CHAPTER XVII.

The week that followed my first visit to the hospital was full of painful excitement to us all. Blurdon lay for some days, and was at intervals able to converse. All the gloomy ferocity, the savage harshness of his tone, look and manner, which before so repelled and frightened me, had now given place to a subdued, contrite voice and expression, such as could not but strengthen my hope that his heart was changed. I need not dwell on those closing scenes. He gradually sank, and his last words were a petition for forgiveness.

Before his death the repentant man confided his history to Uncle Rossiter. He was the son of a pious mother, against whose counsel his restless spirit had early rebelled. "I am dying now," he said, "because I have all along chosen to live without God in the world. I set off and followed my own way, against the warnings and guidings of as good a mother as ever son was blessed with; against the teachings of the best and wisest book that ever was written, the Bible; against a right good education; and lastly against the rein of that conscience which would often have held me in."

I can well remember how we all sat with a great sadness on our hearts and listened while uncle told the story.

"I cared for none of these things," said Blurdon to him—"that is, I came to care for none of them, for at first I did, but soon I didn't. And I came to think, or chose to think, that I knew better than the great, all-knowing God what things and ways were good for my happiness. That it was neither good nor necessary to be so particular as the Lord required was the first notion I took up, and after that the devil himself could not have wished me to go ahead faster. It was throwing the reins on the neck of a wild horse. Folks talk of the downward road being bright and easy, but, to my shame, I know every mile of it only too well, and can testify that after a bit there is no road so rough and none so dark."

Uncle told us much more which I need not now repeat. "Poor fellow!" he added; "it was the downward road that led him over that precipice and brought him to his death. Children, take this lesson to heart: the downward hill to perdition is covered with paths, so to speak, some broad, some narrow, some straight, some winding, some smooth, some rough; but, varied though they all are, both in appearance and in apparent course, they every one lead to destruction. How many are tempted to set off down this great widespreading hill, each in pursuit of his particular employment or pleasure! and how many are thus hurried into danger and ruined for ever! It is a blessed thing to choose from the first the right path. Wisdom's ways are ways of pleasantness and all her paths are paths of peace."

My sister Charlotte had once gone with uncle to the hospital, and, tired of waiting in the carriage, thoughtlessly begged leave to follow him into the ward, but as she entered a faintness and horror seized her, and she realized the scene in a manner that had otherwise been impossible to her light-hearted nature. It was days before she could shake off the impression, and it seemed to create quite a deep feeling in her, making her unusually grave and sad. The tears filled her eyes now while Uncle Rossiter was speaking, and she told me afterward that then old Susan's words had come back to her with a new force, and she saw a resemblance in her own life and the same evil self-will at work as in Blurdon's early days. "Do you remember," she asked, "my once saying that everything pleasant seemed wrong, and everything wrong seemed pleasant? What was that but choosing the wrong path?" Dear Lotty! that day was a memorable one to her, for, by God's grace, it became the turning-point of her life.

Three years came and went after the foregoing visit to Rathfelder's Hotel and the consequent events I have recorded. Painful as the nature of those events was, I then saw that they were blessings productive of eternal good to Charlotte and me. To our great joy and comfort, dear Aunt Rossiter's health continued slowly to improve, but the feelings awakened in my heart and soul when first I learned how perilously in the midst of life she was in death never passed away. And good for me it was they did not—good in every way, as regarded this world and the next, making me more thoughtful, considerate and excusing toward those whom I loved, for, ah me! had I not learned that we know not what shall be on the morrow? "For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away." And as for dear Charlotte, the death of Blurdon and all the circumstances attending it had left so deep an impression on her mind that even time was powerless to efface it. This influence cannot but be regarded as a divine interposition in her favour; for she confessed to me that at that period her soul was in a dangerously rebellious state against the all-wise, all-merciful Creator. When the truth suddenly flashed upon her soul she was terrified exceedingly, she said, and began from that hour to think as she had never thought before, and to resolve—yes, to resolve to live a new life.

"You see, Mechie," she added, "it was not of course that I thought I could live such a life as that poor creature did, or come to such an awful end, but there are few things which vary more than the ways of sin, or are more skilfully and amiably accommodating to every style of character; and therefore, while Blurdon took his course as it were down the hill of perdition, running, jumping, rolling, tumbling headforemost, I more slowly, less desperately, but equally surely, might even now have been pursuing one of its many flower-decked paths to ruin—quite as certainly in my way as that unhappy man in his."

