Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.



                      Little Dot Series.


                               A

                     TALE OF THREE WEEKS


                              BY
                       EGLANTON THORNE,

                          AUTHOR OF
     "Kate and her Sister Daisy," "Caleb Gaye's Success," etc.



                 THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
      56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;
                   AND 164, PICCADILLY.



CONTENTS.

CHAP.

 I. LEFT BEHIND

 II. MISS JAMESON'S GRAND IDEA

 III. THE DOLLS

 IV. THE VISIT TO GRANDMAMMA

 V. GERTIE'S BIRTHDAY

 VI. LESSONS NOT LEARNED FROM BOOKS



A TALE OF THREE WEEKS.

CHAPTER I.

Left Behind.

"WHAT do you think?" exclaimed Katie Bartlett, as she came slowly into
the schoolroom, where her two younger sisters were engaged in preparing
the tables for school; "what do you think is going to happen?"

"Is it something nice?" asked Gertie, bright-looking child of eight.
She spoke in a doubtful tone, for Kate did not look like the bearer of
cheering news.

"Nice! I should think not, indeed," returned Katie, dolefully; "papa
and mamma have made up their minds to go away; they are going to the
seaside."

"Oh, you don't mean it!" cried Gertie and Florrie together, as they
clapped their hands; "why, that is splendid news, Katie! How could you
say it was not?"

"Well! you are sillies!" exclaimed Kate, in a tone of sisterly
contempt; "do you suppose that we are going too? I never said so."

The faces of her sisters fell considerably.

"But are we not going?" they asked.

"No, indeed! Nurse and baby and little Winnie are to go with papa and
mamma; but we three and Harry are to be left at home with Miss Jameson."

"Oh, how horrid! what a shame!" cried the children, and tears came into
Florrie's blue eyes as she added: "We have not been to the seaside at
all this year."

"Papa says that we must not expect to go every year," said Kate,
speaking in an injured tone. "He says we had holidays enough before
Miss Jameson came to us, and now we must work hard to make up for lost
time."

"And are we to have school every day whilst they are away?" asked
Gertie, looking troubled.

"Certainly; I don't believe Miss Jameson will let us off a single
hour," said Kate, gloomily.

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Florrie, who delighted in strong language.

At this moment, their governess entered the room. She was a
pleasant-looking young lady, with dark hair and dark eyes, and a
resolute but cheerful expression.

"Come, children, what are you chattering about, and the table not yet
ready?" she said, briskly; "what is the meaning of this?"

"Oh, Miss Jameson! have you heard?" asked Florrie. "Papa and mamma are
going away, and we are to be left at home! Is it not a shame?"

"Hush, hush!" exclaimed Miss Jameson, "you know I never allow little
girls to speak in that way of anything their elders may do. And I can't
think why you should make a grievance of this. You ought to be glad
that your dear mamma is going away. You know that she is very far from
well, and the doctor has insisted upon her having a change."

"Of course I am glad that mamma should go," said Kate; "but why can't
she take us too? We have not been to the seaside this summer."

"How much quiet and rest would your poor mother get, I wonder, if she
took you all with her," said Miss Jameson, smiling.

"It will be horrid without her," said Florrie, impatiently. "With baby
and Winnie and papa gone too, the house will seem wretched. We shall be
perfectly miserable all the time they are away."

"Poor things!" said Miss Jameson, still smiling, "what a dreadful
prospect! Are we all so disagreeable to each other that it will be
impossible to find any pleasant way of passing the time together?"

"Oh no; oh no!" cried little Gertie, as she took her usual place at the
table beside her governess, and contrived in so doing to get possession
of Miss Jameson's hand and give it a kiss. "You will be with us, and
you are always so kind. You will tell us stories sometimes of an
evening, and let us hear your musical box, won't you?"

"We'll see, if you're good children," said the governess. "Now, Katie
and Florrie, take your places."

But the two elder girls did not consider that Miss Jameson's stories or
the performance of her musical box could make up for their losing the
pleasure of a visit to the seaside. They were inclined to nurse their
grievance, and they took their seats at the table with gloomy looks
and pouting lips. They tried their governess's patience that morning,
which was very unfair, since she was in no way responsible for the
arrangement their parents had made.

It was a lovely autumn morning early in October. The schoolroom windows
looked into the large garden lying at the back of the house—a roomy
old-fashioned house in the neighbourhood of Richmond. Few children
have a happier home than the little Bartletts enjoyed. Their father
was a well-to-do man of business, able to provide for his family every
comfort and advantage that could be reasonably desired. They had a
tender mother, who anxiously studied the welfare of her children,
though her delicate health made it impossible for her to do as much for
them herself as she wished. The children were surrounded by all that is
pleasant and stimulating to childhood; though, like many children, they
little knew how happy they were, but were ready to grumble and get out
of temper directly anything occurred that was not to their liking.

Two days later, Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett left home for Bournemouth, where
they proposed staying for a fortnight or three weeks. Their departure
caused no small stir in the household. Miss Jameson's help was needed
in various directions that morning; and her pupils, freed from her
control, rushed hither and thither watching all that went on, and
distracting their elders by the innumerable questions they put. Little
Winnie was in a high state of delight at the thought of going away
with papa and mamma; but baby was not aware the event was matter for
self-congratulation, and screamed and struggled tremendously whilst
being dressed for the journey. At last everything was done, and the
carriage waiting at the door. Mr. Bartlett turned to say good-bye to the
sad-faced group of children gathered in the hall.

"I hope they'll be very good whilst we are away, Miss Jameson," he
observed; "I shall look to you for a report of their conduct when we
return. I daresay you won't keep them closely to their lessons. A
little more time in the open air occasionally will do them no harm."

At these words the gloom on the girls' faces gave place to a gleam of
satisfaction. They gave quick glances at each other, and there was the
fervour of gratitude in the warmth with which they kissed their father.

Tears stood in Mrs. Bartlett's eyes as she said good-bye to her
little girls. She was leaving home reluctantly in deference to her
husband's wish. She could not believe that the change would effect much
improvement in her health. She lingered on the doorstep to whisper to
Miss Jameson, as she pressed some money into her hand: "It does seem
hard that they cannot go with us, poor dears; but I know you won't let
them be dull. Take this and spend it for them on new dolls or books—on
anything you think they will most enjoy."

"You need not fear that the 'poor dears' will fret long," said the
governess, brightly. "If you could look in upon them unseen this
evening, you would not find any trace of dulness, I dare promise you."

And thus cheered, Mrs. Bartlett stepped into the carriage, and in a few
moments they drove away.

