Part 3

Mark and Peter enjoyed their visit to the Crystal Palace, but their pleasure was as nothing compared to that of Arthur. His whole soul was overflowing with pure delight. He felt inclined to go springing and bounding along, his heart was so free from a care! As a good man once said, "How pleasant it is when the bird in the bosom sings sweetly."

If my reader would know what is real happiness, real delight, let him seek it in forgetting self, and following the steps of his Lord. Where there is sorrow which you can cheer, or distress which you can relieve, remember the Samaritan who beheld a wounded stranger and would not pass by on the other side. Do not turn a deaf ear to the voice of pity, but oh, Christian child! "Go and do likewise!"

X.

THE BEST FRIEND.

"HA! Carl Von Orlich; well met!" exclaimed the veteran Strasse, as, on the night after one of the fiercest fights in the Seven Years' War, he suddenly came upon his comrade, and recognized his features by the red light of the watch-fire, over which he was bending.

Von Orlich started up, and wrung the hand of his friend.

"I little thought a few hours since," said he, "to see you or any other man in the land of the living."

"You have much cause to thank Him who has covered your head in the day of battle," observed Strasse, who was one who, in a godless age, did not shrink from openly confessing his faith, and by so doing had drawn upon himself many a scoff, some even from his friend Von Orlich.

"It was hot work," said the officer, wiping his brow.

"When I saw you from a distance dash into the midst of what seemed a circle of smoke and fire, through which one could scarcely catch a glimpse of the flashing swords, I never expected, Von Orlich, to see you come forth alive."

"It was to rescue him—the gallant Helden," said Von Orlich. "I saw him sorely beset; and if I had had a thousand lives, I'd have ventured them all for his sake. I bore him safe out of it all," added the officer, with a proud smile of triumph on his lip.

"Helden is a man who deserves a friend," observed Strasse.

"He does—better than any other man in Prussia!" exclaimed Von Orlich. "Did you never hear what he did when he was a gay young page in the service of our last king, Frederick William?"

"Not I," replied Strasse, seating himself; for he was weary with the struggle of the day, and glad to warm himself for awhile beside the red glowing fagots. "Tell me the tale of his youth. It may serve to while away a few weary minutes; for as my turn for duty will soon come, it is not worth while to lie down and sleep."

"Helden, like most of our Prussian youth of gentle blood, was brought up at a military academy. There he formed a warm friendship with a lad of somewhat lower rank and much poorer family than his own. They were never separated, Carl and he—studies, sports, hopes, pleasures, everything they had in common. Never did brothers cling more closely together than they. When the youths left the academy, their paths divided. Helden, who had relatives of rank, became a page at the court of the king; Carl, who had neither money nor interest, entered the ranks of the army. But the tie was not broken between them, as with most men it would have been. The page, midst the splendours of a court, remained true to the friendship of his boyhood.

"Carl was of a somewhat wild and reckless nature. Perhaps it stung his pride to find himself in a position so much below that of his late companions. Be that as it may, he had not been a month in the army before he got into serious disgrace—overstayed leave, was out of barracks till midnight, and was sentenced to receive a public flogging. You know, Strasse, with what terrible severity that punishment is inflicted in the army. To many it is equal to a sentence of death—to Carl it was far worse than death! The agony might be great, but it was the shame that was intolerable! The very horror of the idea of a public flogging threw the young soldier into a fever, and threatened to turn his brain."

"I do not marvel at that," observed Strasse, as he stretched his hands to the warming blaze.

"Helden heard of the sentence passed upon his friend, and resolved to make every effort to save him. He drew out a simple but touching petition to the king, and ventured himself to present it—a task requiring some courage, for you know the character of Frederick William, and his excessive severity in whatever related to the discipline of his army."

"It was something like presenting a petition to a lion to spare the prey under his paw," observed Strasse, with a smile.

"And the king received it much as the lion might have done," rejoined Von Orlich. "He was roused to one of his storms of fury, tore the petition in pieces, and Helden was fortunate enough to escape with nothing worse than a torrent of abuse."