And oh what an improved being darling Lotty has become! Old Susan used to say that heartfelt holiness made people a deal comelier, and I am sure it was so with Lotty when she put on that most adorning of all robes, the compassionate, self-sacrificing, humble religion of the merciful Redeemer. Instead of living solely to please herself and looking as though she did—a look which no device, no assumed good-nature can conceal or change the character of—she now endeavoured earnestly to obey the divine injunction: "In lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than himself," and, "Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others." The result was she seemed daily to become more and more all that is really beautiful and admirable in woman, and her handsome face, no longer marred by its former expression of selfishness and thoughtless levity, wore now a sweet, kindly gravity and care for the happiness and welfare of her fellow-creatures.

* * * * *

"What a very engaging-looking girl that eldest Miss Marlow has become!" a gentleman observed to another, one evening, when Charlotte and I were at a party in a friend's house. "I didn't think much of her a couple of years ago, but latterly she has bloomed out wonderfully. Her whole expression is altered. There used to be a vacancy, a want of something rather than the positive presence of anything defective in her countenance and manner, but that is quite gone now, and she looks sensible, thoughtful, and, it strikes me, in some way much more amiable."

"Yes, decidedly," rejoined his companion. "And now let me tell you, Hedding, that in your observations you have unwittingly admitted more in favour of the power of Christianity than you supposed."

"In favour of Christianity? What has that to do with Miss Marlow's improved looks?" exclaimed the other, scornfully.

"All—everything," was the unhesitating answer. "I am, as you know, an old and intimate friend of the Rossiters, and have known the two Marlow girls since first they came to the Cape. There do not exist in the wide world more truly worthy, kind-hearted people than the Rossiters, but I could not help sometimes thinking that their management of the eldest girl was a mistaken one. She was to the last degree self-willed, pleasure-loving, and intensely selfish. Now, instead of enforcing a different line of conduct, they employed persuasion only, founded on good instruction—a mode of treatment which, while perfectly successful with the more pliable nature of the younger child, quite failed, so it seemed to me, in the case of the elder. Yet possibly they were right. Other circumstances have since occurred which have laid fast hold of her mind and heart, and the good seed they have sown has sprung up in an abundant harvest." Then followed a brief account of what I have related.

"But how do I know, or how can you be sure, that the change I see is the result of what you describe?" objected Mr. Hedding in a cynical tone. He was a man of infidel principles, and, for that reason, not an intimate visitor at Fern Bank.

"I am myself a case of 'proof positive,'" replied Mr. Frere, with his usual imperturbable good humour. "More than two years ago, as you know," he continued, his voice failing, "I lost one to whom I was deeply attached—my wife. While under the influence of this heavy affliction my society, although every friend pitied me, was but little desired or sought after. I was only a cloud on their pleasures and naturally shunned by them as such, or, if not absolutely shunned, at least neglected or set aside for the time being as quite a useless member of society. But not so by the Rossiters—no. The very reason that rendered me unacceptable to the world made those truly Christian people take me at once to their hearts, and I may say to their home, for from that time, for nearly six months, I dined with them and spent almost every evening at their house. Now, see the difference between the two sisters, Charlotte and Maria Marlow. Mechie, who is a counterpart of her amiable benefactors, eagerly and warmly seconded their kind endeavours to draw me out of myself, and in her gentle way led me to submit more patiently to my sudden great sorrow. Charlotte, on the contrary, although she without doubt compassionated my case, evidently regarded my frequent presence in the house as oppressive and disagreeable, and avoided my society as much as she could. She generally kept apart with some young friend, of whom she had many, and often I only saw her at the meal-times. At last came the change in her feelings which, acting upon her whole nature, has by degrees wrought that marked effect in her appearance which excites your admiration so much, and then neither Mrs. Rossiter nor sweet Mechie was kinder or more thoughtful and considerate to me and others than she became. No longer seeking only her own gratification, she would remain with us of an evening, adding greatly to our cheerfulness by her pleasant conversation—for Charlotte is naturally endowed with very good sense and with a vein of quaint humour—and often lightened the time by reading aloud, an accomplishment this piquant talent makes her perfect in.

"Very soon she opened her whole heart to me—young people are always willing to confess—acknowledging her previous utter want of religion, which made her, she said, the selfish, heartless, unamiable girl she was, and concluded by begging me to forgive her for all the unfeeling neglect—so she termed it—and want of kind consideration toward me which she had shown during my deep distress. She spoke with a gentle, blushing contrition of manner very unlike her usual self-satisfied style, and which to those who love and care for her was infinitely gratifying to witness. Nor have that winsome tone and mien passed away. In her case the seed had not fallen by the wayside, nor on stony places, nor amongst thorns, but on good ground, where it still grows and flourishes, abundant in blossoms and fruit and promise of rich future harvest."

"Hum!" ejaculated Mr. Hedding, apparently not very ready with an answer. "I don't see, myself," he went on, after a pause, "that a girl properly brought up and taught to be polite and kind to her friends needs any other style of instruction, nor do I think she would. It's bad bringing up—that's the fact of it."