The spirits of the children quickly revived as the noise of the
carriage wheels died away.

"Did you hear what papa said? Wasn't it lovely of him? You will have to
give us some holidays now, Miss Jameson. Oh, may we have a picnic in
the park some day when the nuts are ripe? We must have a whole holiday
on Gertie's birthday; we always do on birthdays."

But Miss Jameson only laughed and shook her head as she listened to
these exclamations. She was not going to promise anything, she said.
All would depend on how they behaved themselves.



CHAPTER II.

Miss Jameson's Grand Idea.

IT was Mrs. Bartlett's habit, when well enough, to go to the schoolroom
at five o'clock, and have a cup of tea with the children. The
schoolroom tea was emphatically a "hungry" meal, to borrow a Scotch
term. The children were wont to come in from their walk or their games
with powerful appetites, and it was marvellous the quantity of bread
and butter and home-made cake they would contrive to dispose of. The
tea hour was such a bright cosy time, when their mother was ready
to listen to all they liked to say, and to answer as many questions
as they chose to put. But this evening the room looked less cheery,
although there was a bright clear fire burning in the grate, for their
mother's easy chair stood empty. The children were disposed to grumble
as they took their places at the table, until Kate conceived the grand
idea of making toast.

"You would like some toast, wouldn't you, Miss Jameson?" she said,
and Miss Jameson kindly said that she would like some, although she
knew by sad experience that Kate's toast was not over nice. So Gertie
was despatched to the kitchen to fetch a toasting fork, Florrie armed
herself with the bread knife, and the toasting began.

Florrie's piece of bread fell into the fire almost immediately, and
when rescued was so blackened that Miss Jameson decided that it was fit
only to be given to the dog, if he would condescend to eat it. Kate's
attempt was not much more successful. She did not indeed drop her slice
into the fire; but she first smoked it and then burnt it, so that a
good deal of scraping was necessary ere the blackened slice could be
eaten. Florrie decided that toasting was stupid work, and gave it up;
but Kate persevered in spite of scorched cheeks and tingling fingers,
until everyone at the table had been provided with a piece of toast
of her making, which, hot-buttered, was thoroughly appreciated by the
children, though Miss Jameson found her portion rather over toasted.

"Whatever shall we do this evening?" asked Gertie; "you will tell us a
story, won't you, Miss Jameson?"

"Perhaps I will by-and-by, if you take your work and sit down," she
replied; "I want you to do a good deal of needlework whilst your mamma
is away."

"I hate needlework," grumbled Kate, "I am sick of that antemacassar.
What is the good of antemacassars? I think they are stupid
things—always sticking to people's backs, or falling out of their right
places."

"Oh, Miss Jameson, need I finish hemming that duster?" asked Florrie,
"I am so tired of it; I would so much rather do wool-work."

"That's just like Florrie," exclaimed Kate, "she always gets tired of
her work, and wants to do something different; but she must finish it,
mustn't she, Miss Jameson?"

"She can finish it this evening if she is industrious," said the
governess; "and then I can find her some pleasanter work to-morrow."

"I am going to make a new apron for my doll," said Gertie, with an air
of importance; "mamma gave me a piece of muslin yesterday."

"How would you all like to have some new dolls to dress?" asked Miss
Jameson.

"Oh, Miss Jameson!" cried all three at once, "that would be too lovely!
Did mamma say that we might have some?"

"Yes," said Miss Jameson, smiling to see their delight, "I have some
money to spend for you in any way you like best. But I hardly think
that you want dolls; you have so many already."

"Oh, but they are getting shabby," said Florrie; "and it would be so
lovely to get new ones, and dress them all ourselves. I should like
that work, Miss Jameson."

"I don't want a doll," said Harry, a sturdy little fellow of five; "I
should like an engine."

"Well, I'll see if I can afford you one," said Miss Jameson; "but now,
children, I must tell you that I have a grand idea in connection with
these dolls."

"A grand idea!" echoed the little girls; "oh, what is it?"

"You know that my sister is a nurse in a children's hospital?"

"Oh, yes," said the children, for they had often heard their governess
speak of this sister.

"Well, the ward of which she has the oversight is full of poor
children, some of them the most miserable little creatures you can
possibly imagine."

"Are they very ill?" asked Gertie.

"Some of them are very ill, and suffering constant pain; and, what is
most sad to think of, many of them are sufferers through the wicked
neglect and cruelty of their parents. When I have gone to the hospital
from this bright and happy home, my heart has ached when I have thought
of your happy lot, and contrasted with it the lives of these poor
little ones."

"It does seem hard," said Katie, looking thoughtful; "I cannot think
why God lets them be so unhappy."

"Ah, that we cannot tell," said Miss Jameson; "but we know that God
loves these poor little children, and that He is pleased when we do
what we can to brighten their sad lives."

"You take them flowers sometimes when you go to see your sister, don't
you, Miss Jameson?" asked Florrie.

"Yes, dear; and you can't think how pleased they are to see even the
commonest flowers."

"I wish I could do something for them," said little Gertie. "There is
a lovely chrysanthemum coming out in my garden. If I pick it, will you
take it to those poor little children, Miss Jameson?"

"I am afraid your flower will have faded, Gertie, before I am able to
go again to the hospital," said Miss Jameson, smiling at her; "but I
have thought of something you might do for these children, if you felt
inclined, which would give them great pleasure."

"Oh, what is that?" asked the child, eagerly.

"My sister was telling me that at her hospital, which is situated in
a disagreeable neighbourhood, and is not so well known as the larger
hospitals, the children are badly off for toys. One day a lady visitor
gave one of the children a doll, and that doll was the delight of the
whole ward. It was handed about from bed to bed, and they all wanted to
have it at once."

"Oh, I know, I know!" cried the little girls simultaneously; "I know
your grand idea, Miss Jameson."

"You mean us to get some dolls and dress them," said Kate, "and then
give them to the poor little children in the hospital. Oh, that will be
nice; that will be far nicer than dressing them for ourselves."

"I am very glad you think so," said Miss Jameson; "what do you say to
it, Florrie?"

"Oh, it will be splendid!" she exclaimed. "I only wish we could begin
to-night."

"It will be 'more blessed' than keeping the dolls ourselves," said
Gertie, who had repeated for her text that morning the words: "It is
more blessed to give than to receive."

"You might make some scrap-books too if you like," said Miss Jameson;
"there are plenty of pictures and Christmas cards that you could use.
Harry could help with that perhaps."

"Oh, what a splendid idea!" said Kate, and immediately rushed away to
examine her store of Christmas cards.