"So Carl underwent his sentence, of course?" asked Strasse.

"Hear to the end," replied his comrade. "Any one but Helden would have given up in despair all further attempt to rescue his friend, but, true as steel as he was, he resolved to make yet another. Helden drew out a second petition; and on the night before the morning on which the flogging was to take place, he went to the antechamber with it in his pocket, with the intention of presenting it to the monarch."

"He was a bold youth," remarked Strasse. "When we recall how nearly our late king put to death his own son and heir for a very trifling cause, one cannot but marvel at the perseverance of Helden."

"The king," continued Von Orlich, "was engaged, till far into the night, in secret conference with one of his ministers. Helden, full of deep anxiety, remained in the ante-room waiting. So long had he to wait, so weary he grew, less perhaps from the lateness of the hour than the wear upon his own spirits, that sleep overcame the poor youth. The king, happening to come out of his cabinet, found his page in deep slumber in an arm-chair, with what looked like a second petition sticking half out of his pocket.

"'If that audacious young scapegrace dare to pester me again with his petitions, he shall get something sharper than words.' Such, I suspect, was his majesty's thought when, without awakening the page, curiosity made him draw forth the scroll. Perhaps, however, his countenance changed when his eye glanced over the strange petition which it contained. It was very brief, but to the purpose; and was, as well as I can remember, in these words: 'Sire, if the sentence passed on Carl must be executed, I entreat your majesty's permission to suffer instead of my friend.'"

"A strange petition, indeed," exclaimed Strasse. "What said the king to the offer?"

"Stern and rigid as he was," replied Von Orlich, "such generous friendship, such brave self-devotion, could not but touch his heart. I know not how long Helden slumbered. He was startled from his sleep by the sound of the bell rung by the king in his cabinet.

"'Now for the effort!' thought Helden, as he sprang forward with a beating heart to obey the desired and yet dreaded summons.

"He found the king sitting alone, looking more than usually stern. Helden received some trifling order from the monarch, who then motioned to him to retire.

"'Now, or never!' said Helden to himself. 'The day will soon dawn, and at sunrise poor Carl is to suffer.'

"'Why do you delay?' asked the king very harshly, fixing his freezing gaze on the page.

"'Sire, pardon!' exclaimed Helden, and bending his knee, he drew forth a scroll, and presented it to his sovereign.

"'Will you stand by the consequences?' demanded the king, without touching the paper.

"'I will, sire,' replied the generous friend.

"'Read the contents, then, young man!' said the king.

"Helden opened the scroll, and started to his feet with an exclamation of joyful surprise. The paper contained, not his own generous offer, but a full free pardon for his friend, drawn out and signed by the monarch himself!"

"God had touched the king's heart," observed Strasse.

"Be that as it may," said Von Orlich, "Carl was saved from a punishment which would have driven him mad. And he lived to pay back this day part of the debt of gratitude which he owed to the best of friends!"

"What!" exclaimed Strasse in surprise. "You yourself are the Carl of whom you speak?"

"Ay; I have struggled upwards in life, won honours—" a star was glittering on his breast—"I have gained the wealth and position which are the prizes held out by war. But were the king to make me a duke," continued Von Orlich with emotion, "the pleasure and the honour would be small compared to what I felt to-day in proving my gratitude to the man who once offered to suffer in my stead!"

"It is strange," observed Strasse with a thoughtful sigh, as he looked into the flickering fire, "how apt we are to reserve all our gratitude for our fellow-man, forgetful of the Friend who not only offered to suffer, but actually did suffer in our stead! You braved fire and sword for one who had loved and saved you; shall our love be cold, and our courage faint, only when our debt is infinite, and our benefactor divine?"

Von Orlich made no reply; but as he silently gazed up into the blue starry heavens, almost for the first time in his life, the heart of the war-worn veteran rose in thanksgiving to God!

XI.

