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NANNY MERRY.


[Illustration: CROWNING THE QUEEN]


NANNY MERRY;

Or,

What Made the Difference?







London:
T. Nelson and Sons, Paternoster Row;
Edinburgh; and New York.
1872.




CHAPTER I.

IN WHICH NANNIE IS INTRODUCED.


A little brown house, with an old elm-tree before it, a frame of
lattice-work around the door, with a broad stone for a step--this is
where old Grannie Burt lives. And there she is sitting in the doorway
with her Bible in her lap. She can't read it, for she is blind; but she
likes to have it by her; she likes the "feeling of it," she says. "When
my Bible is away," Grannie Burt says, "I am sometimes troubled and
worried; but if I can only touch it, my troubles are all gone; for what
harm can any trouble do us when we are going to heaven at last?"

But grannie doesn't always have to _feel_ her Bible. Sometimes--very
often--a little girl comes down the path to the brown house, and sitting
down close by grannie, on that cricket that you see there now, takes the
good book and reads the blessed words to her, till the tears trickle down
grannie's wrinkled face, and laying her trembling hand on the little
girl's head, she says, "God bless thee, my child."

I think she is expecting her now; for, see the cricket is all ready, and
on the little table is a pitcher of cool water from the old well that
you see just behind the house; and here is the little girl herself.

"Good-morning, grannie; are you waiting for me? I couldn't come any
sooner, because mamma wanted me to play with Charlie; and here are some
peaches mamma sent you,--she thought you would like them;" and Nannie,
quite out of breath with her walk and her talk, stops a minute, which
gives Grannie Burt a chance to answer her questions and to thank her for
her peaches. "Now shall I read, grannie?" said Nannie, as, taking a long
draught from the little pitcher, she sat down on the cricket.

"Eat this peach first," said grannie, picking out the softest and
handing it to her; "I know you must be warm from your long walk, and
this will cool you."

The peach looked so tempting that Nannie looked at it wishfully. Her
mother had only given her one, and she had sent grannie a whole basketful.
It was only for a moment that Nannie let these selfish thoughts trouble
her. "Grannie never has any of her own, and in a few weeks I can have
as many as I want," she thought; so taking up the Bible she said, "No,
grannie, thank you; the water has cooled me enough; where shall I
begin?"

"Read about heaven, Nannie; you know I like to hear about that best."

Softly the little voice began: "And I saw a new heaven and a new earth."
Then she read of the tree of life, whose leaves are for the healing of
the nations; and of the water of life, that flows near the jasper throne.

When she had finished, she said, "What makes you like to hear of heaven
so much, grannie?"

"Oh, I'm going there, Nannie! When you read about the beautiful things,
the pearly gates, and the golden streets, I think, 'I shall see them,
for there will be no night there; not even in these poor old eyes of
mine.' And when you read, 'the Lamb is the light thereof,' then I think
Jesus will be there, and that's what I like best of all."

"Where _is_ heaven, grannie?"

"Up there, I suppose," she said, pointing to the bright sky above.

"But, grannie, there was a gentleman at our house yesterday, and I heard
him talking with my father, and he said he thought heaven was in the sun.
So I thought I would ask you, because you always know so much about it. Do
you think it is in the sun?"

"I don't think anything about it. I don't think it makes much difference
_where_ it is, if we only get there at last."

"Sister Mary said she thought heaven would be where God was."

"So I think, child; and I don't think it's the pearls, and gold, and all
those things you read about, that make it either; for I think any place
would be heaven, if we found Jesus there. This old room has been pretty
near it, sometimes."

Nannie turned to the 14th chapter of John, which she knew grannie loved
to hear, and commenced reading.

While she is reading, let us go down the street to the lane--bordered
with trees--walk up the narrow footpath, and over the stile just by the
blackberry-bushes, across the field to the little garden, and through
the borders of pinks and marigolds, to the white cottage where Nannie
lives. You can come to it by the street, if you choose, and you may come
in under the great elm-tree, by the gate; but then the street is so dusty,
and you miss seeing the little garden with its bright flowers; and the
blossoms in the lane smell so sweetly, that it is quite worth while going
that way. But here we are, before the door, on which we read, in bright
letters, "Dr. Merry;" for Nannie's name is Nannie Merry, and Nannie's
father is a doctor. He is doctor in a pleasant little town that is
situated on the banks of a narrow river. I don't think you could find
either the town or the river on your maps, if you should try; so there
would be no use in telling you their names. It was a pleasant town,
however, with its large elm-trees, and pretty white cottages, with here
and there a large house, where the grandest people lived.

But Nannie's father was only a country doctor, and didn't live in a very
large house. You can see for yourself that it is only a white cottage,
with green blinds, and a long porch in front, covered with sweetbriar
and honeysuckle. But the people that live in the house are quite as
pleasant as the house itself, or even as the people that live in the
large brick house. After Dr. Merry comes Mrs. Merry, or Nannie's mother,
who is, like most mothers, very kind and good; then sister Mary, who is
grown up, and Nannie thinks the best sister ever was; then Belle, who is
very pretty, and about twelve years old; John and Charlie, who are, like
most boys, great teasers, and Nannie sometimes thinks a good deal worse
than most boys--but then, Charlie is only four years old, so there is
some excuse for him. Lastly, we have Nannie herself, who is--well, we
shall find out what she is before our story is finished. She is nine
years old, "nearly ten," and would feel offended if we left that out.
But here she comes from Grannie Burt's, so we must stop talking about
her. She is coming by the lane just as we did, running at first, then a
little slower, till at last she stops, for her sister Mary is weeding
one of the pretty borders in the little garden.

"O Mary! grannie thinks just as you do about heaven; I don't think Mr.
Brown knows so much about it as she does."

"Why not, Nannie?"

"Oh, because grannie is almost there, Mary,--she ought to know!"

"What makes you think grannie is almost there?"

"Why, she said so; and then she loves to hear about heaven, just as I
did about home when I was at Aunt Sarah's."

"Do _you_ like to hear about heaven, Nannie?"

"Sometimes," she answered, while with her little shoe she played with
the pebbles.

"Not always! Nannie; when don't you like to hear about it?"

Nannie played with the pebbles a good while. At last she said, "I like
to hear _some_ things about it always, but not everything."

"And what do you like to hear about it always?"

"I like to hear about golden streets, and the beautiful water, and the
trees, and the harps of the angels, and their golden crowns."

"And what don't you like to hear about?"

The little foot moved backwards and forwards a good while, and when
Nannie did speak, she spoke almost as if she were afraid to do so.

"I don't like to hear about its always being Sunday there."

"Why, Nannie, don't you like Sunday here?"

"Why, yes, always once a week; but that's not like _always_. I don't
think I should like to go to church _every_ day, and learn the Catechism,
and have a cold dinner, and not play at all."

"Maybe I can help you a little, Nannie. Do you ever get tired of loving
father?"

"Why, no; I should never get tired of that, I'm sure he never gets tired
of loving me."

"Do you get tired of showing you love him by trying to please him?"