"What shall we dress the dolls in?" asked Florrie; "will you buy some
stuff; Miss Jameson?"

"I shall have to buy some, I daresay," she replied; "but I was thinking
that we might ask Mr. Carter, the draper, if he could give us some
scraps. I am sure he would be glad to help, if he knew what you were
going to do."

"Oh, I daresay he would," said Florrie; "he gave me a lovely piece of
pink satin one day, and I made it into a hood for Belinda."

"The things will have to be made very neatly," said the governess;
"you will need to take pains, Florrie. The dolls must be well turned
out, or I shall be ashamed to send them as your gift to the children's
hospital."

"And we must make all the clothes to unfasten, mustn't we?" said
Gertie; "it is no fun to play with a doll unless you can dress and
undress it."

"To be sure not," said Florrie. "When shall we get the dolls, Miss
Jameson?"

"To-morrow after school, if you do your lessons well," she replied;
"but now, Florrie, remember that that duster must be finished before
you begin your doll's clothes."

"Oh, dear! that horrid duster!" exclaimed Florrie, impatiently. But she
fetched it, and sat down to her hemming.

"Oh, I wish to-morrow would make haste and come," said Gertie, as she
turned over the heap of Christmas cards that Kate had tossed on to the
table.

"Suppose it should rain," suggested Kate. But that was too sad a
prospect to contemplate.

As they continued to discuss their delightful plans, the children quite
forgot to ask Miss Jameson to tell them a story, and they could hardly
believe that it was bed-time when the clock struck eight. All but
Florrie, who gave a sigh of relief as, her hem complete, she folded up
the tiresome duster.



CHAPTER III.

The Dolls.

HAPPILY the next, day rose bright and fair. The children, impatient for
twelve o'clock to come, were somewhat restless during school hours;
but their intentions were good, and they really tried to do their
school-work well; so Miss Jameson made allowance for their occasional
fidgets, and the whispered allusions to the pleasure in prospect.

Promptly at twelve o'clock books were put away, and a very few minutes
sufficed for the children to get equipped for their walk. It was not
far to the town. They crossed the bridge over the Thames, and saw the
river gleaming blue in the sunlight, and the foliage which skirts its
green banks brilliant with the rich hues of autumn. But the children
gave no thought to the beauty of the scene. They were intent upon
one thing—dolls; and they hurried on as quickly as possible till the
tempting shop was reached.

And now what a business the choosing of the dolls was! There was a
grand assortment of dolls of every description. There were dark dolls
and fair dolls, boy dolls and girl dolls, baby dolls and dolls that
were quite grown up, judging by the style in which they wore their
hair; dolls that could shut their eyes, and dolls that could stand
alone! Amid such a variety Miss Jameson found it no easy matter to
direct the choice of her pupils. But a thought of the price helped to
a decision, for they could not afford to purchase costly dolls, since
they wanted to make the money go as far as possible.

At last, after much deliberation, Kate decided that she would like
to have a baby doll which could be dressed in long clothes, like the
baby brother who had been taken to the seaside. Florrie chose a lovely
flaxen-haired beauty, on whom she at once bestowed the name of Lily.
Gertie was not to be diverted from her fancy for a black doll of more
striking than prepossessing appearance; and when she pleaded that there
might be a little black girl in the hospital who would like to have
a doll of her own colour, Miss Jameson yielded, and allowed her to
gratify her taste. Besides these Miss Jameson selected two dolls, one
with dark curls and the other with wonderful golden curls, which she
intended to dress herself; and at Harry's earnest request she added to
the number a quaint little sailor doll. Then Harry's engine had to be
bought, and altogether these purchases took so much time that when at
last they got away from the shop it seemed, as Florrie remarked, as if
they had been there half the day. And now there was the draper's to be
visited, and there Miss Jameson purchased some muslin and lace for the
baby doll's robe, and other necessaries.

Fortunately Mr. Carter was in the shop, and, being taken into the
children's confidence, readily promised that the piece drawer should be
ransacked for the benefit of the dolls. The result was a supply of most
suitable pieces. Amongst the number was a piece of pale blue cashmere,
which would make a most becoming gown for Miss Lily, and some yellow
satin in which it was generally agreed that black Topsy would look
grand. From the draper's the busy party passed on to the bookseller's,
where some strongly-bound scrap-books were purchased.

Then at last the happy children turned homeward. Lily, Topsy, and Baby
they carried with them, feeling it impossible to wait until they were
sent from the shop.

"Oh, if only we could begin to dress them this afternoon!" said Gertie.

Then Miss Jameson, feeling sure that the children would settle to
little else, promised that as soon as each had finished her practising
for the day, she would cut out the doll's clothes and set them to work.

If Mrs. Bartlett could have looked into the schoolroom an hour or two
later, and seen the bright faces gathered about the table, scattered
with scraps of material of all shapes and colours, she would have seen
that there was little fear that the children would be dull.

"How nice this is!" said Kate, as she hemmed her baby's robe; "I am so
glad you thought of it, Miss Jameson: I fancied the days would seem so
long and dreary whilst papa and mamma were away; but now I know that we
shall be as happy as possible until they come back."

"Do you think that we shall be able to get all the dolls dressed before
mamma comes home?" asked Florrie, addressing her governess.

"I don't know," said Miss Jameson; "there is a good deal of work even
in such tiny garments, and you are not very expert with your needles.
And I must insist upon everything being done neatly." For she hoped
that this doll dressing would effect an improvement in the little
girls' sewing.

"We must work as hard as possible every day, and then perhaps we shall
get them done," said Kate; "I should like to have them all dressed to
show mamma."


"So should I," said Gertie; "oh, Flo! have you thought of a name for
that dark one?"

"What do you think of Adelaide Ruth?" asked Florrie, with an air of
deliberation.

"I think the Ruth sounds rather odd," said Gertie: "must it have two
names?"

"Children most always do," replied Florrie; "do you like Constance
Adelaide better?"

"Oh, yes, that sounds ever so much better," decided Gertie.

"Now, Miss Jameson," said Kate, when all the cutting out was done, and
every needle was in motion; "won't you please tell us a story."

Their governess very willingly complied with the request, and was
relating the most thrilling episode of the tale, when she was
interrupted by the entrance of Sarah, the children's maid.

"If you please, Miss Jameson," she said, "Mrs. Bartlett has sent to
know if the young ladies and Master Harry can go there to-morrow after
school to spend the rest of the day."