"Everybody can tell you—she can tell you herself," said Mr. Frere—"that, as far as advice, warning, instruction and the most perfect human example can go, Charlotte Marlow was, and that far beyond your limited meaning, properly brought up and taught to be kind and polite to every one. But it too often happens that the true significance and value of what we hear and see and receive every day is not recognized until some unlooked-for circumstance occurs which opens our eyes and makes us feel. Now such was Charlotte Marlow's case; and thus it comes about, doubt the truth as you like, that from having been an off-hand, unpleasing, selfish young creature, living entirely for her own gratification—as unpleasing at least as so handsome and not really heartless a girl could be—she has become a generous, amiable, sympathizing woman, herself, instead of holding as before always the first place in her thoughts, now occupying the second."

"Well," objected the other, but in a less confident tone, "I feel certain I could bring up a girl to be as kind and polite to every one without the least help from religion as any Christian of them all, and more so, for the matter of that."

"Yes, you might educate them to be perfect in politeness while the world's approving or condemning eye marks their conduct, but when position shuts that out, or time or circumstance renders it uncared for, what remains then to influence their feelings and behaviour the right way?"

"Habit," replied Mr. Hedding.

"Habit?" repeated Mr. Frere, laughing incredulously. "If you ever have met or ever do meet with a single young person, man or woman, who from habit only, when unseen by others, is amiable and polite in opposition to temper, interest or inclination, you will certainly be the first man who has witnessed stability on a 'foundationless practice,' for that is all, in truth, which a habit formed on such principles as yours would or could be. Why, I have heard you yourself argue that no harm existed in any evil unless it was found out; and I know that that sentiment is entertained and practiced by many of your way of thinking—a sentiment which you must excuse my saying in plain, honest words is but the lowest quality of caution, and would ultimately degrade the immortal souls of men to a level with the mere instinct of beasts. Now you must be well aware that according to your own express opinions so you would educate a child, and, alter the deteriorating nature of things, so that child would unchecked become even worse than yourself. Is it likely, therefore, that habit of any kind, when interfering in any degree with pleasure or comfort, would have power to control a spirit under no rule but the world's opinion?"

At that instant other friends joined the two speakers, and it was from them that I afterward heard what had passed.

* * * * *

And now I must lay down, my pen, having completed as far as necessary the little account of our visit to Rathfelder's Hotel.

It is now many years ago. I do not know if Rathfelder's Hotel still remains, or what changes may have taken place in that region, but there must be some of the older residents of Cape Town who remember the incidents of the latter part of the narrative. This record of former days I give in the sincere hope that it may in the perusal prove of some benefit to those young readers who, as Lotty and I were, are living in any way without proper thought of God or of their earthly benefactors, be they parents, relatives or Christian friends. They are blessings—the greatest blessings heaven can bestow—and as such should be regarded. In no slight degree do Charlotte and myself thus consider dear old nurse Susan, who still continues, in as high force as heretofore, our friend and servant. Nor does she with advancing years hate an iota of that authority which her long established rule over us has given her, and which authority seems to increase in its influence, instead of lessening. Good, excellent old body! may God's blessing ever be with her!

UNCLE JOHN'S GIFT.

"See what I have bought for somebody!"

Uncle John held out in his hand a morocco case lined with dark blue velvet, containing a small watch, while his nephew and two nieces, John, Emma and Maud, came closer to get a better look, and uttered exclamations of surprise and delight.

"Who is it for?" said Emma, "Is it for brother?" asked Maud in the same breath; though John, feeling very certain that the watch was intended for him, remained silent, anxiously awaiting his uncle's reply.

"I can't tell yet," said Uncle John.

"Not tell, uncle? is it a secret? Isn't the watch yours? and can't you give it to any one you please?" asked John, hastily.

"The watch is mine, I bought it, and I can give it to any one I please; and I will tell you now how I shall please to give it. I intend staying with you two weeks, and at the end of that time this watch shall be given to the child I find the most truthful."

"Oh, uncle," interrupted Emma, "none of us are liars!"

"I hope not, my dears. But I shall be very particular, and watch closely for the slightest deviation from the plain truth, and will give, as I have said, the watch to the child I find to be the most truthful."

"You will have to give us all one, then," said his namesake, "for I am sure I speak the truth, and Emma and Maud are very truthful, for mamma has often said so."

"I always try to be," said Maud in a low voice.

"Well, well, we will see," continued Uncle John. "And perhaps I will have to give you each one like this." He closed the case and put it out of sight, and John marched off to school thinking how grand he would feel carrying the watch around with him to show to his admiring friends, and even hinted the probability to some of them. His Latin lesson was not perfect, and after recitation his teacher called him:

"John, will you promise me that this lesson shall be learned for to-morrow?"