"No, Mary; but--"

"Never mind the 'buts' till I have done. Now, God is 'Our Father,' and
all we have to do in heaven is to love him, and to show how very much we
love him by trying to do all we can to please him. Do you think you'll
get tired of that?"

"No. But that isn't like Sunday."

"What do we do on Sunday, Nannie?"

"Why, go to church and--"

"Yes; but what do we go to church for?"

"Oh, I see now!" said Nannie, her face brightening up,--"oh, I see! We
worship God on Sunday, and that's what we'll do always in heaven; isn't
it, Mary?"

"Yes, that's why we say it's always Sunday there; and we shall love
God so much better there than we do now, that we can only be happy in
praising him. Even now, when we think how good he is to us, and how he
loves us, it seems as if we _must_ praise him; but then we shall see him
always, and never forget what he has done for us. Do you think we can
help praising him, or that it will be hard work to join with the angels
in singing, 'Holy, holy, Lord God Almighty'--'Worthy is the Lamb that
was slain'? Do you think you understand now, Nannie, and will like to
hear about heaven as much as Grannie Burt does?"

"Oh yes! I felt very sorry, because I knew I ought to love to think
about heaven! And so I think I do. But Belle said they did nothing but
sing hymns there, and she didn't see what there was so very pleasant in
that."

"Belle ought not to talk so. But what did you say to her?"

"I said," Nannie answered, holding down her head, "I thought the reason
she didn't like it was because she was not good; because all good people
liked to hear about heaven."

"That's the reason, I think," said sister Mary, as she gathered up her
weeds for Nannie to take away. Nannie carried them off, thinking all the
time, "Oh dear, I wish I were as good as sister Mary!" If wishes would
make any one good, Nannie would have been very good long before this time.
"At anyrate," said Nannie, as she emptied the weeds into the ash-heap,
"I will try. Father says there are weeds in our hearts, and we can pull
them up. I mean to try."

We shall see in the next chapter how Nannie succeeds in pulling up the
weeds.




CHAPTER II.

"IF THY BROTHER SIN AGAINST THEE, FORGIVE HIM."


One bright sunshiny day, just when the snow had commenced melting, the
children started in high glee to take advantage of its softened state to
make a snow-man. This was a favourite occupation of the children. Two or
three times every year they adorned the front yard with a giant figure
resembling a man, which was allowed to stand until Jack and Charlie
snowballed it down, or the spring sun melted it away.

"Here's a nice place," said Jack, stopping under the old elm-tree by the
gate. "He'll do for a sentinel here, and we'll arm him with a gun."

"Or a porter," said Belle; "and we'll give him a key."

"Here, Nannie, come this way," he said, as he saw Nannie and Charlie
walking off in the other direction.

"Charlie and I are going to make one by ourselves," said Nannie.

"You can't do it," said Jack; "you don't know how."

"We know how as well as you," said Charlie indignantly.

"Well, we'll beat you then. Come, hurry, Belle."

So they set to work, rolling their balls, sometimes running across each
other's track, when Master Charlie must always leave his work to throw a
ball at Jack. Jack, however, was too busy to return them.

"Don't, Charlie, keep stopping so," said Nannie; "we shall not get it
done."

"I want to snowball Jack," said Charlie.

"But we want to finish the snow-man first."

Then Charlie would stick to his work a few minutes; but whenever Jack
came in sight, rolling his now huge ball, Charlie couldn't resist the
temptation, and would fill his hands full of snow, and let fly at Jack.
He yielded to the temptation the more easily, as he found Jack was too
busy to pay him back.

Belle and Jack now could move their ball no longer, and so they proceeded
to make a smaller one for the head, and to shape out the arms. Jack
made the hat to crown him, while Belle shaped his coat and marked out
the buttons. Soon Charlie, who was more interested in theirs than his
own, cried out, "Oh, he's putting his hat on!"

Belle and Jack gave three cheers, and introduced Nannie and Charlie to
Mr. James Snow.

Mr. James Snow was a very remarkable-looking old man, with a long white
beard, who looked as if he had much better been leaning on a staff, than
raising the gun with which Jack had armed him.

"You had better come with us," said Belle; "you can't make one by
yourselves."

"Yes, we can," said Nannie. "Can't we, Charlie?"

"Yes, we can," said Charlie. "Nicer than that one too."

"And we'll call ours Jack Frost," said Nannie, as they hurried off to
their work.

But Charlie was more trouble than help, and Nannie began to grow tired.
Belle and Jack stood by, looking on and teasing her. Charlie stopped
working, and began to defend their workmanship with snowballs, which Jack
and Belle were not slow to return. At last, just as Nannie had fashioned
a most uncomfortable-looking nose, and had succeeded with great difficulty
in inducing it to stay in its right place, Jack's mischievous nature
overcame him, and seizing a lump of snow, he threw it straight at the
unfortunate nose. This was more than Nannie could bear.

"You naughty, ill-natured boy," she said; "I'll never speak to you
again."

"O Nannie, I'm really sorry. I was only in fun;" for Jack, like most
boys, thought "only in fun" excuse enough for anything. "Come back, and
I'll help you to make it."

Nannie paid no attention to him, but walked off in a very dignified
manner. Jack whistled a tune, and walked off in no very pleasant humour,
while Belle and Charlie went into the house. Their pleasure was all gone
for want of "_the soft answer which turneth away wrath_."

Nannie came in and sat down by the fire and began to read. She was very
much interested in the book she was reading; but, somehow, to-day she
did not like it as well as usual. She turned over the leaves, and read
a little here and there; but it didn't please her. She got up from her
chair, went to the window, and began drumming on the window-pane.

"Be still, Nannie," said her father, who was sitting in the room,
reading. She sat down again, and sat looking into the fire.

"I don't care," she thought; "Jack had no business to do it. I think he
was very unkind, and I'll do the same to him another time. Yes, I will,"
she said to herself more determinedly, because there was something within
which said, _"If thy brother sin against thee, forgive him."_ Nannie
wouldn't listen, but kept cherishing the angry thoughts.

"He may be thankful it wasn't Belle instead of me, for she would have
told father of him in a minute. Jack is always teasing me. He spoiled
all my card-houses yesterday. Forgiving him then didn't do him any
good."

The little voice within whispered, _"Lord, how oft shall my brother sin
against me, and I forgive him? till seven times? Jesus saith, Until
seventy times seven."_

Nannie heard it again, but still wouldn't listen, and went on,--"And the
other day he tore my prettiest paper doll, just for fun. I'd like to know
how he'd like to have me tear his things 'just for fun.'

"And the other day he hurt poor pussy's ears."

The little voice whispered,--"And the other day, when you were sick, he
stayed away from the nutting party, and showed you pictures, and read
to you;" and as fast as Nannie told of an unkind act, the little voice
whispered of a kind one. But Nannie could not listen to-day to the
friendly voice which had so often helped her out of her troubles.

After supper Jack said again, "Come, Nannie, let us be friends, won't
you?"

Nannie had let the angry thoughts have dominion so long, that although
she felt almost inclined to make it up with Jack, pride conquered, and
she turned away without a word.