The Mrs. Bartlett, from whom this invitation came, was the children's
grandmother, an elderly lady who resided at Twickenham. They were
generally very pleased to spend a day at her house; but now there was
a general clouding of faces at Sarah's words, and Kate exclaimed at
once:—"Oh, Miss Jameson, must we go? I would so much rather stay at
home and work at our dolls' clothes."

"And so would I! And I," echoed her sisters.

"That is out of the question," said Miss Jameson; "you must certainly
go, since your Grandmamma wishes it. It is very kind of her to ask you."

"Your aunt, Mrs. Hobson, is staying there, and little Miss Edith," said
Sarah.

"Oh, that makes it worse," exclaimed Florrie, with a groan, "I do hate
going when Aunt Sophie is there. She is always finding fault with us,
and Cousin Edith is as disagreeable as possible."

"Hush, hush, you must not speak so," said Miss Jameson; "it is not
right."

"It is perfectly true," said Kate, calmly. "Even mamma says that Cousin
Edith is spoilt. She pinched Winnie and made her cry the last time she
was there."

"And then told a story, and said she had not done it," chimed in Gertie.

"Hush, hush, it grieves me to hear you talk so," said Miss Jameson;
"for however naughty Edith may have been, you should not speak of it.
You should try to hide her faults, and love her in spite of them."

"I can't love people who are so disagreeable," said Florrie, perversely.

"There, say no more about her," said Miss Jameson. "I wish you would
not speak of people at all unless you can speak well of them."

"Oh, Miss Jameson, need we go to grand-mamma's," cried Gertie; "do send
a message to say that we cannot come."

"I cannot do that," she replied; "your grandmother's wishes must
certainly be considered before yours. Tell Mrs. Bartlett's servant,
Sarah, that the children shall come to her house to-morrow as soon as
their morning's work is done."

Sarah went away. There followed an outbreak of temper on the part of
the children.

"That is always the way," sighed Kate; "as soon as we plan something
nice, something happens to put a stop to it."

"I am sure that mamma would have let us stay at home if she had been
here," said Gertie.

"Miss Jameson only makes us go because she wants to get rid of us,"
exclaimed Florrie, defiantly.

"Florrie, do you know that you are very rude?" said Miss Jameson; "you
must beg my pardon for that speech."

Whereupon Florrie stubbornly refused to do so, till Miss Jameson was
obliged to make her put away her work and go at once to bed.

The pleasure of the evening was now spoiled.

Both Kate and Gertie were cross and fretful as they continued their
work. "It is all Grandmamma's fault," Kate muttered, when Miss Jameson
remarked on her ill-humour.

"Now, Kate," said her governess, gently, "do you really think that your
Grandmamma is to be blamed for this sad ending to our evening?"

Kate looked down, and said nothing.

"I shall be sorry that I ever proposed your dressing these dolls, if it
gives rise to so much self-will and temper," said Miss Jameson.

The children bade her good-night, and went off with gloomy looks to
bed. But when Miss Jameson went upstairs a little later she heard her
name called eagerly as she passed the door of the room in which the
three little girls slept. She opened the door and looked in. She saw
each one sitting up in her little bed, and their faces told her at once
that a change of mood had set in.

Florrie's bed was nearest the door, and she spoke for the rest. "Oh,
Miss Jameson," she said, earnestly, "we are very sorry that we turned
up so cross and nasty. Will you forgive us?"

Her governess did not reprove her for the inelegance of her language.
She only went to Florrie and kissed her in a way that made her quite
sure that she was forgiven. Then she passed on to the other beds, and
there were some tears shed as the children told her how very, very
sorry they were.

"I can't understand it," sighed Kate; "I thought we were doing a good
thing, yet it all ended so badly."

"The work itself was good," said Miss Jameson; "but you gave way to bad
thoughts and feelings whilst you were engaged in it. We shall do even
good things in a wrong spirit unless we ask God to keep us from sin.
Have you asked Him to help you to do this doll dressing in the right
way that it may be an acceptable work to Him?"

"Why no, I never thought of that," said Kate.

"Then, dear, it is no wonder that things went wrong," said her
governess. And with that she kissed each one again and went away.

The neat minute three little white-robed figures were kneeling on the
bedroom floor. They were asking God to help them in their work for Him.



CHAPTER IV.

The Visit to Grandmamma.

THE children took their places at the schoolroom table the next morning
with quiet subdued demeanour. They had not forgotten their sorrow and
contrition of the previous night. They meant to behave well; but still
they felt it hard that they obliged to spend the day at grand-mamma's,
when they would so much rather have been at home dressing their dolls.

As soon as their lessons were finished, the little girls began to
prepare for their visit. Some sighs were heaved as they peeped into the
drawer where the dolls lay side by side. "It is always the way," sighed
Kate, glancing at her work, "something always happens to prevent my
getting on. I could have finished that frock to-day if Grandmamma had
not sent for us."

But Miss Jameson would allow no grumbling or dawdling. They were soon
dressed, and on their way to Twickenham. Miss Jameson walked with them
to Mrs. Bartlett's gate; but there she wished them good-bye, and went
back alone, not displeased perhaps at the prospect of a quiet afternoon.

"There is Edith," said Kate, as they walked up the path, and caught
sight of a fair-haired child standing at one of the windows of the
house; "what has she got that white thing round her neck for?"

"Oh, she has got a cold, I suppose," said Florrie, impatiently; "she is
always having colds."

"Then we shall have to stay indoors. How horrid!" exclaimed Gertie.

"Oh; I hope not," said Katie, in a tone of dismay, for one of the
chief pleasures of a visit to Grandmamma was a game in the large
old-fashioned garden, which lay at the back of the house. "Surely it
can't hurt her to be out on such a lovely day as this!"

But they soon learned that there was to be no play in the garden for
them that afternoon. Cousin Edith, a pretty delicate-looking child, who
was often ailing in health, had a bad cold and sore throat, and her
mother, who idolised this her only child, was tenderly anxious that
her darling should run no risk of increasing her cold. The cousins had
been invited for Edith's amusement; and since she could not go into the
garden, it was out of the question that they should do so.

"I don't believe it would hurt Edith, aunt," Kate took it upon herself
to remark; "papa says that it is a mistake to coddle children."

"My dear Kate, you should not be so ready to give your opinion,"
Mrs. Hobson said, reprovingly. "There is no coddling in this case. A
delicate little creature like my Edith requires to be more carefully
cherished than strong robust girls like you."

"We are not so very strong," said Florrie. "Gertie often catches cold,
and she had to take cod liver oil in the spring. But mamma never keeps
her in when the weather is fine."