"Oh yes! I will certainly study it to-night, and know it perfectly," was John's ready reply.

That night his father inquired about his lessons. John coloured a little as he said: "I knew all but my Latin; I promised I would study that to-night." He intended doing so, but left it until the last, because it was the hardest; then a friend came in, and John went with him to the parlour, where the family were sitting, to show him a new book.

"What time is it?" asked Emma.

"I did not look at the clock when I came down," said John.

"When you get your new watch you won't have to stop to look at the clock," said his friend.

"His watch!" exclaimed Emma; "he is not certain of getting it."

"Oh!" said the friend; "I thought his uncle had promised to give him one."

"Not exactly," interrupted John hastily, knowing that Uncle John could hear all that was going on. "There are certain conditions."

"Oh!" And his friend said no more.

"How about the Latin lesson to-day?" asked Uncle John, the next evening, to his nephew's great confusion, as he replied:

"Well, uncle, the truth is, I forgot it last night, but I mean to take it up the first thing this evening." And he did so, finding that the hardest lesson is the easiest when learned first. "I know it perfectly, perfectly. Emma, just hear me, and see if I do not."

Emma was standing by the window as she took the book and heard it for him, and they stood together looking out at the passers-by.

"Here comes Mary Baker, I do believe," said Emma. Maud ran to the window, and was very much disappointed when she did not see her friend coming, as she expected.

"April fool!" said Emma. And they both laughed at Maud's disappointment.

"But it is not April, brother," said Maud in an aggrieved tone.

"Why, you silly little thing," exclaimed Emma, "I was only in fun. If I were to say, 'Here comes Queen Victoria,' you wouldn't be goose enough to believe it, would you?"

"No; but you see Queen Victoria would not be walking down the street, and I have been expecting Mary every minute;" and Maud's eyes were almost filled with tears.

"Come, puss, don't think any more about it." John put his arm affectionately around his sister's neck. "Emma, what has that man in his wagon?"

They were both looking with great curiosity at the wagon coming toward the house when John heard his father call him.

"In a second, sir," he replied; but sixty seconds passed, and he heard his father again. "Yes, yes, sir, in a minute;" but five minutes were gone before he obeyed, and then he found that his father had left.

"There! you don't know what you missed," Emma said, significantly. "I heard father say he had something in his pocket for somebody."

"It was not for John, you know," interrupted Maud, "for we heard mother say so."

"Well, little telltale, we must be on our p's and q's before you, my darling."

The day before Uncle John's visit ended he was sitting in the bay window, partly concealed by a curtain. It was twilight, and the three children came into the room together. On the centre-table there were some wax flowers covered with a glass case. Their mother prized them very highly, and had repeatedly told the children to be careful and not touch or knock the table.

"Oh, I wish I could bring Carlo in here," said John, "just to show you how the boys have taught him to stand on his two hind legs and beg. There he is in the hall now."

"Don't call him in," Emma said. "You know mother don't like it."

"No, I sha'n't call him, though I know he would not hurt anything."

John did not call him, but he gave a low whistle. Carlo understood it perfectly, and came bounding into the room. "Out, out, sir!" and John tried to order him back, but Carlo thought this was mere play, and jumped and frisked about until he came near the table, when away went the flowers and case with a crash. The children looked at each other in dismay.

"Oh, John, what will mother say?" said Emma, reproachfully.

"It is not my fault, Emma."

"Yes, but you whistled for Carlo."

"I did not know he would come in, though." And John tried to drive Carlo out in earnest, and succeeded after a good deal of shouting and scampering, and the children left the room unconscious that Uncle John had witnessed the accident.

"I am very sorry this has happened," said their mother at tea-table. "Carlo must not be allowed to come in the hall. Of course, I cannot blame any of you, as you did not call him in, but I am very sorry it happened."

"So am I," said Uncle John—"very sorry indeed. What has Maud to say about this?"

"Maud I did not ask. She was in the room, and Emma and John told me how it happened."

"Maud, my dear," Uncle John said, "did any one call Carlo in the room? Look straight in my eyes and tell me, little one."

Maud's cheeks became rosier; she hesitated a moment, and then said softly: "Brother whistled, but he said he did not mean that Carlo should hear him."

"You should have told me this before," said their mother, reproachfully. "I always want to hear the whole truth."

