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

[Illustration]



                             A. L. O. E.'s

                          PICTURE STORY BOOK.


[Illustration]


                                LONDON:

                 T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
                       EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.

                                 1871.



                               PREFACE.

     A PORTION of the Stories in this Volume have appeared in the
"Children's Paper," but the greater number have never before been
published. A. L. O. E., in sending forth this little Work, feels
something like a labourer who, when wearied by heavier work, finds
that he can yet tell stories on a winter's evening to the little
ones gathering around his chair, or seated on his knee. There is
something refreshing to the spirit in the atmosphere of childhood,
and an Authoress may feel its influence even in writing for children.
Especially is this the case if her aim, in entering nursery or
playroom, be to try to make their young inmates more happy, because
more loving and good.

                                                    A. L. O. E.



                              CONTENTS.

    I. "THE HYMN MY MOTHER TAUGHT ME"

   II. THE BEAR

  III. THE TIGER-CUB

   IV. NOT ONE TOO MANY

    V. THE IRON RING

   VI. THE ILL WIND

  VII. THE TWO PETS

 VIII. THE BOY AND THE BIRD'S NEST

   IX. THE ENGLISH GIRL AND HER AYAH

    X. I'LL NOT LET YOU GO

          PART I.

          PART II.

          PART III.

   XI. THE WHITE DOVE



[Illustration]

                   A. L. O. E.'s PICTURE STORY BOOK.

I. "THE HYMN MY MOTHER TAUGHT ME."

"GET away with ye, will ye, Ben Madden! I don't want you a-sneaking
about my stall to see what you can be laying your fingers on!"
exclaimed Betty Wiggins, the cross old dame who sold biscuits and cakes
at the corner of High Street.

The poor orphan boy thus rudely addressed slunk back a pace or two
from the tempting stall. His young heart was burning with anger, and
indignant tears rose into his eyes.

"I never in my life took what did not belong to me," muttered Ben; "my
poor mother taught me something better than that."

Betty Wiggins might have given a kind word to the lonely child, if
she had given no more. Ben Madden had lately lost his mother, a poor
industrious widow, who had worked as long as her fingers could work to
support herself and her orphan boy. Alice Madden had died in peace and
faith, commending her child to the care of Him who hath said, "I will
never leave thee, nor forsake thee."

Poor Ben seemed to have a hard life struggle before him. He had no
relative living but a sailor uncle, who might, for aught that he knew,
be now on the other side of the world. There was none to care whether
the orphan slept under a roof or an archway, whether he fed or whether
he starved. Betty, who had known his mother for years, might have
spared him one of those biscuits, and never have missed it amongst so
many; so thought Ben, who, since rising at daybreak, had not tasted a
morsel of food.

As Ben stood leaning against an area railing, looking wistfully at the
piles of cakes and gingerbread nuts, a light cart, in which was seated
a reckless young driver urging on an excited horse, was whisked round
the corner of High Street with such careless speed, that it knocked
over the stall and threw its contents on the pavement. What a scatter
was there of tartlets and cakes, bits of toffee and rock, biscuits,
bull's eyes, almonds and buns, and sticks of bright barley sugar! Had
the stall-woman been any other than cross Betty Wiggins, Ben would have
run forward to help her to pick up her goods, which were rolling about
in every direction. But a feeling of resentment filled the soul of the
boy; he was not sorry for Betty's disaster.

"She bade me keep off," thought the child, "and I will; she would not
trust me to pick up her biscuits."

Ben would not go to the cakes, but one of the cakes came to him. A
beautiful pink one, studded with almonds, and frosted with sugar,
rolled close up to his feet. Betty did not mark this, for with clenched
hand and flashing eyes she was pouring a torrent of abuse after the
careless driver whose cart had done the mischief, which the youth would
not stop to repair. Ben saw the cake—the delicious pink cake—what a
temptation to a half famished boy! Forgetful of his own words so lately
uttered, in a moment the child caught it up, and hurried away down
the street; leaving Betty to abuse the driver, set up the stall, and
recover such of her dainties as had not been smashed on the pavement.

Before Ben had walked many steps, he had eagerly swallowed the cake;
having once tasted its sweetness, he felt as if nothing could stop
him from eating the whole. Ben had committed his first theft, he had
forgotten the words of his mother, he had broken the law of his God.
Let none of my readers deem his fault a small one, or think that little
harm could come from a hungry boy's eating a single cake that had
rolled to his feet. Ben's enjoyment was quickly over; what had pleased
his taste had but whetted his hunger, and it seemed as if with that
stolen morsel evil had entered into the boy.