"Really, you young people are very forward in expressing yourselves,"
said their aunt; "I understand that you have a new governess. I
hope she will do something to improve your manners, for they need
improvement."

"How do you like her?" asked Edith, in a hoarse little voice.

"Very much indeed," said Florrie; "she is the nicest governess we have
ever had."

"And oh, what do you think?" cried Gertie. "We are dressing dolls for
the poor little children in the hospital. It was Miss Jameson's idea.
Isn't it splendid? My doll is a black one."

"A splendid idea for throwing away money," said Mrs. Hobson. "Your
parents need be rich to indulge you in that way. What do they want with
dolls in hospitals?"

"Oh, Aunt Sophie! the poor little children want them," exclaimed Kate.
"How would you like to think of Edith lying all by herself in a little
bed with nothing to play with?"

"I think it is a kind thought," said old Mrs. Bartlett, gently; "and
the undertaking has this advantage, that it will teach the children to
sew."

"That is desirable, certainly," said Mrs. Hobson. "I remember seeing
some needlework of Florrie's that astonished me very much. I should
have been ashamed if Edith had done no better, although she is eighteen
months younger."

Florrie coloured and bit her lip. Aunt Sophie's reproofs were well
intended, but they had a very irritating effect. The tempers of her
three nieces were all more or less ruffled by her words; and as Edith,
owing to her indisposition, was more than usually perverse and peevish
the prospect for the afternoon was not hopeful.

After dinner the children were sent to play "quietly" in the breakfast
room, whilst Grandmamma took her afternoon nap. It was some time ere
they could decide what the game should be, for Edith objected to
whatever the others proposed. Yet when asked to name a game herself,
she would say nothing. At last it was agreed that they should play at
hide-and-seek, one of the party hiding a little ball for which the
others were to make search.

The game went well for a little while; but soon Edith grew very cross,
because she was not so quick as her cousins, and one of them found the
ball each time. It was Kate's turn to hide the ball, and the others
were supposed to cover their eyes that they might not see where she
put it. She was just slipping it beneath the fender, when suddenly she
turned and exclaimed angrily:

"Edith, you peeped! I saw you! What a horrid cheat you are!"

"I didn't peep," said Edith, stoutly; "I'm not a cheat. You ought not
to call me such a name."

"What a story! You did peep, I saw you. You were looking straight
across at me," cried Kate, indignantly.

"What a nasty mean thing," cried Florrie. "I hate cheats."

"I'm not a cheat; you're very rude," cried Edith, bursting into tears;
"I won't play with you any more. I shall tell mamma." And so saying she
made for the door. But Kate was there before her.

"I won't let you go to your mother," she said, as she planted herself
firmly against the door; "it's horridly mean to tell tales, as you
always do."

"I will go; you shan't stop me," cried Edith, wildly, and she tried
to kick and pinch her cousin. But Kate defended herself with ease,
and remained provokingly cool. The others came to her aid, and drove
Edith back, and Florrie pushed the round table across the room in
such a way as to bar Edith's approach to the door. But this was an
unfortunate defence, for Edith, trying to push it aside, clutched at
the table-cloth and dragged it off, bringing with it to the ground a
beautiful china vase, which had been standing on the table. The vase
was shattered by the fall; and the children, their romping suddenly
arrested, stood looking at each other, aghast.

Edith was the first to speak. "There!" she said, not without triumph,
though she too was considerably frightened, "see what you have done!"

"What you have done, you mean," said Florrie, "it was you pulled the
cloth."

"I didn't," she said.

"Oh, oh, oh!" cried the others in chorus.

Edith began to cry anew, and ran from the room, no one now attempting
to stay her. The three sisters stood looking at each other in blank
dismay.

"Now there will be a row," said Florrie, expressing herself as usual
with more force than elegance.

"Will Grandmamma be very angry, do you think?" asked little Gertie.

"She is sure to be angry," said Kate, "for I know she was very fond of
that vase; but I shall tell her that you and Florrie were not to blame."

"We ought to have gone with Edith," said Florrie; "there is no knowing
what she will tell Aunt Sophie."

"Little story-teller!" said Kate, indignantly.

But ere they could say more their grandmother and aunt arrived on the
scene. Mrs. Bartlett was very vexed indeed when she saw the condition
to which her vase was reduced. She scolded the children roundly; and
when she paused for lack of breath, their aunt took up the tale, and
her words stung the children even more than their grandmother's. In
vain Florrie declared that it was Edith who had dragged the vase off
the table. Edith denied it; and Mrs. Hobson was sure that her child
spoke the truth, whilst Mrs. Bartlett impartially decided that the
children were all to blame alike.

The rest of their visit passed heavily enough to the little Bartletts.
They saw Edith petted and made much of by her mother, whilst they were
treated to reproachful looks and reproving words. They took their tea
with a sense of dark disgrace overshadowing them. Harry alone was able
to maintain unbroken serenity; but then he was such a little boy,
that as long as he was treated to plenty of cake and jam he could not
imagine anything amiss.

It may be guessed what a story the children had to pour info Miss
Jameson's ears when at length they returned home, only too thankful
that their visit was at an end. She heard them in silence for a time;
but soon she was obliged to check their words, for she was shocked at
the bitterness with which they spoke of their cousin Edith.

"And was Edith the only one to blame?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't suppose that our conduct was perfect," said Florrie,
frankly; "but really it was all through Edith that things went wrong.
Oh, she was cross! And then to cheat as she did, and tell stories! It
was horrid."

"And I suppose you told her that you thought so?" said Miss Jameson.
"You did not try to coax her into a better temper, nor to show her how
much better it is to be fair and truthful?"

"Why no. What would have been the good?" asked Katie; "I have no
patience with Edith."

"I hate her," exclaimed Florrie, vehemently.

"Oh, Florrie! Florrie!" cried her governess, "you cannot know what you
are saying. Do you forget what the Bible says of one who hates another?"

"What, Miss Jameson?" asked Florrie.

"He that hateth his brother is a murderer," said Miss Jameson, slowly.

"Oh," exclaimed Florrie, looking startled; "what a dreadful verse, Miss
Jameson. A murderer, you can't think that I felt like that?"

"No, dear, I do not; but it is to such dreadful things that hatred
leads. I cannot believe, however, that you really hate Edith. But I
wish you children would ask yourselves how it would be with you, if God
should feel towards you as you feel towards Edith."

"Why, Miss Jameson, how could that be?" asked Gertie.

"It might easily be," returned Miss Jameson, "if our God were not a God
of love. Think how often you sin against Him and grieve Him, yet His
heart is ever full of love towards you. Should you not try to forgive
Edith and all who vex you, as God, for Christ's sake, forgives you?"