THE THICKET OF FURZE.

"WHAT a plague lessons are?" exclaimed Rosey, with a long weary yawn, as she bent over her French exercises, wishing from her heart that grammar had never been invented.

"Work on, little one!" said her brother George, who had overheard the exclamation. "Remember that it is doubly your duty to be steady and industrious while mamma is away."

"It is so difficult!" sighed the child.

"Many a duty is difficult," answered the elder brother, "but that is no reason for shirking it. Attending to little duties while we are young helps us to perform great ones when we are old. Do your lessons bravely, dear Rosey, and if they be finished by twelve, you shall have a little story to reward your diligence."

The word "story" called up a dimple upon Rosey's round cheek. She turned with more resolution to her tiresome lesson, and the task was ended by twelve.

"Now for my story," cried the child, bringing her little chair close to her brother, and resting her arm on his knee, as—looking up gaily into his face—she claimed the fulfilment of his promise.

George looked into the fire for a few moments, as if to draw some ideas from the cheerful blaze, stirred it, and then leaning back on his chair, began the following little tale:—

"Methought I lay down and slept, and dreamed; and in my dream I beheld a path through a verdant meadow, along which many a child gaily tripped, gathering the lovely wild flowers that grew on either side. But at one end of the meadow the path was crossed by a thicket of sharp prickly furze, and the name of the thicket was Difficulty. The bushes grew so thick and close, that I wondered whether any child would be able to pass them; and I sat me down to watch how the little travellers would get through the Difficulty in their way."

"I suppose that I was one of the little travellers," laughed Rosey, "and the furze-bushes were my horrid French verbs!"

"There are a great many 'Difficulties' in a child's life," replied George with a smile: "some find it difficult to rise early, some to be punctual or neat, some to control their tempers, others to be generous and kind. There are plenty of furze-bushes in our path, but we must not, like lazy cowards, suffer them to stop us in our onward course."

"Please tell me about the children in your dream," said Rosey.

"The first who reached the thicket was a little girl, with ruddy cheek and curly hair, who had been one of the gayest of the gay, as she went dancing through the flowery mead. But as soon as she came to Difficulty, all the cheerfulness fled from her face, she shrank from the first touch of the prickles as if she had expected that life was to be all sunshine and flowers, and sitting down on the grass by the side of the path, she burst into a flood of tears."

"Oh, the cowardly little creature!" cried Rosey.

"Then there came up to the spot a young boy, whose appearance to me was not pleasing. He never looked straight before him, but had a kind of cunning side glance, which made me fancy him less open and frank than a Christian boy ought to be. He made no attempt to push through the thicket, but went creeping along the edge of it, hoping to 'creep round' Difficulty instead of passing straight onwards. I watched him to see if he would succeed in his aim, but he had not gone many steps before his feet stuck fast in a bog, and it was only by violent and painful efforts that he could struggle out again, to return to the point whence he had started, with his shoes all clogged with clay, his time lost, and his object not gained."

"I suppose that he was a lazy boy," remarked Rosey; "putting off does not help us over our difficulties. I have sometimes tried that plan of creeping round, and I always stuck in the bog!"

"Then," pursued George, "a boy with firm step and resolute air came up to the thicket. I saw something like a smile on his face as he looked at the Difficulty before him. He set his teeth hard together, clenched his hands, and then with bold determination made a dash at the thicket. On he went, that stout-hearted lad, dashing aside the prickles, pushing forward as if he scarcely felt the scratches upon his bleeding hands. Trampling down, struggling through Difficulty, he was soon safe and triumphant on the opposite side!"

Little Rosey clapped her hands. "He was a fine fellow!" cried she. "I think that Nelson and Wellington went dashing through difficulties like that. But I can't do so," added the child more gravely; "I have not that bold, strong spirit. I am afraid that I am most like the little cowardly girl who cried when she saw the thicket."

"Is not that because you do not look upon your childish troubles as a means of testing your patience and obedience; is it not because you do not seek for help from above, even in the little trials of your life?"