Poor Jack! he really loved his little sister very much, and had felt very
sorry about the quarrel. It had cost a good deal of effort to go so far
towards making it up, even though he knew he was to blame. But now,
instead of being sorry, he was only angry, and turned away, saying,
"Well, I can stand it as long as you can."

That night, as Nannie lay awake, the little voice that Nannie had
neglected so long kept whispering, _"Let not the sun go down upon thy
wrath."_ She tried to think of something else, but it kept whispering,
whispering.

"I don't see," she said, "why I need trouble myself so about it. Belle
wouldn't mind it a bit."

When morning came, she felt better, and determined to think no more
about it. But at prayers Dr. Merry read the sixth chapter of Matthew:
_"For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also
forgive you. But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will
your heavenly Father forgive your trespasses."_

As her father read these verses, the little voice whispered once more,
"Listen, listen;" and this time Nannie did listen; and when they all
joined in the Lord's Prayer, it was with a trembling voice she said,
_"Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those that trespass against us."_

That morning, as Jack started for school, Nannie ran after him, and
overtook him just as he stepped into the wood-shed to find his knife,
which as usual was missing.

"Jack," she said, going close up to him, "I'm sorry I called you naughty
and ill-natured."

Jack was in a great hurry, and already out of patience from the loss of
his knife; besides, he had not forgotten how Nannie had met his effort
for peace the evening before; so he pushed by her, saying, "Well, don't
bother me now; you're in my light." She moved aside a little, so that
the light from the door could come in, then spying his knife under the
work-bench, she picked it up and gave it to him. He took it from her,
and ran off without any thanks.

The tears came into Nannie's eyes. "He's too unkind, I think," she said;
"he might at least have thanked me for finding his knife. Next time I'll
leave it alone, and he may find it the best way he can."

Nannie's little friend inside whispered again, _"Forgive till seventy
times seven."_ Nannie listened now, and in her heart she prayed again,
_"Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those that sin against us."_

That afternoon, as Nannie was sitting reading, Jack put his head in at
the door, and said, "Nannie, there's a gentleman in the front yard wants
to see you."

Nannie was so busy reading, that she did not notice the strangeness of
the message. She put away her book and went out. As she went into the
yard, what should she see there but her snow-man, all complete! She
turned round to thank Jack, but he was nowhere in sight. Nannie went up
closer to examine the snow-statue, and found a piece of paper on it,
with Mr. Jack Frost written on it in large letters. Under the name was
written with a pencil:--

"Mr. Jack Frost requests of Miss Nannie Merry that she will excuse his
friend Mr. John Merry for his rudeness this morning, as Mr. Frost
assures her that he will behave better next time."

Nannie laughed as she took off the paper, and running into the house,
she soon found Jack standing by the kitchen-fire. Coming up behind him,
without his seeing her, she put her arms round his neck, and kissed him
several times before he could speak. Then laughing, she said,--

"Miss Nannie Merry will excuse Mr. John Merry this time."

Somehow that evening Nannie and Jack were greater friends than ever; and
as they sat together looking at the pictures in some large books that
Nannie couldn't lift alone, Nannie was not sorry she had listened to the
little voice that had troubled her only to make her do right.




CHAPTER III.

CHRISTMAS.


What a beautiful morning it was, that Christmas morning! It seemed as
though the earth, in its pure robe of snow, and the trees, in their
sparkling armour of ice, every twig jewelled and gleaming in the sun,
had clothed themselves in beauty, and with joyful thoughts were giving
thanks to their Creator.

Nannie didn't think all this, but something very much like it was in her
heart, as she stood looking out from the window, as sister Mary set the
last smoking dish on the table.

That morning Dr. Merry read the 116th Psalm, beginning, _"I love the Lord,
because he hath heard my voice."_ Nannie listened very attentively, but
there was one verse she didn't quite understand. It was this: _"I will
offer to thee the sacrifice of thanksgiving."_ She hadn't time after
prayers to ask her father or sister Mary about it, but all the time she
kept thinking of it and trying to understand it. She didn't know that
every time she had looked out upon the snow, and felt thankful to God
for the bright fire within that kept her warm, she had offered the
sacrifice of thanksgiving. She didn't know that when she thought of
Jesus, and her little heart seemed so full of love to him, because he
had died for her, she had offered indeed an acceptable sacrifice of
thanksgiving. She didn't know it; but Jesus knew it, and accepted the
sacrifice, with the same love as when royal David sang the words to his
golden harp.

"Nannie," called sister Mary, "Jack is waiting for you."

"In a minute," said Nannie, as she pulled on her warm mittens.

"It had better be a minute," Jack cried, "if you're going with me, for I
haven't much time to spare before dinner."

Nannie, laughing, took up the little basket her mother had packed so
nicely for Grannie Burt, and off they started, Jack drawing the large
basket on his little hand-barrow.

"Where shall we go first, Jack?"

"Oh, to Grannie Burt's, of course, and then you can help me to draw the
barrow the rest of the way."

"Let us go to the other places first," said Nannie, "and then you can
draw me on the barrow the rest of the way."

"That's more than I bargained for; this basket is all that I want to
carry before dinner."

Poor Jack, however, was destined to carry a much heavier load than his
basket of mince-pies and roast chickens; for as Nannie skipped along,
her foot slipped, and down she came, basket and all, while grannie's
nice mince-pies tumbled out, and rolled down the street.

"Oh dear!" said Nannie, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, "do look at
grannie's pie! What shall we do?"

"Pick it up, of course," said Jack, as he ran after it.

"Nothing but clean snow," he said, as he brought it back; "nobody will
know it from sugar."

"Oh, but it's all broken! What shall we do?"

"See here!" said Jack, lifting the cover of the large basket; "mother
has sent Aunt Betsy two; we can take one of them for grannie."

"Why, Jack, are you in earnest?"

"Well, it's the best I can do. I can't mend it, and I can't make a new
one."

"Let us go back, then, and get another."

"Go back! why, Nannie, it's all you can do to walk now; you're limping
away like crazy Sam."

"Don't make me laugh," said Nannie, laughing all the time through her
tears; "my foot hurts me so, I can hardly walk."

Jack's fun was all gone in a minute, as he shouldered his big basket,
and lifted Nannie on his little hand-barrow.

"O Jack! you can't carry the basket and drag me too!"

"Yes, I can,--and hundreds more like you."

And Jack trudged along, stopping now and then to take breath, until they
came to Grannie Burt's.

"O Jack! what shall we do about the pie?" said Nannie, her tears starting
afresh at the thought.

Jack couldn't stand the sight of Nannie's tears; so he said, "Never mind
it; I'll go back and get another."

"Oh, will you? Thank you, Jack."

Grannie Burt's daughter, Susan, now came to the door, and made all sorts
of exclamations over Nannie, whose ankle pained her so much, she couldn't
walk, and Jack had to carry her into the house. While Jack told the story
of the pie, Susan had taken off Nannie's shoe and stocking, and was
bathing her ankle, while grannie kept saying, "Does it feel better,
dear?"