"I don't feel as if I could forgive Edith," said Florrie, with a sigh.

"Ask God to help you to do so," said her governess; "for if you do not
forgive Edith, how can you say to-night in your prayer: Forgive us our
trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us? You would be
asking God not to forgive you."

"I never thought of that," said Kate, thoughtfully. "Dear me! how hard
it is to be good."

"It is hard," said Miss Jameson; "but so is everything in life that is
worth striving after. And who would not rather struggle up the steep
hillside than sink in the mire at its foot? But now you are tired and
excited. You must not talk any more to-night. Good-night."

And the children went to bed without saying another word about their
cousin Edith.



CHAPTER V.

Gertie's Birthday.

"MISS JAMESON," said Kate, the next morning, "do you know that Monday
will be Gertie's birthday?"

"Next Monday?" she returned. "Is it so near? Well, what of that?"

"May Florrie and I go into the town with Sarah this afternoon to buy
our presents? We must not let Gertie know why we have gone; but I
daresay she will guess."

"I daresay she will," said Miss Jameson, smiling; "yes, I think Sarah
will be able to take you this afternoon."

"Oh, thank you," cried Katie. "Now which do you think Gertie would like
best—a book or a skipping-rope?"

"I should like to be able to say a book," said Miss Jameson, shaking
her head; "but I am afraid Gertie would prefer a skipping-rope."

"Miss Jameson," suggested Florrie, gravely, "we have always had a
holiday on birthdays."

"Have you indeed?" she replied smiling; "then it will never do to make
Gertie's an exception to the rule."

"Oh, Miss Jameson," burst in Katie, "may we go to the Park on Gertie's
birthday? It would be so lovely to spend the day there."

"Well, we will see," said Miss Jameson, "it will depend on the weather.
It is getting almost too cold to spend many hours in the Park; but
perhaps we could take some luncheon with us, and get home to a late
dinner."

"Oh, how lovely!" cried the two girls; and as Gertie came running into
the breakfast-room they cried to her, "Gertie, Miss Jameson says that
we may go to the Park on your birthday."

"Oh, how splendid!" shouted Gertie, "how delightful! The nuts are just
getting ripe. I heard the gardener say so yesterday."

"So that is all you think about," said her governess, laughing, "Shall
we ask if your cousin Edith may go with us?" she inquired a minute
later.

Instantly the faces of all three fell.

"Oh!" they cried at once, and the exclamation was not now one of
delight, but of dismay and dissatisfaction.

"You see she has no one to play with at her Grandmamma's. It must be
rather lonely for her there, poor little girl," said Miss Jameson.

Still the three kept silence, and their faces were very expressive. At
last Florrie spoke: "I would not mind if she were pleasant," she said;
"but Edith is always so disagreeable."

"Yes," said Katie, slowly, "I suppose we ought to ask her. It would be
doing as we would be done by; but—it will spoil all our pleasure."

Katie had thought seriously of what her governess had said on the
previous night. She had tried to forgive Edith, and she hoped she had
forgiven her; but she could not feel that it would be pleasant to have
her company in the Park on Monday. Here was another proof that it was
hard to be good, for she felt sure that it would be the right thing to
ask Edith to join them.

"I think we must leave it for Gertie to decide, as it is her birthday,"
said Miss Jameson.

Gertie glanced anxiously at her sisters ere she spoke; but they said
nothing, wishing her to have entire freedom of choice. Then, after
hesitating for a few moments, she said timidly: "Miss Jameson, I would
like to ask Edith. It is what Jesus would have us do, is it not? And
perhaps she will not be so cross on Monday."

Miss Jameson smiled tenderly on the little girl. "Very well, dear," she
said; "you and I and Harry will walk to Grandmamma's this afternoon,
and ask if Edith can accompany us on Monday. Kate and Florrie are going
into the town with Sarah."

The two elder girls exchanged significant glances as their governess
said this; whilst Gertie coloured and smiled in a way that seemed to
show she understood the meaning of this arrangement.

"Now I have news for you," said Miss Jameson, as the children took
their places at the table; "guess from whom this letter comes?"

"From mamma!" cried Gertie.

"Right," said Miss Jameson; "and I am glad to tell your that your mamma
is already much better for the change, whilst the others are as well as
possible. See, here is a little book of views of Bournemouth for you to
look at."

The book was seized upon with delight, and that and their mother's
letter were eagerly discussed by the children as they took their
breakfast.

Later in the day, Florrie and Kate came back from their shopping
expedition in high spirits. Kate had bought a capital skipping-rope,
and Florrie a charming little work-basket fitted up with scissors and
thimble and bodkin which she was sure Gertie would like, for it would
be so handy for the dolls' needlework. These presents were smuggled
upstairs, and put safely away in a drawer in Miss Jameson's bedroom.
Then, having removed their hats and jackets, the two little girls came
down to the schoolroom, trying to look as if their visit to the town
had been a matter of small importance.

"Edith can't go with us on Monday," Gertie exclaimed, as soon as they
entered. "She is in bed, very poorly indeed."

"Oh, I am glad!" exclaimed Florrie, instantly.

"Florrie!" exclaimed her governess; "I am surprised at you."

"Oh, well, I don't mean that I am glad she is ill," explained Florrie;
"but I am glad that she cannot go with us on Monday. Now we shall have
a chance of enjoying ourselves."

Miss Jameson said no more; but Florrie felt uncomfortable as she saw
how grave a look her face wore.

The next day was Sunday. Nothing was heard of little Edith, and Miss
Jameson hoped that she was better. The children thought little about
their cousin. They were thinking too much of the morrow's pleasure, and
anxiously wondering as to the weather, to give any thought to her.

Happily the morrow proved as bright and warm as an autumn day could be.
Gertie was delighted with her sisters' presents and the book which Miss
Jameson gave her. But these were not all. Early in the morning a box
arrived from Bournemouth directed to her, which was found to contain a
lovely set of doll's tea things, a story book, and a packet of choice
bonbons. But what was best of all, Gertie thought, she received two
letters, written especially to her, one from her father and one from
her mother.

"I thought it would be dreadful to have a birthday without papa and
mamma," she said; "but now these letters have come I do not mind. It is
just as if they were speaking to me, although they are so far away."