"So do I," said Uncle John. "And now I will put on my spectacles and read you all a few notes I have taken during my visit, and then we shall decide who deserves the watch. Let me see, John is oldest: I will read what I have against him: A promise to a teacher to study a lesson—did not do it. He tells a friend he is to have a watch at the end of two weeks—that remains to be seen. He tells his father he will come in one second, then in one minute—did not go for five or ten. He whistles for a dog to come into the room, and, I fear, would let punishment fall on the poor animal, and by silence implies falsehood. That is all I have against him. Now for Emma: I heard her telling her mother she did not have a minute of time to spare, and was idle for an hour after; said her biscuit, one morning, was burnt as black as a coal—it was only very brown; said one time she was roasting, another time starving, and again dying, and one day was in dreadful agony when she scratched her finger; one morning tells Maud that her friend was coming up the street when there was no person in sight. Come! I await the verdict: to whom shall I give the watch? Which of you thinks you most deserve to have it?"

"Oh, Uncle John, we did not mean to tell stories," exclaimed Emma and John, with burning cheeks.

"No, my dear; I am glad to say neither you nor John have been guilty of telling lies, but I promised to give it to the most truthful."

"Maud deserves it," cried all.

"Yes, Maud deserves it. Here, little one; we know you would rather not take it, but it belongs to you. I do not want to be severe, but I love and prize perfect truth above everything else. And if we are truthful in small matters, we can never be false and dishonest in great ones; but if we allow falsehood to take even a small lodging-place in our hearts, it will be a plague-spot that will spread and poison the soul and ruin character. Whatever it may cause you at the time, cling to the truth, and you will never regret it, for it is the sure and firm foundation-stone of every noble character."

A GIRL WHO COULDN'T BE TRUSTED.

It is the easiest thing in the world for some people to make a promise. They will say yes or no to anything that may be asked of them, sometimes knowing what they say, but often without knowing; sometimes intending to keep their word, and sometimes without thinking or caring anything about it. Such persons are usually very polite and pleasant, full of smiles and soft words, and if one could only rely upon them, they would be very obliging, for you know they will promise anything. But there is just the difficulty; for these easy-tempered, good-natured people who never can bear to say no are oftentimes so very easy-tempered that they are able to utter a falsehood as easily as a truth and feel no disturbance of conscience whatever.

Bessie Hill's character, it must be confessed, was such a one as has just been described. She was a child whom every one loved, for she seemed to love every one, and she appeared so anxious to please, so unwilling to be disobliging, that one who had known her only a short time might have considered her disposition very nearly perfect. Yet if Mr. A., her music-teacher, had been questioned as to what he knew of Bessie, he might have told how every week for a whole quarter she had repeatedly promised to practice for an hour each day, and how, every week in the quarter, she had failed to keep her word, until, at length, his patience would have been completely exhausted had not his little pupil renewed more earnestly than ever the assurance that she would really try to do better. Yet he knew that while he hoped for the best his hope was doomed to be disappointed.

And Miss Ellers, who every Sabbath went to Sunday-school thinking, "How glad I will be if Bessie has learned her lesson, as she said she would do!" and every Sabbath went away sorry because of Bessie's broken promise; and Mrs. Banks, who day after day worried through one imperfect recitation after another in the constant expectation of an improvement which it seemed must come, it had been so often promised,—both of these might have agreed with Mr. A. in saying that Bessie was certainly the most amiable of all their pupils, but, at the same time, the most unreliable. Bessie's mother, too, mourned over this fault of her child, and tried, but tried in vain, to help the little girl to overcome it. She would persist in promising to meet her schoolmates at certain hours and places, and in then going home and forgetting all about her engagements, leaving her friends to wonder where Bessie Hill could be. And she would not give up her habit of running over to Aunt Hester's in the morning and saying: "Auntie, I will come and play with the baby this afternoon," when she knew very well that when afternoon came the baby would probably be left to amuse himself while his little cousin across the street was occupied with some new toy or book, just as though she had made no promise at all. At last Bessie found out by experience what her friends had so long been trying to teach her—that it was very important that she should learn to keep her word.

Among Bessie's companions was one whom she often visited, and whose home was at some distance from Mr. Hill's. The road, over which it was necessary to pass in going from one house to the other was a lonely one, and Bessie had been often told that it was not safe for her to attempt to go back and forth alone. There was usually some one willing to accompany her, and she was too young to be without protection. So it happened that one pleasant Saturday morning her father said: "Come, Bessie, I am going to take a long ride to-day. If you would like to go and see Mary Brown (for that was the little girl's name), I will leave you there on my way and stop for you on my return."

"Thank you, father," answered Bessie. "I would like it very much." So the arrangement was made.