"Never mind the pie," said grannie, as Jack went on with his story; "it's
just as good as ever, though it is broken."

"Oh, but it doesn't look so nice," said Nannie.

"I can't see it, you know," said grannie, laughing.

But Nannie wasn't satisfied, and called to Jack, as he started off, to be
sure and bring another.

Very soon Nannie felt better, and sitting up in the big chair, she
reached over for the large Bible, and said,--

"Grannie, shall I read to you, while I'm waiting?"

"I'm afraid you don't feel well enough."

"Oh yes, I should like to read; I want to read the chapter father read
this morning."

She turned over the leaves and found the place, and began: _"I love the
Lord, because he hath heard my voice and my supplications."_

"Oh yes," said grannie; "David isn't the only one who can say that. God
has always heard me."

"Did you ever ask him, grannie, to make you see?" said Nannie.

"No; I never asked him. I asked him to make me patient to bear it. You
think it's dreadful, Nannie, to be blind, and I used to think so too.
But God never takes anything from us without giving us something else to
make up for it. You think I sit in the dark always; but it isn't dark,
Nannie; it's all light--a light brighter than the sun: it's the light
of heaven; I see it constantly. It isn't only those that live in heaven
that can say they have no need of the sun or moon, for the Lamb is their
light: I can say it too.--Yes," she went on, more to herself than
Nannie,--"yes, dear Saviour, thou art my light."

Nannie sat looking wonderingly at the wrinkled old face, so happy and
peaceful, and at the withered hands folded so quietly, and thought she
did not understand it then. Many years after, when she too was old, did
she remember that peaceful face and those folded hands, and say in the
midst of trial and sorrow,--

"Yes, dear Saviour, thou art my light!"

"I have thought sometimes," grannie went on, "that heaven will be
pleasanter to me, for not seeing here. Think how new it will all be
there! People that have always had their sight only see something
different when they go to heaven; but I haven't seen anything for ten
years. Just think what it will be to me to see those beautiful things
you read about!"

"What are they, Nannie?"

Nannie said, "Golden streets, gates of pearl, the tree of life, the wall
of jasper. I don't remember any more."

"And Jesus, Nannie; you don't forget him? Think of these poor blind eyes,
that have seen nothing for so long, opening at last upon _his_ face! I
love to think of those blind people Jesus healed, and think that he was
the first thing they saw."

Then Nannie read on: _"Gracious is the Lord, and righteous; yea, our God
is merciful. Return unto thy rest, O my soul; for the Lord hath dealt
bountifully with thee."_

Just as she finished, there was a knock at the door; and who should it
be but Dr. Merry, with two pies for grannie, and the horse and gig to
take Nannie home. And soon Nannie was lying on the couch by the bright
dining-room fire, while mother, and Mary, and Belle, and Charlie all
crowded round, asking how she felt.

"Oh, well enough," said Nannie, as sister Mary took off the warm hood,
and kissed the dear face inside of it. "I hope it will stop aching in
time for me to go to church."

"To church!" said Dr. Merry, looking up from his book; "no church for
Nannie to-day."

Nannie said nothing, but turned her head away to hide the tears, while
sister Mary, stooping down and kissing her, said, "Never mind; you
couldn't walk there, you know."

Afterwards, when no one was in the room except her father, she reached
over to the table for the Bible, and found the psalm they had read that
morning. Pointing with her finger to the last two verses, she said,
"Father, please read that."

Dr. Merry laid down his paper, and coming over to her couch, he read:
_"I will pay my vows unto the Lord now in the presence of all his people,
in the courts of the Lord's house, in the midst of thee, O Jerusalem.
Praise ye the Lord!"_--"Well what of that?" he said, looking up, though
the tears stood in his eyes, as he watched the little face turned so
wistfully toward him.

"I want to go to church so much, father," she said, as she saw he
understood her.

"But, Nannie, I don't think David went to church when he couldn't walk."

"He might have been carried," said Nannie, driving back the tears that
wanted to come.

"Perhaps he was," said her father; "and so might you be, if father
thought it right."

"Would it hurt me, father?"

"I don't know that it would. It might, though; so I think you had better
not try. You must be patient, and remember what I've told you, that God
sends all these little trials. Do you understand me?"

"I think I do."

"I like to see my little daughter love God's house, but I like to see
her bear it patiently when she can't go there."

"I will try," said Nannie, while she kept saying "No!" to the tears as
fast as they came. Every little while, however, one wouldn't mind, and
would jump over the edge and run down. But she kept on saying, "Be
patient, be patient;" and at last the tears got tired of coming, and
troubled her no more. She had pulled up an ugly weed called "Impatience"
that morning.

Soon after, Jack came in with his empty basket.

"Well, Nannie, I wish I were in your place--not obliged to go to church,
and not sick enough to lose your dinner. I always go to church, for
fear, if I'm sick, father'll say, 'Turkey isn't good for headache.' I
never thought of such a convenient excuse as spraining my ankle. Let me
hear how you did it. It's too late to try it now, but it may do the next
time."

"O Jack, how you do talk! I'm so glad you're better than you talk."

"How do you know that, Miss Nannie?"

"Why, everybody knows it. This morning you laughed at me; but as soon as
you found out I was really hurt, you drew me and that big basket too on
your barrow. You're so kind."

Jack whistled a tune and kicked the fire-irons, because he didn't want
Nannie to see the tears that started. He was too much of a boy to let
them do anything but start.

"Jack," Nannie began, after a pause, "why don't you like to go to church?"
She was saying to herself all the time, _"In the courts of the Lord's
house, in the midst of thee, O Jerusalem."_

"Oh, I don't know; I should like it well enough if father would let me
sit up with the rest of the boys in the gallery."

"But you wouldn't do as they do in church, Jack?"

"Why not?"

"It's God's house," said Nannie softly. Jack sat silent for a long time,
while Nannie lay looking into the fire, and whispering all the time to
herself, "Be patient, be patient."

That afternoon, as father, mother, and children were engaged beside her,
Nannie lay on her couch and looked on; but she did not need to say, "Be
patient, be patient," for she was patient; and when her father, stopping
for a moment, whispered, "Is all right, Nannie?" she said, smiling,
"Yes, father; trying helps, doesn't it?"

Swiftly the evening fled. They had cracked nuts and eaten apples, till
even Jack was satisfied; and as the fire burned down, and Charlie lay
asleep in his mother's lap, the father said, "How many things we have
to be thankful for this year! Let us each tell of something, and then
together we will offer our sacrifice of thanksgiving."

The mother's fingers played in Charlie's curls, as she said, "I thank my
heavenly Father for my children's lives."

They were still for a moment. They all remembered the sad days of
last winter, when they gathered round the fire and whispered anxiously
together, while Charlie tossed and wearied on his sick-bed.

Then sister Mary said, "I thank him for his Son Jesus Christ."

Then Belle, in a softened tone, said, "I thank him for our pleasant
home."

Jack said, while Nannie looked up with a pleasant smile, "I thank him
for my little sister."