Soon after ten the children and their governess set out on their walk
to the Park. They had some distance to walk ere they reached the Park
gates, but there was such a delightful freshness in the air, and the
sun was so bright, that no one complained of fatigue as they passed
through the town and climbed the steep hill to the Terrace. Here they
lingered for a few minutes, the children playing about, too excited to
think of resting; whilst Miss Jameson enjoyed the exquisite view of the
river, never more lovely than now when the foliage on either hand was
brilliant with the vivid yellows and warm russets of autumn, and the
sunshine gave to every touch of colour its full value.

But the children were impatient to reach the Park, so on they went, and
were soon plunging through the dead leaves beneath the chestnut trees,
and searching for nuts. Somewhat to the surprise of the rest, it was
Miss Jameson who found the most nuts. She was quick to see which of the
prickly burrs held fruit, and which had already been rifled of their
contents. But as she did not care for nuts, and divided all she found
amongst the children, her keen sightedness was no disadvantage to the
others.

The children would have remained beneath the chestnut trees all the
morning if she had let them; but presently Miss Jameson decided that
they had had nuts enough, and led the way in another direction. They
passed down a green slope to a little thicket of purplish brown
hawthorn bushes, beyond which they saw a herd of deer feeding. Gertie
was anxious to get a near view of these graceful creatures, but this
was not easy, for though the children pressed on as quietly and
cautiously as possible they were yet many yards from the deer, when
first one and then another tossed up its antlers and looked round
inquiringly. The next moment the whole troop was in motion, and running
across the slope one after another, they disappeared from sight amongst
the trees beyond.

Gertie would have liked to run after them, but her sisters soon
convinced her of the utter folly of such an attempt. They wandered on
till they reached a wilderness of red and yellow bracken growing so
tall as at once to suggest hide-and-seek to the children's minds. Miss
Jameson willingly joined in a game; and when all were tired, they sat
down in the warm sunshine and regaled themselves with the milk and
buns which they had brought with them. Then reluctantly they turned
to retrace their steps. They did not hurry home; and it was late in
the afternoon ere they reached the house, thoroughly tired, but all in
excellent spirits.

On the schoolroom table was spread a meal of a very mixed character,
which yet looked very inviting to the hungry eyes that surveyed it. In
the centre stood the tempting cake which cook had made in honour of
Gertie's birthday. There were "maids of honour" too, as the Richmond
cheese-cakes are called, and baked apples and custards, besides more
substantial edibles.

The children were just taking their places at the table, their faces
radiant with satisfaction, when Sarah appeared at the schoolroom door,
her face as long and grave as possible.

"Please, ma'am," she said, addressing Miss Jameson; "Mrs. Bartlett's
servant has been here to say that the young ladies are not to go there
on any account. The doctor has been to see Miss Edith, and he says that
she has got scarlet fever!"

"Dear me!" said Miss Jameson, looking troubled; "I am very sorry to
hear that."

The children were dismayed at the news. The girls looked at each other
in silence; but little Harry put their thoughts into words when he
said, half frightened at the grave faces around him: "But she won't
die, will she, Miss Jameson, because she has scarlet fever?"

"I hope not," said the governess, rather tremulously; "but she is such
a delicate child. We must all pray that God will spare her life."

"Oh," said Katie, under her breath, "I wish we had not been speaking so
unkindly of her."

Florrie could not speak. Her face had grown perfectly white under the
shock of painful fear. All the joy of Gertie's birthday was over for
her.



CHAPTER VI.

Lessons not Learned from Books.

THE children had expected to spend a happy evening in dressing their
dolls; but now it was with grave, sad faces that they set about their
work. It was dreadful to know that Cousin Edith was so ill, and then to
remember how vexed they had been with her on Friday, and what unkind
things they had said.

"Of course she was cross because she felt so ill," said Kate, sagely.
"I expect we should have been as bad. I am always like a bear when I
feel sick."

"If we had known she was going to have scarlet fever, we wouldn't have
minded," said Florrie.

"But how could we know," returned Kate, impatiently. "The thing is, we
ought to have known better than to get vexed with her. We might have
guessed that there was some reason for her being so very cross."

On the morrow the children were very anxious to know how their cousin
was, but the news which came was not comforting. Little Edith was very
ill; and as the days went on, the reports grew more and more alarming.
The fever ran high, and soon Miss Jameson knew that the child's life
was despaired of. She hardly dared to tell the little girls how ill
their cousin was; but they knew enough to make them very unhappy
whenever they thought of cousin Edith.

The doll dressing was meanwhile proceeding. Topsy was fully dressed,
and looked resplendent in her yellow satin gown; Miss Lily's blue
frock was almost finished, and promised to suit her charmingly, though
Florrie had been rather careless in gathering the skirt, and had been
made to do the work a second time. Kate's baby doll's clothes, which
required to be made so very neatly, were nearly completed. The scrap
books too were progressing. But the children's pleasure in their work
was clouded by the thought of their cousin's peril. On Florrie's heart
it weighed most heavily. She felt that if cousin Edith died, nothing
could ever make her happy again. She had fancied that she did not love
Edith; but now she knew that she did love her, and that she would miss
her cousin sadly if she were taken away.

Another Sunday came, and little Edith was no better. Katie and Florrie
could not keep from crying when in the morning service they heard the
clergyman request the prayers of the congregation on behalf of Edith
Hobson, who was lying seriously ill. They cried again when they reached
home, and found that a message had been sent by their grandmother
saying that Edith was no better, and the doctor had little hope of her
recovery.

"What will Aunt Sophie do if she dies?" sobbed Kate; "the only little
girl she has!"

Florrie said nothing. She was quieter than Kate; but it was not because
her feelings were less deeply moved.

Miss Jameson did her best to comfort her pupils. She spoke to them of
the Saviour who loves little children, and reminded them how He had
healed the nobleman's son, and raised the daughter of Jairus. Then she
knelt in prayer with them, and asked the Lord to spare little Edith's
life, if it were His will.

That night when the children had been long in bed, Miss Jameson sat
alone by the schoolroom fire. She was thinking sadly of the little life
that she feared would soon pass from earth, and the terrible blank that
its departure would make in the mother's life. All was still about her
when suddenly she was startled by the sound of a step on the stairs.
What could it mean! Was one of the little girls walking in her sleep?
The next moment, to Miss Jameson's astonishment, the door opened, and
Florrie appeared in her white night dress, with her dark hair streaming
over her shoulders. At first Miss Jameson imagined that she was
dreaming; but it was no dream that had brought to Florrie's face that
look of deep distress. With a sob she threw herself on her knees beside
her governess.

"Miss Jameson! I thought I should find you here, and I could not bear
it any longer. I am so miserable, oh, so very miserable."

"Why, Florrie, what are you thinking of?" exclaimed Miss Jameson; "you
will catch a dreadful cold, coming down like this!"