"They seem such trifles to look at in that way," said Rosey, gazing thoughtfully into the fire.

"A writer has said that 'trifles form the sum of human things;' and the life of a child, more especially, is made up of what we call trifles. Yet children, as well as those who are old, are required to glorify God; and as they can do no 'great' thing for him, it is by their cheerful obedience, diligence, and sweet temper, that they must show their gratitude and love. And does not this thought, dear Rosey, make the performance of simple daily duties a bright and a holy thing? If what we do, we do as 'unto the Lord,' feeling that His eye is upon us, and seeking in all things to please Him, we find pleasure even in irksome tasks, sweetness in what otherwise would be bitter."

Rosey looked as if she scarcely understood the words of her brother, so, to make their meaning clearer, George went on with his tale:—

"There was one other child whom I saw in my dream advancing towards the thicket Difficulty. I felt sorry for the little girl, for she was feeble and pale, and as she moved over the grass, I saw that she was both lame and barefoot!

"'Alas!' thought I. 'If she can scarcely make her way along the smooth and pleasant path, how will she ever struggle through the prickly furze before her!'"

"Perhaps the same thought was in the mind of the little traveller, for she paused before the thicket, and looked forwards with a scared and troubled air. Then she clasped her hands, and raised her eyes towards the soft blue sky above her, and all trace of fear or care left her smiling face. What was my surprise to see two beautiful little wings, glittering like gold in the sunlight, and bright with the rainbow's tints, gradually unfold from her shoulders! The child shook them for a few moments, as if to try their powers, and then rising above earth, and all its thorns, she gently flew over the painful place, and alighting safely on the ground beyond, looked back with a bright and thankful smile on the Difficulty which she had passed."

"Oh!" exclaimed Rosey. "What would I not give to have such beautiful wings!"

"Those wings, dear Rosey, are 'faith' and 'love,' which lift us above the world, which bear us onward in a heavenly course, which make us find our chief delight in doing the will of our heavenly Father."

"I have not these wings!"

George drew his little sister closer to him, and bending down his head towards her, whispered, "'Ask and ye shall receive.' God only can cause those wings to grow, by the power of his Holy Spirit; He can give them strength to bear us unharmed over all the rough places of life; and the waters of the river of death shall not wet even the soles of the feet of those who pass their depths, buoyed up on the glorious pinions of 'faith' and 'love!'"

XII.

THE BOY AND THE BIRD'S NEST.

"MARY, my love, all is ready; we must not be late for the train," said Mr. Miles, as, in his travelling dress, he entered the room where sat his pale, weeping wife, ready to start on the long, long journey, which would only end in India.

The gentleman looked flushed and excited; it was a painful moment for him, for he had to part from his sister, and the one little boy whom he was leaving under her care. But Mr. Miles's chief anxiety was for his wife; for the trial, which was bitter to him, was almost heart-breaking to her.

The carriage was at the door, all packed, the last band-box and shawl had been put in.

Eddy could hear the sound of the horses pawing the ground in their impatience to start. But the clinging arms of his mother were round him—she held him close to her embrace, as if she would press him into her heart, and the ruddy cheeks of the boy were wet with her falling tears.

"O Eddy!—my child—God bless you!" she could hardly speak through her sobs.

"My love, we must not prolong this," said the husband, gently trying to draw her away. "Good-bye, Lucy—good-bye, my boy—you shall hear from us both from Southampton."

The father embraced his sister and his son, and then hurried his wife to the door.

Eddy rushed after them through the hall, on to the steps, and Mrs. Miles, before entering the carriage, turned again to take her only son into her fond arms once more.

Never could Eddy forget that embrace—the fervent pressure of the lips, the heaving of his mother's bosom, the sound of his mother's sobs. Light-hearted boy as he was, Eddy never had realized what parting was till that time, though he had watched the preparations made for the voyage for weeks—the packing of those big black boxes that had almost blocked up the hall. Now he felt in a dream as he stood on the steps, and through tear-dimmed eyes saw the carriage driven off which held those who loved him so dearly. He caught a glimpse of his mother bending forward to have a last look of her boy before a turn in the road hid the carriage from view; and Eddy knew that long, long years must pass before he should see that sweet face again.