Every time that we yield to temptation, we have less power to resist it
in future. Many sinful thoughts came into the mind of Ben as he lounged
through the streets. Never before had he so envied the rich, those who
could feast every day upon dainties. With a careless eye, he gazed into
shops filled with good things which he could not buy. With a repining,
discontented spirit, he thought of his own hard lot. Why had his mother
been taken from him? Why had he been left to sorrow and want?

Then, in this dangerous state of mind, Ben began to consider how he
could find means of supplying his need. He did not think now of prayer;
he did not think of asking his heavenly Father to open some course
before him by which he might honestly earn his bread. Ben remembered
how that sharp lad, Dennis O'Wiley, had told him that he knew ways and
means by which a lad could push himself on in the world. When Ben had
repeated these words to his mother, she had warned him against Dennis
O'Wiley; she had said that he feared neither God nor man, and would end
his days in a prison. Ben had resolved, in obedience to his parent,
never to keep company with the lad; but, since stealing that pink
sugared cake, Ben found his resolution beginning to waver. He could see
no great harm in Dennis, as good-natured a fellow as ever was born; why
should he not ask a bit of advice from a chap who seemed always to find
out some way of getting whatever he wanted?

Alas, poor Ben! He had been like one standing at a spot where two roads
branch off: the strait one leading to life, the broad one leading
to destruction—his first theft was like his first step in the fatal
downward road. But for a little incident which I am going to relate,
the widow's son might have gone from evil to evil, from sinful thoughts
to wicked deeds, till his heart had grown hard, and his conscience
dead, and he had led a life of guilt and of shame, to close in misery
and ruin.

As Ben was sauntering down a street, half resolved to seek Dennis
O'Wiley, his ear caught the sound of music. It came from an open door,
leading into an infant school. Ben, who dearly loved music, drew near
and listened to the childish voices singing a well-known hymn. Very
heavy grew the heart of the boy, and his eyes were dimmed with tears,
for he heard the familiar words—

   "Oh, that will be joyful
    When we meet to part no more!"

Ben's lips quivered as he murmured to himself, "That is the hymn my
mother taught me."

What seeming trifles will sometimes change the whole current of our
thoughts! The sound of that music brought vividly before the mind of
poor Ben his mother's face as she lay on her sick-bed: the touch of
her hand, her fond look of love, her dying words of advice to her son.
It was as if she had come back to earth to stop her poor boy on his
downward way. His thoughts were recalled to God and heaven, to that
bright home to which he felt that his mother had gone, and where he
hoped one day to join her—the blessed mansions prepared by the Saviour
for those who love and obey Him.

   "Holy children will be there
    Who have sought the Lord by prayer."

Ben turned away with almost a bursting heart. Heaven is not for the
unholy, the disobedient, the covetous, for those who take what is not
their own! If he went on in the fatal course on which he had entered
that day, he would never again meet his mother, he would never be
"joyful" in heaven! Was it too late to turn back? Might he not ask
God's forgiveness, and pray for grace to lead a new life?

"Yes," thought the penitent child, "I will never forget my mother's
wishes, I will follow my mother's ways! With the very first money that
I get, I will pay for the cake that I stole."

The strength of Ben's resolution was very soon put to the test.
Scarcely had he made this silent promise, when a carriage with a lady
inside it was driven up to the school, and as there was no footman with
it, and the coachman could not leave the box, Ben ran forward to open
the door, and guard the lady's dress from the wheel. The lady smiled
kindly on the child, and taking a penny from her bag, dropped it into
his hand.

Here was a penny honestly earned; a penny that would buy two stale
rolls to satisfy the hunger of Ben. Could it be wrong thus to spend it!
Had he received it one hour before, Ben would have run to a baker's
shop, and laid out the money in bread; but conscience now whispered
to Ben that he had a debt to discharge, that that penny by right was
Betty's, and that his first duty was to pay for the cake which he had
wrongfully taken.

"But I'm so hungry!" thought Ben, as he looked on the copper in his
hand. "I will buy what I need with this penny, and pay my debt with
the next. But yet—" Thus went on the struggle between self-will and
conscience—"my mother taught me that to put off doing what is right,
is actually doing what is wrong. Often have I heard her say, 'When
conscience points out a difficult duty, don't wait in hopes that it
will grow easy.'"