Then it was Nannie's turn, and, smiling to her father, she said, "I
thank him for _patience_."

So ended their Christmas-day.




CHAPTER IV.

SOMETHING NEW.


"Oh, what a darling it is!" said Nannie to Belle, as they stood looking
at the little bundle sister Mary was holding. "What wee bits of hands!"
she said, as she opened the blanket. "I'm so glad it's a little sister;
I haven't any little one, you know, and it's so much nicer than a
brother."

"So much nicer than a brother!" exclaimed Jack, who was looking on with
affected indifference. "I'd like to know how many snowballs that 'dear
little hand,' as you call it, will make for you. I'm sure I'd like as
good a brother as you've got."

"Oh," said Nannie, "a brother will do very well; but I think a little
sister is nicer. Oh, just see," she added in a whisper, "it's going to
sleep."

"Going to sleep!" said Jack; "I'd like to know how you can tell. It
looks just as it did before."

"Why, Jack, its eyes are shut."

"Its eyes shut!--do let me see. I didn't know it had any."

"Come, Jack, they shan't make fun of our baby," said sister Mary, as she
took it into the other room. "It's a good deal prettier than you were!"

Belle and Nannie both laughed, in which Jack joined, not at all
offended.

"What are they going to call it?" said Jack, after a pause.

"Nellie, sister Mary said," Belle answered; "after a little sister of
mother's that died."

"How old was mother's sister when she died?" Jack asked.

"Just four years old. I heard mother tell all about her. She was so
pretty, with long brown curls and brown eyes; and mother said she was
always happy, and when anybody seemed sad, she would put her little
hands in theirs, and say, 'What make you feel sorry? I love you.' One day
she came in, and climbed up into mother's lap--her mother's, you know,
grandmother's--and laid her head down, and said, 'I'm so tired,' and went
to sleep. She slept on and on, until grandmother got frightened, and sent
for the doctor. When he came, he said she was going to die. She was sick
for about a day, and didn't know anything. The next afternoon, while
grandmother was holding her in her lap, she opened her eyes, and seeing
the tears in grandmother's eyes, she said, 'What make you feel sorry? I
love you!' and that was the last thing she said."

"Did she die, then?" said Nannie.

"Yes; mother said she only breathed a few minutes after it. I saw the
grave when I was at grandmother's. There's a little stone, and her name
written on it. 'Nellie Bliss, aged four years.'"

"Just as old as Charlie," said Nannie. "How old would she be now?"

"Almost as old as mother," said Belle.

"How long she must have been in heaven. I wonder if she'll know our baby
is named after her?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The little Nellie soon began to find her way into their hearts. Nannie
and Belle loved to sit and hold her, very carefully; and even Jack would
step softly, and not slam the door quite so hard, when told that little
Nellie was asleep,--though he did say, "He wished people would be as
particular when he was asleep, and not make such a racket in the
morning."

So for three short weeks the little bud shed its perfume, making
happy those around it; then--oh, how often comes that _then_ in human
life!--then it withered.

The children stepped softly about, or sat in silence round the fire,
while the baby lay in their mother's arms panting for breath; and when
all was still, and they saw their father lay the little form in the
crib, and close the eyes, they knew that it was dead.

Sadly passed that evening. Dr. Merry was absent to see some patients,
and sister Mary was in the room with their mother. The children gathered
round the fire, and talked in low, subdued voices, for death was new to
them.

"How strange," said Nannie, "that our little baby should die before old
Grannie Burt, who has been waiting so long."

"Aunt Nellie will know now that she was named for her," said Belle.

"And perhaps," said Nannie, "she will teach her about everything there."
So they talked of heaven and heavenly things. The little baby's death
had not been in vain. Belle and Jack both thought more of another world
than they had ever done before, and in each a little voice whispered,
"Am I ready for heaven?"




CHAPTER V.

WHAT MADE THE DIFFERENCE?


"O Mother! Fanny Bell, and Mary Green, and ever so many of the girls,
are going into the woods to-morrow afternoon, and they want us to go
with them. May we, mother?" said Belle and Nannie together, as they came
running into the room where their mother was.

"I'll see about it," she said; "it will depend upon what kind of girls
you are."

"Oh, we'll be very good, mother, if you will let us go."

"We'll see," said their mother.

The morrow came, and with it the desired permission. Pretty early,
Nannie, who was on the watch, saw them coming, and called out to Belle,
"Here they are!" Belle ran out.

"Are you going?"

"Yes."

"Is Nannie?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I'm so glad Nannie's going," cried one voice and another. "Yes, I'm
so glad."

"I don't see," said Belle to herself, "why they should be so glad Nannie
is going. They don't seem to care about me at all."

With rather a cross tone of voice, she called to Nannie to make haste
and get ready.

Just as they were starting, Charlie came in, and seeing Nannie with her
bonnet on, he called out:--

"O Nannie, where are you going? I want you to show me the pictures in
your new book."

"I can't this afternoon, Charlie; I'm going into the woods."

"Oh, pshaw!" said Charlie; "I like so much better when you're at home."

"It does not make any difference to Charlie whether I'm at home or not,"
Belle said to herself.

When they started there was such a strife who should walk with Nannie,
that Belle was very nearly left to walk alone. Their walk led through
the pretty lane bordered with lime-trees, at the back of Dr. Merry's
house, then on past Grannie Burt's house, when it turned off into a
little path, across the field that was worn quite smooth by the boys
going nutting. This path brought you at last to a stile. Over this stile
they all climbed, and now were in the woods. What a beautiful wood it
was! The trees opened here and there to let in the sunlight, which
danced in and out among the green and yellow and russet brown leaves of
the trees, changing into every hue of autumn. On the ground, springing
up everywhere, were the dark leaves and bright red berries of the
cranberry and bilberry; while down by the brook the greenest of all
mosses covered the stones, and converted any old log that came in their
way into the softest of seats. Then, what a wild and roaring little
brook that Stony Brook was! You could follow it all the way through the
woods by only stepping from stone to stone, and every little while you
might see a great hole scooped out in the rock, where the water lay dark
and silent, or a little precipice over which it dashed and foamed. This
was a favourite wood with the children. In summer they often spent whole
days there, gathering wild flowers or the beautiful fern leaves, which
grew in every nook and corner. And now that the bright autumn leaves
were scattered everywhere, and the tempting berries covered the ground,
they found employment for many a spare hour. To-day the little girls
had gathered leaves and berries till they were tired, when Ellen Bates
said,--

"Let us choose a queen, and crown her."

"What will you crown her with?" said Mary Green.

"Oh, these bright leaves will do," said Nannie; "we can put them
together by the stems."

Now when it was first proposed to choose a queen, Belle thought, "They
always choose the prettiest one for a queen--I know they will choose
me;" so she said with great eagerness, "Oh yes, let us have a queen!"

"Let us have Belle for our queen!" cried one of the girls.

"Oh no, we want Nannie!" said two or three at once.

"A crown of red leaves will look pretty with Nannie's red hair," said
one of the girls, laughing.