"Don't grieve so, dear Eddy," said Aunt Lucy, kindly laying her hand on his shoulder; "you and I must comfort each other."

But at that bitter moment Eddy was little disposed either to comfort any one or to receive comfort himself. His heart seemed rising into his throat; he could not utter a word. He rushed away into the woods behind the house, with a longing to be quite alone. He could scarcely think of anything but his mother; and the poor boy spent nearly an hour under a tree, recalling her looks, her parting words, and grieving over the recollection of how often his temper and his pride had given her sorrow. He felt, in the words of the touching lament,—

"And now I recollect with pain How many times I grieved her sore; Oh, if she would but come again, I think I would do so no more!

"How I would watch her gentle eye 'Twould be my joy to do her will; And she should never have to sigh Again for my behaving ill!"

But boys of eight years of age are seldom long unhappy. Before an hour had passed, Eddy's thoughts were turned from the parting by his chancing to glance upwards into the tree whose long green branches waved above him. Eddy espied there a pretty little nest, almost hidden by the foliage. Up jumped Eddy, eager for the prize; and in another minute he was climbing the tree like a squirrel. Soon he grasped and safely brought down the nest, in which he found, to his joy, three beautiful eggs!

"Ah! I'll take them home to—" Eddy stopped short; the word "mother" had been on his lips; it gave a pang to the boy to remember that the presence of his gentle mother no longer brightened that home—that she already was far, far away. Eddy seated himself on a rough bench, and put down the nest by his side; he had less pleasure in his prize since he could not show it to her whom he loved.

While Eddy sat thinking of his parent, as he had last seen her, with her eyes red and swollen with weeping, his attention was attracted by a loud pitiful chirping, which sounded quite near. Though the voice was only the voice of a bird, it expressed such anxious distress, that Eddy instantly guessed that it came from the poor little mother whose nest he had carried away. Ah! What pains she had taken to form that delicate nest!—How often must her wing have been wearied as she flew to and fro on her labour of love! All her little home and all her fond hopes had been torn from her at once to give a little amusement to a careless but not heartless boy.

No; Eddy was not heartless. He was too full of his own mother's sorrow when parting from her loved child to have no pity for the poor little bird, chirping and fluttering over the treasure which she had lost.

"How selfish I have been!—How cruel!" cried Eddy, jumping up from his seat. "Never fear, little bird! I will not break up your home; I will not rob you of your young. I never will give any mother the sorrow felt by my darling mamma."

Gently he took up the nest. It was no easy matter to climb the tree again with it in his hand, but Eddy never stopped until he had replaced the nest in its own snug place, wedged in the fork of a branch. Eddy's heart felt lighter when he clambered down again to his seat, and heard the joyful twitter of the little mother, perched on a branch of a tree.

And from that day it was Edith's delight to take a daily ramble to that quiet part of the wood, and have a peep at the nest, half hidden in its bower of leaves. He knew when the small birds were hatched; he watched the happy mother when she fed her little brood; he looked on when she taught her nestlings to take their first airy flight. This gave him more enjoyment than the possession of fifty eggs could have done. Never did Eddy regret that he had showed mercy and kindness, and denied himself a pleasure to save another a pang.

XIII.

SENDING HORSES TO TRAVELLERS.

"POOR old Matthew!" said Lucy. "I hear that he is almost dying with cold!"

Ben was amusing himself with spinning on the table four bright half-crowns, with which his grandfather had presented him that morning, but he stopped for a moment to listen to his sister's account of the sufferings of his aged neighbour, and in a tone of pity said, "I'm sure that I wish that he were better off, he is such a good old man!"

"He had nothing but a crust all yesterday," said Lucy.