Ben turned in the direction of High Street, but before two steps on
his way, pride offered another temptation. "I can't bear to go up to
Betty," thought Ben, "and tell her that I stole her cake!" He stopped
short, as the thought crossed his mind. "But can't I walk by her stall,
and just drop the penny on it as I pass, and say nothing to bring
myself shame!"

A little reflection showed Ben that this could not be done. "She'd be
crying out again, 'Get away with ye;' she'd think I was fingering her
cakes. Besides—" here conscience spoke strongly once more—"does not
the Bible tell us to confess our faults one to another? Is it not the
brave, the right way to go straight to the persons we've wronged and
tell them we're sorry for the past?"

It was a hard struggle for Ben, and when with a short, silent prayer
for help, he walked on again towards High Street, the child was more
of a true hero than many who have earned medals and fame. He was
conquering Satan, he was conquering self, he was bearing hunger and
daring shame, that he might be honest and truthful.

Ben soon came in sight of Betty and her stall; it seemed to the boy
that the wrinkled old face looked more cross and peevish than ever. A
sailor was standing beside the woman, buying some gingerbread nuts.

"Now or never," thought Ben, who did not trust himself to delay, now
that his mind was made up. His face flushed to the roots of his hair
with the effort that he was making, the child walked straight up to
the stall, laid his penny upon it, and said, "I took one of your cakes
to-day—I'm sorry—there is the money for it!"

"Well, Ben Madden!" exclaimed the old woman in surprise, "you're an
honester lad than I took you for—you mind what your mother taught you."

"Ben Madden!" cried the sailor, looking hard at the orphan boy. "That's
a name I know well. Can this be the son of the sister whom I've not set
eyes on these seven long years!"

"His mother was the widow of big Ben the glazier," said Betty, "who
died by a fall from a window."

"The very same!" cried the sailor, grasping the hand of his nephew, and
giving it a hearty shake. "What a lucky chance that we met! And where's
your mother, my boy?"

Tears gushed into poor Ben's eyes, as in a low voice, he answered, "In
heaven."

The seaman's rough hearty manner instantly changed; he turned away
his head, and was silent for several minutes, as if struggling with
feelings to which he was ashamed to give way. Then, laying his brown
hand on the shoulder of his nephew, he said in a kindly tone, "So
you've neither father nor mother, poor child; you're all alone in the
world! I'll be a father to you, for the sake of poor dear Alice."

Fervently did poor little Ben thank God who had thus provided for
him a friend when he most needed one, and least expected to find
one! With wonder, the orphan silently traced the steps by which his
heavenly Father had led him. What a mercy it was that he had passed
near the school,—that he had heard the hymn,—that he had resolved to
be honest,—and that his resolution had brought him to the cake-woman's
stall when the sailor was standing beside it! Had Ben delayed but for
ten minutes, he would never have met his uncle! Yes, in future life,
the orphan frequently owned that all his earthly comforts had sprung
from the decision which he had been strengthened to make when, at the
turning-point of his course, he had stood at the door of the infant
school, listening with a penitent heart to the hymn which his mother
had taught him!

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

II. THE BEAR.

"HE is just like a bear!" That is a very common expression when we
talk of some ill-tempered man or boy, who takes a pleasure in saying
rude things, and who seems bent upon making every one near him as
uncomfortable as he can.

But we may be unjust even to bears. Could you have gone to wintry
Greenland, and seen Mrs. Bruin amidst her family of little white cubs,
each scarcely bigger than a rabbit, you would have agreed that a bear
can be a kind and tender mother, and provide for her four-footed babies
a snug and comfortable home.

You would, indeed, have had some difficulty in finding Bear Hall, or
Bear Hole, as we rather should call it. Perhaps in wandering over the
dreary snow-covered plains of Greenland, you might have come upon a
little hole in the snow, edged with hoar-frost, without ever guessing
that the hole was formed by the warm breath of an Arctic bear, or that
Mrs. Bruin and her promising family were living in a burrow beneath
you. *

   * See "Homes without Hands."