"Now, you will be sure to wait for me this afternoon, will you not?" said the gentleman to his daughter as he left her at Mr. Brown's door. "Oh yes, father, I will wait, of course," Bessie replied, and for once she really intended to keep her word. But when afternoon came, and with it no appearance of her father, Bessie began to grow impatient. She suddenly remembered an arithmetic lesson which she had promised to learn for the next Monday, and which she had not before thought of, and she felt slightly uneasy in regard to the verse which she had assured Miss Ellers she would be able to recite on the next day, and which now for the first time came to her recollection. You see her conscience was not quite dead, after all, only it troubled her at the wrong time. However that may be, Bessie imagined that she had a sufficient excuse for not keeping the promise to her father, as, by observing that, she would be in danger of breaking two others made before it; so she said to Mary: "Mary, I don't believe father will be here till evening, and mother will be anxious about me, so I am going home. See, it is growing dark already."

Neither Mary nor herself knew that the darkness was caused by the gathering storm, and not by the approach of night.

So Bessie set out on her return, feeling, meanwhile, very guilty and unhappy. She had not gone more than halfway before the raindrops began to fall. They came faster and faster until the single drops became torrents of water. Bessie took shelter under a large tree, and looked about her in dismay. Above her all was blackness, around her the pouring rain. The branches over her head swayed to and fro in the wind until Bessie was afraid that they might fall and crush her, and the rain penetrated beneath them, and came and made a little pool at her feet. Bessie remembered the story of the flood which had once been sent to punish people for their wickedness, and she began to fear that the water around her would continue to rise gradually until she should be swallowed up in the waves, just like the transgressors who were drowned in the time of Noah. She was in the act of looking about her to see whether there might not be a board that she could get to float upon, as some were represented as doing in the picture in the large Bible at home, when suddenly the sky grew brighter, the clouds overhead began to break and move away, and before her, reaching from the glowing hills in the east higher and higher up along the brightening heavens, shone, all the more beautiful for the darkness that had gone before, a rainbow. Bessie was comforted. "How foolish I was!" she said to herself; "I might have known that there could not be another flood, for God promised Noah that there never should be one again. I remember now that the rainbow was the sign of the promise." And as Bessie thought of the faithfulness of the great Father in keeping his word to his children, and of how far she had been from imitating his example, she began to cry. As she stood there under the tree, the very image of distress, troubled with mingled sorrow for her naughtiness and anxiety to reach her home, Dr. Burroughs came riding slowly along, his old gray horse looking almost as rueful as Bessie herself, and his gig bespattered with mud from top to bottom.

"What, little girl! out here in this storm? Crying too! Well, I don't wonder. Jump in here by me, and I'll take you where you can get some dry clothes. Strange that your mother should let you be out when she saw the shower coming on!"

"She didn't let me," sobbed Bessie; "I promised father to wait for him at Mr. Brown's, and instead of that I started alone. I'm so sorry."

"Yes, I should think you would be," said the doctor. He was a kind-hearted man, but not sparing of his words. "I guess you will remember to keep your promise the next time you make one. When people neglect to keep their word they generally get into trouble." And with this remark the doctor left Bessie to her own reflections, not speaking again till he came before her own home. There he put her down, saying: "Let me give you one piece of advice, little girl: Never make a promise unless you mean to keep it, and never break a promise after it is made."

Bessie entered the house feeling very miserable and forlorn, but it is to be hoped a wiser and a better girl than when she had left it in the morning.

Reader, whoever you may be, whether boy or girl, if you would be happy and prosperous in this world, if you would enjoy the confidence of your friends, would win the favour of the God above, speak always the "truth in the love of it." Be so honest, so upright in your engagements that all who know you may be able to trust in your good faith, your fidelity to your word. Remember that "it is better not to vow than to vow and not perform," and that the seat of faithfulness is in the heart where God's Holy Spirit dwells, for "the fruit of the Spirit is faith."

THE MOTHER'S LAST GIFT.

Thirty years ago there was seen to enter the city of London a lad about fourteen years of age. He was dressed in a dark frock that hid his under apparel, and which appeared to have been made for a person evidently taller than the wearer. His boots were covered with dust from the high road. He had on an old hat with a black band, which contrasted strangely with the colour of the covering of his head. A small bundle, fastened to the end of a stick and thrown over the shoulder, was the whole of his equipment. As he approached the Mansion House, he paused to look at the building, and seated himself on the steps of one of the doors. He was about to rest a while, but the coming in and going out of half a dozen persons before he had time to finish untying his bundle made him leave that spot for the next open space where the doors were in part closed.

Having taken from the bundle a large quantity of bread and cheese, which he seemed to eat with a ravenous appetite, he amused himself by looking at the building before him with all the eager curiosity of one unaccustomed to see similar objects.

The appearance of the youth soon attracted my curiosity, and gently opening the door, I stood behind him without his being the least conscious of my presence. He now began rummaging his pockets, and after a deal of trouble brought out a roll of paper, which he opened. After satisfying himself that a large copper coin was safe, he carefully put it back again, saying to himself in a low voice: "Mother, I will remember your last words: 'A penny saved is twopence earned.' It shall go hard with me before I part with you, old friend."