"I don't care," said another. "We all love her best, and I don't intend
to crown anybody I don't like, if they _are_ pretty."

Belle stood looking on with pretended indifference, for she did not want
the girls should know how much she cared about it.

"All that vote for Belle hold up a bunch of berries; and all that vote
for Nannie hold up an oak leaf."

The girls laughed, and held up their hands. There were six oak leaves,
and only two bunches of berries.

"I'd rather Belle would be queen," said Nannie, though it cost a little
effort to say it; for she was as much pleased with the honour as any one.

"But we had rather not," the girls said. "You cannot help yourself; so
sit down while we make your crown."

Belle was too proud to show her disappointment, so she sat down and helped
to make the crown. Very pretty she looked as she sat on the mossy bank,
while her hands worked in and out among the bright coloured leaves. A
stranger looking at the two sisters, would have wondered why the girls
had passed by Belle, and chosen the plain though pleasant-faced Nannie.
So one would think that looked only on the outside; but could one have
looked within, they would soon have understood the reason of the choice.

After the crowning of the queen, which was performed with all due
ceremony, the children went home, following Stony Brook till it poured
its waters into the little river on which the village was built.

After they reached home, Belle went upstairs, and sitting down by the
window, gave free vent to the angry thoughts she had been keeping under
all the afternoon.

"I don't see," she said to herself at last, "what makes the difference.
I know I'm a great deal prettier than Nannie;" and she went across and
looked at herself in the glass. "Yes, I am a great deal prettier, and
yet the girls all love Nannie better. And I can learn a lesson twice as
quick, and yet Miss Taylor likes Nannie better than me, and helps her
out of all her difficulties. And father, and mother, and sister Mary,
all think there's nobody like Nannie, and they are always scolding me
for something or other. I wish people would love me as they do Nannie. I
would rather be the ugliest person in the world and be loved." She was
silent for a moment, while conscience brought before her all the kind
acts Nannie was always doing for somebody. How ready she was to give up
her own pleasure, and do anything for others. Then she went off into a
pleasant day-dream, in which she was very good, always did just right,
and everybody loved her. All the old women in the village thought no
one could do anything for them like Belle Merry; her mother thought she
never could spare Belle, and Charlie was never satisfied when Belle was
away. She forgot, when she was dreaming, how, when her father said Granny
Burt had no one to read to her, she said "she hadn't time to read to an
old woman."

She forgot how often, when her mother had asked for some little help,
it had been given so pettishly as to make that mother's face grow sad.
She forgot how often, when Charlie had made some little request for
entertainment, she had turned away, until now he never asked Belle
for anything when Nannie was in the room. Yes, she forgot all this,
she forgot all the hard part of doing right, and her dream was very
pleasant--so pleasant, that at last she said, with great determination,
"I mean to be so kind and good, that they will all love me. I'm going to
try. I'll begin at once, to-night."

So she started down-stairs. Poor Belle! how many times had she come out
of her little room and gone down-stairs with the same determination to
do better, and how many times had she failed!

And how many times had Nannie come out of the same little room with the
same resolution, and almost always succeeded! What made the difference?
If you had been there sometimes with Nannie, you would have found that
she did one thing that Belle had not done. She knelt down and asked God
to help her.

There was the difference. Belle was trying to make herself good, Nannie
was praying to Jesus to help her.

As Belle came into the sitting-room, her mother said to her, "You ought
to have come down immediately to help to set the table, Belle; Nannie
set it for you."

Belle said nothing, neither did she thank Nannie, who looked up for a
moment, then went on reading.

"Belle," said her mother, "you may fill the water-pitcher, since Nannie
has done your work for you."

"I didn't ask her to do my work," said Belle, as she took the pitcher.
"That's always the way," she said to herself; "now I came down-stairs
feeling pleasant enough, and mother began scolding me because I hadn't
set the table. There's no use trying. I wasn't to blame."

Who _was_ to blame?

After supper Belle sat down with a book she was busy reading. Just as
she began, her father asked her to bring his slippers.

"In a minute," she said, without looking up, while she went on reading.

Nannie, seeing Belle so much interested, ran off and brought the slippers,
and received a pleasant "Thank you!" from her father. Belle was not so
much interested in her book as not to hear the "Thank you," and it again
excited the angry feelings.

"I was going in a minute," she said to herself. "Nannie needn't have
been in such a hurry. I wasn't to blame."

Who _was_ to blame?

"I wish one of you would take Charlie to bed," said their mother, as she
came in with her basket of mending. Here was a good opportunity to help
her mother, and Belle put down her book with determination, and said,
"I'll take him."

"No," said Master Charlie, "I don't want Belle to put me to bed;--I want
Nannie. You go, Nannie," he said, putting his little arms around her
neck, and looking up beseechingly. So Nannie laid down her book and took
Charlie to bed.

Poor Belle! She held her book up to hide the tears that would come.
"There's no use in trying," she thought. "It wasn't my fault if Charlie
wouldn't let me."

Whose fault was it?

Dr. Merry had seen it all. He saw the struggle it had been for Belle
to put away her book, and he saw the tears fill her eyes when Charlie
refused; and now, as he got up to go to his surgery, he whispered to
her, "Be strong and of a good courage. For the Lord thy God, he it is
that doth go with thee."

"What could her father mean?" Belle kept thinking it over and over.
"Be strong and of a good courage"--she knew well enough what the words
meant, but why should her father say them to her. She wondered if he
knew she was trying to do better, and was almost ready to give up.

"Be strong and of a good courage,"--she said it again. "Of good courage,
means not to be afraid, not to give up, to go on trying, no matter how
hard it is. But I don't see the use in trying. It's always the same,
everything goes wrong. I may as well give up at first as at last."

There was a Bible lying by her on the table, and, almost without thinking,
she took it up, and began turning over the leaves to find the words; she
knew where they were, for she had seen them many times. She found the
place, and read over again the words,--

"For the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee; he will not fail
thee, nor forsake thee."

"I can't do right,--there's no use trying;" but while she said it, she
was reading over again the last part, "He will not fail thee."

"I wonder," she said, brightening up as the thought struck her, "if that
is what father meant! I can't do right myself, but God will help me."




CHAPTER VI.

THE STORY.


One Sunday afternoon, as Mary sat reading in the porch, Jack and Charlie
came and sat down by her on the old sofa; and soon Charlie put his little
curly head between her face and the book, and said coaxingly, "Please
tell us a story, sister Mary."

The little upturned face was well kissed before sister Mary said, "Well,
Jack, call Nannie and Belle, and we'll have a story."

Jack ran off in high glee, for sister Mary's stories were always
welcomed by the children.

Nannie and Belle came as fast as their feet would bring them, and were
soon sitting in readiness on the porch steps.

"Now, sister Mary," said Nannie, "a _good_ story, please."

"What do you mean by a good one, Nannie?"

"One that will teach us to be good," said Nannie in a low voice.

"Oh, nonsense!" said Jack; "that wasn't what I meant. I want a pretty
story."

"So do I," said Belle.

"And so do I," chimed in Charlie.