How wonderfully does Instinct teach this rough, strange-looking
creature to provide for her cubs! The mother bear scrapes and burrows
under the snow, till she has formed a small but snug home, where she
dwells with her baby-bears during the sharpest cold of an Arctic
winter. So wonderfully has Providence cared for the comfort even of
wild beasts, that the mother needs no food for three months! She is
so fat when she settles down in her under-snow home, that her own
plumpness serves her instead of breakfast, dinner, and supper; so that
when at last she comes out to break her long fast, she is not starved,
but has merely grown thin. I need hardly remind my reader that the
Arctic bear is provided by Nature with a thick, warm, close-fitting
coat of white fur; and the snow itself, strange as it seems to say so,
serves as a blanket to keep the piercing air from her narrow den.

Yes, Mrs. Bruin was a happy mother, though her cell was small to hold
her and her children, and the cold above was so terrible that water
froze in the dwellings of men even in a room with a fire. Mrs. Bruin
found enough of amusement in licking her cubs, which was her fashion of
washing, combing, and dressing, and making them look like respectable
bears. She let them know that she loved them dearly in that kind of
language which little ones, whether they be babies or bear-cubs, so
soon understand.

But when March came, Mrs. Bruin began to grow hungry, and think that it
was full time to scramble out of her under-snow den, and look out for
some fish, or a fat young seal, to eat for her breakfast. The weather
was still most fearfully cold, and the red sun seemed to have no power
at all, save to light up an endless waste of snow, in which not a tree
was to be seen save here and there a stunted fir, half crusted over
with ice.

Safe, however, and pretty warm in their shaggy furs, over the dreary
wilds walked Mrs. Bruin, and the young bears trotting at her heels.
They went along for some time, when they came to a round swelling in
the snow; at least so a little hut appeared to the eyes of a bear.
Indeed, had our own eyes looked on that snow-covered hillock, we should
scarcely at first have guessed that it was a human dwelling.

Perhaps some scent of food came up from the chimney-hole, which made
Mrs. Bruin think about breakfast, for she went close up to the hut,
then trotted around it—her rough white nose in the air. She then
uttered a low short growl, which made her cubs amble up to her side.

Oh, with what terror the sound of that growl filled the heart of
poor Anneetah, the Esquimaux woman, who was with her little children
crouching together for warmth in that hut!

"Did you hear that noise?" exclaimed Aleekan, the eldest boy, stopping
suddenly in the midst of a tale which he had been telling.

"There's a bear outside!" cried all the younger children at once.

Anneetah rose, and hastily strengthened the fastenings of her rude door
with a thick piece of rope, while her children breathlessly listened to
catch again the sound which had filled them with fear.

"The bear is climbing up outside!" cried little Vraga, clinging in
terror to her mother. "I can hear the scraping of its claws!"

There was an anxious pause for several minutes, all listening too
intently to break the silence by even a word. Then, to the great
alarm of the Esquimaux, the white head of an Arctic bear could be
plainly seen, looking down upon them from above. The animal had, after
clambering up to the top of the hut, enlarged the hole which had been
left in the roof to let out the smoke.

"We're lost!" exclaimed Aneekah.

"O mother, let us pray! Will not God help us?" cried one of the
children. *

The prayer could have been but a very short one, but the presence of
mind which the mother showed may have been given as the instant answer
to it. Aneekah caught up a piece of moss, stuck it on a stick, set it
on fire, and held the blazing mass as close as she could to the nose of
the bear.

   * This incident of the intrusion of the bear, and the exclamation
     of the child, has been given as a fact.

Now fire was a new thing to Mrs. Bruin, and so was smoke, and if the
bear had frightened the Esquimaux, the Esquimaux now frightened the
bear. With a snort and a shake of her shaggy fur, the animal drew back
her head, and, to the surprise and delight of the trembling family,
they soon heard their unwelcome visitor scrambling down faster than
she had clambered up. Mrs. Bruin trotted off to seek her breakfast
elsewhere; let us hope that she and her cubs found a fine supply of
fish frozen in a cleft in some iceberg floating away in the sea. At any
rate, they never again were seen near the Esquimaux home.

Do you wonder how the poor Esquimaux child had learned the value of
prayer? Would any one go to the dreary wilds of Greenland to carry the
blessed gospel to the natives of that desolate shore?