"I don't care if I do," cried the child, wildly; "I can't bear it."

Miss Jameson caught up a thick shawl which lay near, and wrapped it
about the child; then lifted her on to her lap. She was trembling
violently from cold and agitation.

"Now, Florrie, tell me all about it," said Miss Jameson; "what is
troubling you so?"

"Oh, you must know," cried the child, "it is about Edith. Katie can
pray; she has prayed, and she says she is sure that Jesus will make
Edith well; but I can't think so; I can't pray; my heart feels too bad.
Miss Jameson, if Edith dies, I shall feel like—that dreadful word—a
murderer!"

"No, no!" said her governess soothingly; "you must not think that,
Florrie. You did not really hate your cousin. You said it, but you did
not mean it."

"But it was wicked of me to say it: I shall have to give account of it
in the day of judgment," sobbed the child, giving confused utterance to
the thoughts that had been working in her disturbed mind. "And oh, Miss
Jameson, I was glad that Edith was ill, and could not go with us to the
Park. I said I was not, but I was really glad. I did not feel a bit
sorry for her. But then I did not think that she would be so very ill."

"And now you are very, very sorry that you had such unkind thoughts.
You feel how wrong it was. Well, you cannot ask your cousin now to
forgive you; but you can and must, dear Florrie, ask your Saviour to
forgive you. Kneel down now, and tell Him all about it, and ask Him to
forgive you."

Florrie knelt down and hid her face in her governess's lap. She uttered
no word aloud, only a sob was heard now and then; but Miss Jameson knew
that the child was pouring forth her sorrowful confession in the ears
of Divine love. She prayed too, both for Florrie and for her little
cousin. Presently Florrie raised her head. Her eyes were still wet with
tears, but the look of deep distress had passed away. "I have told
Jesus all," she whispered, "and I have asked Him to make Edith well. Do
you think He will?"

"I hope so, dear," was all Miss Jameson could say.

Then she led Florrie back to bed. Her sisters were fast asleep, and
the little girl stole into bed as quietly as possible that she might
not wake them. When Miss Jameson looked at her a few minutes later she
too was sleeping, and her face wore a happy expression although it was
still stained by tears.

Miss Jameson went downstairs the next morning with a sense of dread
upon her mind. She greatly feared that the day would bring sad news.
But Katie met her at the foot of the stairs, her face radiant with
joy. "Oh, Miss Jameson!" she cried breathlessly, "Edith is better!
Grandmamma has sent to let us know. The fever turned last night, and
now they think she will get well."

"Oh, that is good news! how thankful I am!" cried Miss Jameson.

And thankful indeed were all the children. But Florrie said little.
Her feelings were too deep for words. Her prayer had been heard. The
crushing load had been lifted, the dark fear had passed away. Not soon
would she forget the lesson which this sad experience had taught her.
She was resolved that in coming days she would be as patient and loving
with her little companions as she would wish to have been should death
come suddenly to break up the companionship.

As the days went on there was still hopeful news of Edith, though her
recovery was very slow, and it was long ere her cousins saw her again.

There was no fear now that the children's occupations would be
interrupted by an invitation to their grandmother's, and the dressing
of dolls and making of scrap-books went on steadily. And quite as a
surprise at last the children received the welcome news that their
parents were coming home on the following day.

Rendered nervous by hearing of Edith's attack of fever, Mrs. Bartlett
could no longer be happy away from her elder children. She must see
them ere she could feel sure that they were perfectly well.

"Why it seems no time since they went away," said Gertie, who was
nevertheless very glad to hear that her parents were about to return.

"Three weeks to-day," said Kate.

"It seems a long time to me," remarked Florrie, gravely; "so much has
happened since they left us."

"Won't mamma be surprised to see all the dolls and scrap-books!" said
Gertie. "Well, we've been very happy on the whole, but it is nice to
think that they are coming back."

And very joyful was the meeting between parents and children on the
next day. Their mother was quite as much surprised and pleased at
their industry as the girls expected. She heartily approved of the
undertaking, and to the children's delight she promised that they
should one day go with Miss Jameson to the hospital and give their
presents to the poor little patients.

How much talking there was when, an hour after her arrival, Mrs.
Bartlett came to take tea in the schoolroom as usual! Every particular
of what had happened during her absence was confided to her. But
Florrie could not rest till she had drawn her mother aside and made her
confession of wrong thoughts and feelings. Not many words were needed
to make her mother understand the bitter sorrow she had felt when she
feared that her cousin would die. And her mother's sympathy was very
sweet to Florrie, and the few wise words she spoke abode in the child's
memory.

We may not dwell on the children's visit to the hospital. It was a
touching sight to see the happy, healthy, well-cared-for children
passing up and down amongst the little beds, and speaking kind words to
the stunted sickly little sufferers who lay on them. It was pleasant to
watch the pale sad faces light up with joy as the children distributed
their gifts. The young Bartletts knew that day as they had never known
before how richly God had blessed them in their happy home-life, and
they felt that they must show their gratitude by far deeper love to Him
and warmer love to others.

"What do you think, Miss Jameson," cried Kate that evening, when she
came to the schoolroom to say good-night to her governess; "papa
has seen Aunt Sophie to-day, and he told her about our going to the
hospital, and she says that she will give a cot to the hospital—that
means, you know, that she will pay for some little child to be always
there. She wishes to do it because she is so thankful to God for
sparing Edith's life."

"I could never have believed it of Aunt Sophie," said Florrie,
solemnly; "never—after the way she spoke of the hospital that day."

"Then you see, Florrie," said her governess, "that it is not well to
judge anyone hastily. Many persons are kinder and better than their
words seem to show."

"Oh, Miss Jameson," cried little Harry, "mamma has bought a new text to
hang up in our room. It is 'Little children, love one another.'"

"I know why she chose that one," said Florrie. And the others thought
that they knew too, but they said nothing.

Not in vain did the words stand constantly before the eyes of these
children. A glance at the text was sufficient to check them when they
were disposed to utter hasty and unkind words. Daily did they pray to
be made loving and Christ-like, for the experience of these three weeks
had taught them their own weakness and sinfulness, and their inability
to do any good thing without the aid of God's Holy Spirit. When after
many weeks little Edith was able to visit her cousins again, she found
them strangely kind and patient, whilst they on their part wondered at
the change in her. For she was no longer selfish and disagreeable as
she had been before, since she like them was trying to follow Jesus,
and to do what He would have her do.



THE END.



LONDON: KNIGHT, PRINTER, MIDDLE STREET, E.C.