"Well," said sister Mary, "can't I tell you a good story, and a pretty
one too?"

"I suppose so," said Jack, kicking the foot-stool.

"Well, she can't tell us anything, Jack," said Belle, "if you don't keep
your feet still."

"I think you are rather hard on Jack; but never mind. Now," said sister
Mary, "we'll have our story:--

       *       *       *       *       *

"It was a poor little room the sun was looking into, just as it was
setting. There was no carpet on the floor, and no curtains to the
window. The old grate was cracked and rusty, and contained a few red
coals among the embers. By the fire, in a curious old chair, roughly
made, yet looking comfortable, sat a little girl rocking herself backwards
and forwards. It was a very pale face that the sun shone upon, and a very
thin, pale hand it was that the little girl was holding up, shading her
eyes. Every little while the girl dropped her hand, and looked towards
the window with a bright smile,--and no wonder! for there stood the
prettiest of rose-bushes, with bright green leaves, and one dark crimson
bud just opening. She sat watching it, till the last rays of the sun died
away, and it began to grow dark. Then the look of sadness came back to
her face, and drawing her old shawl closer round her, she sat leaning
her head on her hand. By-and-by there was a sound of footsteps, and the
door opened, and a man entered with a slow and heavy step. She turned
round with a quick smile,--'O father! what has made you so late?'

"He said nothing; but, stooping down, lifted her in his arms, and sat
down by the fire. Though he lifted her very gently, an expression of
pain passed over her face, and you could see that the poor limbs hung
shrunken and helpless. He was a rough-looking man, with a rough, heavy
voice; but when he spoke to her, his tones were very gentle, and as he
held her in his lap he stroked her hair softly and kissed her again and
again.

"'How have you been to-day, Lizzie?'

"'Pretty well, father. When neighbour Green came in to see to the
fire, she brought me some nice warm broth for my dinner. Wasn't it kind,
father--and wasn't it odd too? I had been thinking all the morning how
much I should like some broth, and then just to think I had some for
my dinner. And then the best of all is that dear little rose-bush. You
can't see it now, it's so dark; it's got one dear little bud, and it
won't eat anything but water, so I can keep it. Mrs. Smith brought it to
me, and she brought a nice basketful of things besides; and you'll get
some of them for your supper--won't you, father?'

"He put her back carefully in her chair, then put on a few more coals,
and brought out from a basket in a corner their supper. After they had
eaten, he took her again in his arms and sat down with her.

"'Was the day very long, Lizzie?'

"'Yes,' she said; 'the days are all long without mother.'

"He started as she said it; then said, 'I'm very glad she isn't here.'

"'Glad! father?'

"'Yes, glad; for'--he said almost in a whisper--'they never hunger
there. I wish we were there too.'

"He laid his head on her shoulder, while the words came fast: 'No
work--I have hunted, hunted everywhere. I have been ready to give up,
and then I would think of you, Lizzie, and I kept on; but there's no
work to be had. O Lizzie, Lizzie, I could bear it if it weren't for
you!'

"She said nothing, but kept stroking his hair with her little hand,
while her face looked very sad.

"'I will try once more, to-morrow, though I know there's no use.'

"'Perhaps you can find something, father. Don't despair. God will take
care of us. Shall I say mother's psalm, father?'

"He only nodded his head, and she began: _'I will bless the Lord at all
times. His praise shall continually be in my mouth.'_

"'Does it say, "at all times," Lizzie?'

"'Yes, father, "_at all times_;" that means when we are in trouble too,
doesn't it?'

"'It must mean so; but it isn't so easy to praise him when we can't see
any light, as when everything is bright.'

"'It isn't so easy to _praise_, father; but then we can _pray_.'

"'We can pray, Lizzie; but what if God doesn't hear us?'

"'But he does hear us, father. That's just what the verse that mother
liked best said: _"I sought the Lord, and he heard me, and delivered me
out of all my troubles."_ And this verse too: _"Many are the
afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivereth them out of them
all."_ That is a sweet verse, father.'

"'Say them all, Lizzie.'

"'I don't remember them all. I will say all I can: _"The angel of the
Lord encampeth round about them that fear him and delivereth them."_
_"Oh, fear the Lord, ye his saints: for there is no want to them that
fear him."'_

"'Do you think that's always true, Lizzie?'

"'I don't know,' she said, with a puzzled look; 'we want something now.
You want work, and I want to be well and strong to help you; but maybe
it doesn't mean we shall have everything we want, but all that is best
for us. That's what mother used to say, and that's what the next verse
says too: _"The young lions do lack and suffer hunger, but they that
seek the Lord shall not want any good thing."_ And perhaps it isn't here
that we shall not want. You said "there was no hunger there," didn't
you, father?'

"'Yes, Lizzie.'

"'And then there is that other verse, father: _"Yea, though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for
thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."'_

"Her voice trembled as she said it, and she paused, for they were her
mother's dying words.

"'We will fear no evil, father. We won't stop trusting; will we,
father?'

"'No, Lizzie; I sometimes fear I should if it weren't for you. What
should I do without you?' and his arms grasped her closer, as if even
the thought were painful.

"'O father, you would be glad that God had taken me where I couldn't
suffer any more, and where I should be straight and pretty like other
children.'

"'You are pretty now, Lizzie. I never see any face that looks so
beautiful to me.'

"'But it isn't like other children's, father. When Mrs. Smith came in
to-day, she had a pretty little girl with her, with such bright golden
hair, and such rosy cheeks, and so tall and straight, she must look like
the angels, I think. And when I looked at her, it was so hard to keep
the tears from coming. I had to keep thinking of what mother told me
when I read about the pool where the sick people washed and were made
well; and I said I wished there was such a pool now. Mother said the
river of death was such a pool, and that after I had crossed it, I
should be like the angels in heaven. But she said, father, she should
still know me; so, father, you will keep on trusting and praising too,
won't you, if God takes me there?'

"He made no answer, but held her closely to him, till the few coals in
the grate grew white, and the room grew cold.

"'It's too cold for you here, Lizzie, and we can't have any more coals
to-night. Shall I put you in bed now?'

"'Let me sing mother's hymn first, father.'

"He raised her a little, and in a sweet, low voice she began singing:--

  "'Breast the wave, Christian, when it is strongest;
    Watch for day, Christian, when night is longest;
    Onward and onward still be thine endeavour,
    The rest that remaineth endureth for ever.

  "'Fight the fight, Christian--Jesus is o'er thee;
    Run the race, Christian--heaven is before thee;
    He who hath promised faltereth never;
    Oh, trust in the love that endureth for ever.

  "'Lift the eye, Christian, just as it closeth;
    Raise the heart, Christian, ere it reposeth;
    Nothing thy soul from the Saviour can sever,
    Soon shalt thou mount upward to praise him for ever.'"

Sister Mary paused after she had sung the hymn. There were tears in the
children's eyes, and for a moment they were silent.

"Is that all?" they said at last.

"No," said sister Mary, "there's some more; but I'm afraid you are
tired."

"Oh no; tell us the rest!"

