on the 
 wood-fire, the tea was set ready on the round table, and all 
 looked the picture of repose. Rose hastened back to the farm, 
 and Jem, with hghter heart and brighter face than he had had 
 for many a day — sat down with Patience to their cheerful tea. 
 No cloud of troubled feeling hung over Patience — ^no, her per 
 sonal sacrifice was made to Him who gives a present as well aa 
 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 tenderness, 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 
 entOess future alone can make manifest the results of what 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 40\ 
 
 IB 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, httle Peace 
 by name, grew strong and merry when more with its mother 
 in the open air ; and though Patience could not at once recover 
 her strength and her look of health, yet the home of Jem again 
 wore its cheerful aspect, and the voice of joy was again heard 
 within it. 
 
 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 ; afiec- 
 tion invested the faded adornment of that room with more at- 
 traction 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 firet put on the emerald brightness oj 
 the spring. Tidings had arrived in 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 cele- 
 brate 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 from 
 his boyhood. But orders were given by him for all the park- 
 gates 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 fathers 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 
 
402 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 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 from the greensward ; and 
 children took their parents' hands in questioning excitement. 
 William rode on Black Beauty — ^who 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 again 
 quickly to his post at the great entrance gate. Ringers had 
 been stationed by William in the first village church where the 
 Squire had property, and as soon as the long line of tenantry 
 returning and escorting the Squire were seen from that village 
 steeple, the bells were to strike up a peal. A watcher was set 
 on the tower of the next village church — and as soon as he 
 heard the signal of approach, the solitary bell in that tower 
 was to send on the tidings — over hill and valley, over the 
 green waving com and the yet unmown grass — to a watcher 
 on the tower of their own village church, then were their own 
 bells to ring out the welcome heard from afar. All hushed 
 their breath to listen for the first distant sound — too impatient 
 to wait for nearer tidings, trusting to catch from their fi'iendly 
 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 welfare and happiness, his own ? — not by general dispen- 
 sations of kindness, but by that frank and personal intercourse, 
 which binds the heart with the tie of devoted affection — a tie 
 i'ar stronger, far higher, and deeper, than that of mere personal 
 gratitude for favors received. Had they not seen his warm 
 feeling gush forth, seen his active sympathy spring to the 
 surface at the sight or hearing of trouble or sorrow of theirs ? 
 Was not the quick glance of his boyhood-eye, his generous 
 utterance, familiar to many assembled there? Who would 
 
MINI8TEBING CHILDREN. 403 
 
 not come forth to receive in his manhood, the boy who had 
 toiled in the ditch over old Willy's log; who 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 the heart of the village to that boy like 
 one free spontaneous effort — such as Herbert's had been, bear- 
 ing 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 ? When once aroused to a sense of their 
 blessedness, had he not followed in ner gentler steps with hif 
 manly power, and had not the hght of her life shone reflectec 
 in him? Then might the deep well-spring of feeling thai 
 had followed her to Heaven break forth again to welcome hij 
 return to his home ! True loyalty is happily a contagious emo- 
 tion, and many a heart beat quicker, and many a cheek glowed 
 with feeling that day, in those who 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 extend- 
 •ng one on each side the steps ; while the maids stood assem- 
 bled in the entrance-hall. Again and again some eager lis- 
 tener said, "I heard the bells stnke up — I am pretty sure I 
 did !" But, no, it could not have been, for their own village 
 tower still stood silent. At length William, the farm-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 : breathlessly the 
 people now listened, and in a few minutes more their own vii- 
 
404 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 lage chime struck full on the ear : then the throng pressed sid« 
 by side, as near as might be to the broad carriage sweep, while 
 on pealed the bells ; till the sound of many trampling hoofe 
 was heard along the road. Still on they rang, till full in sight 
 came the traveling-carriage, with its four horses and its blue 
 postillions; 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 on the carriage — ^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 dismounted 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, took down the 
 orphan Mercy from the carriage with a brother's softened wel- 
 come — for 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 Hall, 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 uncov- 
 ered beneath their roofs and among them ; a blessing on the 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 405 
 