Pleased with this remark, I gently touched the lad on the shoulder. He started, and was about to move away when I said:

"My good lad, you seem tired, and likewise a stranger in the city."

"Yes, sir," he answered, putting his hand to his hat. He was again about to move forward.

"You need not hurry away, my boy," I observed. "Indeed, if you are a stranger and willing to work, I can perhaps help to find what you require."

The boy stood mute with astonishment, and colouring to such an extent as to show all the freckles of a sunburnt face, stammered out:

"Yes, sir."

"I wish to know," I added, with all the kindness of manner I could assume, "whether you are anxious to find work, for I am in want of a youth to assist my coachman."

The poor boy twisted his bundle about, and after having duly placed his hand to his head, managed to answer, in an awkward kind of way, that he would be very thankful.

I mentioned not a word about what I had overheard with regard to the peony, but, inviting him into the house, I sent for the coachman, to whose care I entrusted the newcomer.

Nearly a month had passed after this meeting and conversation occurred when I resolved to make some inquiries of the coachman regarding the conduct of the lad.

"A better boy never came into the house, sir, and as for wasting anything, bless me, sir, I know not where he has been brought up, but I really believe he would consider it a sin if he did not give the crumbs of bread to the poor birds every morning."

"I am glad to hear so good an account," I replied.

"And as for his good-nature, sir, there is not a servant among us that doesn't speak well of Joseph. He reads to us while we sup, and he writes all our letters for us. Oh, sir, he has got more learning than all of us put together; and what's more, he doesn't mind work, and never talks about our secrets after he writes our letters."

Determined to see Joseph myself, I requested the coachman to send him to the parlour.

"I understand, Joseph, that you can read and write."

"Yes, sir, I can, thanks to my poor, dear mother."

"You have lately lost your mother, then?"

"A month that very day when you were kind enough to take me into your house, an unprotected orphan," answered Joseph.

"Where did you go to school?"

"Sir, my mother has been a widow ever since I can remember. She was a daughter of the village schoolmaster, and having to maintain me and herself with her needle, she took the opportunity of her leisure moments to teach me not only how to read and write, but to cast up accounts."

"And did she give you that penny which was in the paper that I saw you unroll so carefully at the door?"

Joseph stood amazed, but at length replied with emotion, and a tear started from his eye:

"Yes, sir, it was the very last penny she gave me."

"Well, Joseph, so satisfied am I with your conduct that not only do I pay you a month's wages willingly for the time you have been here, but I must beg of you to fulfil the duties of collecting clerk to our firm, which situation has become vacant by the death of a very old and faithful assistant."

Joseph thanked me in the most unassuming manner, and I was asked to take care of his money, since I had promised to provide him with suitable clothing for his new occupation.

It will be unnecessary to relate how, step by step, this poor lad proceeded to win the confidence of myself and partner. The accounts were always correct to a penny, and whenever his salary became due he drew out of my hands no more than he absolutely wanted, even to a penny. At length he had saved a sufficient sum of money to be deposited in the bank.

It so happened that one of our chief customers, who carried on a successful business, required an active partner. This person was of eccentric habits and considerably advanced in years. Scrupulously just, he looked to every penny, and invariably discharged his workmen if they were not equally scrupulous in their dealings with him.

Aware of this peculiarity of temper, there was no person I could recommend but Joseph, and after overcoming the repugnance of my partner, who was unwilling to be deprived of so valuable an assistant, Joseph was duly received into the firm of Richard Fairbrothers & Co. Prosperity attended Joseph in this new undertaking, and never suffering a penny difference to appear in his transactions, he so completely won the confidence of his senior partner that he left him the whole of his business, as he expressed it in his will, "even to the very last penny."

NOT THE BEST WAY.

Alice and Eva were sitting together in the pleasant sitting-room, one engaged in reading and the other in arranging an almost countless variety of pieces of calico destined to form, at some future time, a quilt which might fitly have had written upon it the motto of our country, _E pluribus unum_—one composed of many. So completely was Eva surrounded by the bright stripes of cloth that, at a distance, one might have supposed her to be clothed in a garment very much like that which Joseph wore—a "coat of many colours." She was considering whether or not it would be a proof of good taste to place a red block next to a blue one when she happened to remember a piece of green chintz which some one had given her, and which, with the red calico, would form precisely the contrast she desired. But the chintz was, unfortunately, in her own room, and how she should rise to go after it without displacing the groups which had been formed so carefully was a problem which Eva was unable to solve. While she was puzzling over it her brother, two years younger than herself, came into the room. He was a bright-eyed, active boy who thought nothing too difficult when fun was in prospect, but, as we shall see, was not always as ready to exert himself in order to oblige others.