"Very well," said sister Mary, "but we'll have to make haste; it's
growing late:--

"The setting sun was shining again into the poor little room, and the
little girl sat again, wrapped up in her old shawl, before the fire,
rocking to and fro. The little girl's face had a very bright smile on
it; but it wasn't the rose-bush with its little bud, now almost opened,
that caused it, for she didn't look that way at all. She had a little
bit of paper in her hand that she held very tightly, while her eyes kept
watching the door. The sunlight faded, and the room grew dark, but the
little face still wore the bright smile.

"As the door opened, she cried out eagerly,--

"'O father, here's something for you! There was a gentleman here to see
you to-day, and he left his name; here it is on this card; and he said
if you would come to see him, he had some work for you.'

"The man sat down in his chair, and laid his head in his hands.

"'O Lizzie,' he said, 'it's more than I deserve; I was just ready to
give up trusting. I have sought all day, and I couldn't bear to come
home.'

"'God did hear us; didn't he, father? I'm so glad we didn't stop
trusting. Hadn't you better go now, father, and see about it?'

"'Yes,' he said, 'I'll go now,' stooping down to read the card by the
light of the fire.

"He went out, and the shadows settled down over the room; but the little
girl sat still, and you could just hear her humming to herself,--

  "'Breast the wave, Christian, when it is strongest.'

"Presently she heard her father's step. It was quicker and lighter than
it had been for many a day."

"'I've got it, Lizzie. It's a place as a porter in a warehouse; and good
wages too. And see here,' he said, as he lighted a candle he had brought
with him, 'we'll have a light to-night, and a nice supper too.'

"'O father!' said Lizzie, as she looked on with bright eyes as her
father took out the parcels; 'how did you get all those things?'

"'The gentleman paid me something in advance. He said he knew people
that had been out of work so long needed something.'

"It was a pleasant evening; the candlelight seemed so bright to Lizzie's
eyes, that hadn't seen any for so long a time, and her father was so
cheerful. Yes, it was a pleasant evening; and they closed by reading the
103rd Psalm:--

_"'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy
name._

_"'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.'"_

       *       *       *       *       *

Sister Mary took up her book and went into the house, while the children
gathered together on the steps to watch the sun that was now setting.

"Lizzie was a wonderfully good little girl, wasn't she," said Jack; "but
then she was sick. I never knew any good people that weren't either sick
or ugly."

"Why, Jack, there's sister Mary, and papa and mamma, and Miss Taylor,
and--"

"Oh, I mean children. All the children I read about are good, and get
ill, and die. I rather think Lizzie would have died if sister Mary had
gone on with her story."

"It _is_ so in books," said Belle; "they always die."

"People would not want to write about them if they lived," said Nannie.

"Why not?" said Jack; "I wish some one would write about me."

"If they wrote about you," said Belle, "they could call their work, 'A
warning to bad boys,' or, 'An ugly boy that wasn't good.'"

While they were talking so, Nannie was thinking very intently.

"What are you thinking about, Nannie?" said Belle.

"I was thinking about what Jack said--that all the good people were
either sick or ugly; I don't believe it's true. But if it is true, I
was thinking that perhaps it's like what Abraham told the rich man:
'Son, remember that thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things,
and likewise Lazarus evil things; but now he is comforted, and thou art
tormented.' So I thought that the ones that were sick and ugly here, but
loved Jesus, had received all their evil things, and would be well and
beautiful there."

"Maybe so," said Jack, more thoughtfully than before. Then stooping down
and kissing Nannie, he said, "I know one good girl that isn't sick."

The sun was just setting, leaving about half its great face to light the
world.

In Jack's heart the sun was just rising.

Nannie's words kept sounding in his ears,--"Perhaps, perhaps they
have received in this life their good things;" and those other words,
"Therefore he is comforted, and thou art tormented."




CHAPTER VII.

"THE LAMB IS THE LIGHT THEREOF."


"Nannie, Nannie,--where's Nannie?" Jack called one pleasant summer
morning.

Just then Nannie's voice was heard singing, and she came into the
kitchen, where Jack was.

"Nannie, father has just gone down to Grannie Burt's, and he wants you
to go there too. Mother is going now, and she says you may go with her
if you'll make haste."

Nannie was off in a minute for her sun-bonnet, and very soon was walking
with her mother and Jack through the tree-bordered lane; very quietly now
though, for she knows that grannie is dying, and she thinks to herself,
"Grannie will be in heaven to-night," and the little face brightens as
she thinks of the beauties of the heavenly city; "and grannie will see
too--why, how happy she must be! I should think good people would love
to die. It's like going to some beautiful world we've heard of." But as
Nannie looked up at the trees, and the heavy white clouds above them,
and then down at the green carpet of grass at her feet, she thought it
would be _leaving_ a beautiful world too.

Now they reach the little brown house, and Nannie begins to feel a
little frightened. She creeps in timidly behind her mother, and sits
down at the foot of the bed, while Jack sits down on the door-step. Soon
grannie says feebly,--

"Has Nannie come?"

"Yes," said her mother; "Nannie's here."

"Nannie, come where I can touch you."

As Nannie comes nearer, grannie stretches out her hand, and laying it on
her head, says in a low voice,--

"God bless thee--God bless thee, my child! I have never seen you here,
Nannie, but I shall know you in heaven. I shan't need to ask you to read
to me there, for I shall see. But read to me here once more,
Nannie--once more."

Nannie lifts up for the last time grannie's worn Bible, and begins to
read, as she has so often read before,--

_"And I saw a new heaven and a new earth."_

Very still it was in the chamber of death, while the little head bowed
over the sacred book, and the tearful voice read of the glories of that
land whither the wearied one was going. Fainter and fainter grew the
breath; and as the child read the words, _"And the city hath no need of
the sun or moon to lighten it, for the Lamb is the light thereof,"_ the
lids closed over the sightless eyes here--but opened there, where the
Lamb is the light. Grannie Burt was in heaven.

  Long she listened for His footsteps,
  Echoing from those streets of gold--
  Now just within the pearly gates,
  She is no longer old.

  The pilgrim-staff is broken--
  The worn-out garment fold
  And lay away for ever,--
  She is no longer old.

  Farewell, farewell, our mother!
  Our greatest joy is told,
  As we fold the aged hands and say,
  She is no longer old.

Twice have the trees blossomed, and twice the autumn leaves fallen,
since first we met our little friend Nannie. We have given but a few
pages in the life of those few years; there have been many others--some,
perhaps, in which the little girl forgot to ask for help in her trying,
and therefore failed.

It may seem hard to be trying on and on, never yielding to
discouragement; but if you should see Nannie's bright eyes and happy
face, you would not think so; and if you should ask Nannie if she was
tired of trying, I think she would answer, _"Her ways are ways of
pleasantness, and all her paths are peace."_

We may perhaps hear of Nannie again, and of the success which always
follows faithful effort. But whether we do or not, I can let you into
the secret of her future life. Here it is in these words:--

_"Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but the woman that feareth
the Lord, she shall be praised."_