 Squire's Lady; and a blessing on his mother. The Squire 
 stood at an 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 dependants 
 were his friends. Then the Squire turned away from the win- 
 dow, and the people took their refreshment all seated on the 
 grass, till the Squire came out, and his Lady on his arm; 
 they stood on the first. Hall 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 friends, and enable us 
 to reia'n 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 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 beside him, his infant on his arm, and Patience at 
 his side, at the further edge of the assembly, so he made his 
 way up to him. The dog knew the Squire, and sprang forward 
 to greet him, and leaping up licked his hand, and the Squire 
 caressed him as he passed on to Jem, and said, in his kind 
 cheerful tone, " "Well, Jem ; do you pretend to be the last to 
 welcome home your friend !" and that beautiful Lady stood be- 
 side the Squire, and said with a smile, " I know the name of 
 Jem ! Is this your wife and child ?" "When Patience heard 
 her speak she looked up at her face, then falling 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 — ^faint from long 
 standing and overcome with feeling — ^poor Patience fell back 
 
406 MINISTERING CHILDREN. 
 
 upon the arm of Jem, who laid her gently on the grass, and 
 knelt beside her. The Squire said, " Bring water ! and fetch 
 the gamekeeper's light cart to carry her home !" and Jem look- 
 ed up and said, " She has been ill for months, and was but just 
 getting over it, only I persuaded her to come ynth. 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 on 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 
 toward the Hall, the Lady Gertrude said to the Squire, " They 
 are still there, let us ask how Jem's wife is now!" so they stop- 
 ped, and the little close-gathered circle opened, and the Lady 
 Gertrude said, " How is she now ?" Patience was still seated 
 on the grass, leaning on the arm of Jem, but she had revived, 
 and now seeing their Lady again, she said, " O, Jem, she is not 
 gone! ask if I may speak to her?" And 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 
 
 poor child you comforted in ! it was you that put feeling 
 
 into my froze-up heart! and I thought I should never have 
 seen you again, and then to see you stand there — ^it wholly 
 overcame me !" Tears came to that Lady's eyes, as she said, 
 " Are you indeed the same ? then I am come to live near you 
 now, 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 he^v- 
 
MINISTERING CHILDREN. 407 
 
 enly child that had come to her in her misery, and he looked 
 upon that beautiful Lady kneehng 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 standiug 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, tind so her heart's long desire was ful- 
 filled — ^beyond all she had ever hoped or thought; and she 
 quickly recovered strength ; and the voice of joy and health 
 was heard within her dwelling. 
 
 Wagons and carts carried home the rejoicing people; and 
 those near at hand returned on foot. And now the sun went 
 down, and the long shadows fell over lawn and wood. Mrs. 
 Clifford stood at the window with her rhildren, and gazed on 
 the slopes where the welcoming throng had been, and said, " It 
 was too much for me to look upon, but not too much to feel the 
 deepest thankfulness for !" and her son looked on her in answer- 
 ing tenderness. And then the Squire asked his Lady, if she 
 missed the mountains from the landscape that she had been used 
 to from her childhood ! And she replied, " O, 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 le^oseu ^n 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 from the beginning. Wa 
 
408 MINISTEKING CHILDREN. 
 
 have only to ask the children who read this story, whether they 
 also are ministering children ? This story has been written to 
 show, as in a picture, what ministering children are. There is 
 no child upon Earth who may not be a ministering child ; be- 
 cause the Holy Spirit of God, even the blessed Comforter Him- 
 self, will come to every child of God who asks that blessed 
 Spirit to teach him how to comfort others. Even the beloved 
 Son of God, when He came down from Heaven to Earth, came 
 to minister to those who were in need — He Himself tells us so. 
 And God sends His holy angels down to Earth to be ministering 
 spirits here. The youngest child of God, who is able to under- 
 stand any thing, can learn to be a ministering child ; therefore, 
 all who pray to God as their Heavenly Father, must 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 of joy and pleasure for evermore, in their Heavenly 
 Father's presence in glory ; and there they will see those whom 
 they comforted and taught to know the love of God their Sa- 
 ,viour upon earth. " And so shall they ever be with the Lord ;" 
 " and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes ; and there 
 shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall 
 there be any more pain ; for the former things will be 
 away." — Rev. xxi. 4. 
 
ii 
 
j 
 
 / 
 RETURN ' CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT 
 
 TO ^^ Main Library • 198 IVIain Stacl<s 
 
 LOAN PERIOD 1 
 HOME USE 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 4 
 
 5 
 
 6 
 
 ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS. 
 
 Renewls and Recharges may be made 4 days prior to the due date. 
 
 Books may be Renewed by calling 642-3405. 
 
 DUE AS STAMPED BELOW 
 
 X. 
 
 AA\b.m 
 
 
 
 - 1 ; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 FORM NO. DD6 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY 
 BERKELEY CA 94720-6000 
 
. . n RFRKELEY LIBRARIES 
 
 ■■■i 
 
 CD5ft30m5b