"Oh, Willie," Eva exclaimed as soon as she saw him, "I am so glad you've come! Won't you please go up stairs and get something for me?"

"Well, I guess you can go after it just as well as I can," was the unbrotherly reply. "You girls seem to think that all a boy is good for is to wait on you, and I think you might just as well learn to wait on yourselves."

Eva did not answer, but wisely concluded to do without the chintz as well as she could. Willie sat down and began to whittle, taking care to let some of the splinters fall among his sister's work. Eva seemed to take no notice of this, but went quietly on with her cutting and planning. She grew tired of it, however, before long, and made up her mind to rest a while. So she began in silence to gather up her work. As she did so it would have been very easy for her to pick up the few chips which were scattered here and there about her, but Eva had not yet forgiven her brother for his want of kindness; so she said to herself: "Willie can pick up his own whittlings if he wants to. I'm not going to do it for him. I think it would be just as well to let mother see how he makes the room look when she is out. If he does not care, I am sure I needn't, and so I will let them remain just as they are."

What an affectionate brother and sister! and how they disobeyed the command, "Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ"! Willie, failing to find any more amusement in the use of his jack-knife, put it away, and began to study his French lesson for the next day.

Eva, on her part, commenced reading a story-book. But either it was less interesting than she had expected to find it, or her conscience would not allow her to enjoy it, for she soon laid it aside, and, for want of better employment, leaned her head on the window and watched the passers-by. Willie also failed to make such progress as he had intended, and after some time had passed exclaimed in a sort of despair, "Oh dear! I cannot translate this at all! Eva, won't you just read it to me?" Eva had now an excellent opportunity of showing her brother that she knew how to return good for evil, for she was a fine scholar and might easily have given him all the help he needed. But she resisted the "still small voice" which pleaded with her to do so, and chose rather to "pay him back" for the manner in which he had treated her. "Out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh," and as Eva felt cross it was not strange that she spoke crossly: "If you will not do anything for me, you can't expect me to do anything for you. You may learn your lesson the best way you can. I'm not going to help you." Alice, who had all along been watching the conduct of her brother and sister without remark, now thought it time to interfere.

"Bring your book here, Willie," she said; "perhaps I can help you."

Willie eagerly accepted this offer, and with Alice's aid the translation was made easily and quickly. The lesson, which was a passage from a celebrated French author, happened to be the history of a savage race who lived long ago in a far-off country. These people, so the history went, having killed their rulers and thus freed themselves from the power of law, resolved that in the future every one should attend to his own interests without respect to those of his neighbours. Each one said: "Why should I kill myself by working for people for whom I do not care? I will only think of myself; I will live happily; what difference does it make to me what others may be? I will satisfy all my needs, and, provided that I have what I wish, I do not care though all around me are miserable."

So when the time came for planting corn every one said to himself: "I will plant only enough for my own wants; a greater quantity would do me no good; and why should I take trouble for nothing?" Now, the country where these people lived was divided into lowlands, which were well watered and fertile, and mountainous districts, which were less fruitful. Well, it happened that the first season was a very dry one, and while the people who lived in the valleys had plenty of food, those who lived on the mountains, having no harvest, suffered from famine. The next year the case was entirely different. This time the season was a rainy one, and the inhabitants of the lowlands were as much troubled by too great a supply of water as their fellow-countrymen had been by the want of it. And now the mountaineers rejoiced in plenty while their brethren starved. These foolish men continued their system of selfishness both when they were attacked by foreign enemies and when disease came upon them. Each one refused help to every other, and finally the whole nation perished.

"One would suppose that this story had been written expressly for you and Eva," Alice remarked when she had finished reading it.

"Why, I hope you don't think we are as bad as those savages!" exclaimed Willie, indignantly.

"Well, I think you have been acting very much like them. Don't you think so, Eva?"

Eva's face turned crimson, but she did not exactly like to confess the truth, so she made no answer.

"Well," said Willie, more frankly, "perhaps we haven't been very kind to each other to-day, but then we wouldn't keep on acting so all our lives, as those people did."

"No, I should hope not," Alice replied, "for I believe you see the folly and wickedness of such conduct. You know if we act selfishly and unkindly, it is not because we have never been taught to do better, for we have all read often of the example of Christ, who 'went about doing good,' and of whom it is written that 'he pleased not himself.' Surely we ought not to be unwilling to perform little acts of kindness toward others, although it may cost us some trouble and self-denial to do so. And even when we think that we have not been treated rightly ourselves, there is no reason why we should act unkindly in return; at least I never heard of any, did you?"

Willie answered "No," very emphatically, but Eva still kept silence. Yet the next morning when she, as usual, recited a Scripture text to her sister, Alice noticed that she had chosen this: "Be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you."

THE END.