Yes, even to "Greenland's icy mountains" have missionaries gone from
brighter, happier lands. There are pastors now labouring amongst the
poor Esquimaux, for they know that the soul of each savage is precious.
The light of the gospel is shining now in Esquimaux homes, and, amidst
all their hardships, sufferings, and dangers, Esquimaux have learned to
show pious trust when in peril, and thankfulness after deliverance. It
is from the pen of a missionary that we have learned the story which I
have just related of the Esquimaux woman and the white bear.

[Illustration]



III. THE TIGER-CUB.

"REALLY, Captain Guise, you need trouble yourself no more in the
matter; I am quite able to take care of myself!" cried young Cornet
Stanley, with a little impatience in his tone.

The speaker was a blue-eyed lad, whose fresh complexion showed that
he had not been long in the burning climate of India. Cornet Stanley
had indeed but lately left an English home, for he was little more
than sixteen years of age. With very anxious feelings, and many tears,
had Mrs. Stanley parted with her rosy-checked Norman. "He is so very
young," as she said, "to meet all the trials and temptations of an
officer's life in India!"

Mrs. Stanley's great comfort was that her Norman would have a tried
and steady friend in her cousin, Captain Guise, who would, she felt
sure, act a father's part to her light-hearted boy. Young Stanley was
appointed to the same regiment as that of the captain; and almost as
soon as the cornet had landed in India, he proceeded up country to join
it. The season of the year was that which is in India called the cold
weather, when many Europeans live in tents, moving from place to place,
that they may amuse themselves with hunting and shooting.

Norman Stanley, who had never before chased anything larger than a
rabbit, was delighted to make one of a party with two of his brother
officers, and enjoy with them for a while a wild, free life in the
jungle. There would have been no harm at all in this, had Norman's new
companions been sober and steady young men; but Dugsley and Danes were
noted as the two wildest officers in the regiment.

[Illustration]

Captain Guise was also out in camp, and his tent was pitched not very
far from that of his young friend Norman. The captain took a warm
interest in young Stanley, not only for the sake of his parents, but
also for his own; for the bright rosy face and frank manner of the lad
inclined all who met him to feel kindly towards him.

It was with no small regret that Captain Guise, on the very first
evening when the officers all dined together, saw that young face
flushed not with health, but with wine, and that frank manner become
more boisterous than it had been earlier in the day. Not that Norman
Stanley could have been called drunk, but he had taken a little more
wine than was good for him to take; and his friend knew but too well in
what such a beginning of life in India was likely to end.

The captain was a good and sensible man, and he could not see his young
relative led into folly and sin without warning him of the danger into
which he was heedlessly running. Captain Guise, on the following day,
therefore, visited Norman in his tent, and tried to put him on his
guard against too close friendship with Dugsley and Danes, and to show
him the peril of being drawn by little and little into intemperate
habits.

Norman Stanley, who thought himself quite a man because he could wear a
uniform and give commands to gray-bearded soldiers, was a little hurt
at any one's thinking of troubling him with advice. Captain Guise had,
however, spoken so kindly that the lad could not take real offence at
his words, but only tried to show his friend that his warning was not
at all needed.

"I shall never disgrace myself by becoming a drunkard, you may be
certain of that," said the youth; "no one despises a sot more than I
do, and I shall never be one. As for taking an extra glass of champagne
after a long day's shooting, that is quite a different thing, and
nobody can object to it."

"But the extra glass, Norman, is often like the thin point of the
wedge," said the captain; "it is followed by another and another, till
a ruinous habit may be formed."

"I tell you that I shall never get into habits of drinking,"
interrupted young Stanley. Then, as he took up his gun to go out
shooting, the cornet uttered the words with which this little story
commences.

Captain Guise did not feel satisfied. He saw that his young friend
was relying on the strength of his own resolutions, and in so doing
was leaning on a reed. He could not, however, say anything more just
then, and Norman Stanley started a new subject to give a turn to the
conversation.

"By the by, Captain Guise, I've not shown you the prize which I
captured yesterday. As Dugsley and I were beating about in the jungle,
what should we light upon but a tiger-cub—a real little beauty, pretty
and playful as a young kitten."

"What did you make of it?" asked the captain.

"Oh, I've tethered it to the tree yonder," said Norman, pointing to one
not a hundred yards distant. "By good luck, I had a dog's chain and
collar which fitted the little creature exactly. I mean to try if I
can't rear it, and keep a tiger-cub as a pet."

"A tiger-cub is rather a dangerous pet, I should say," observed Captain
Guise, with a smile.

"Oh, not a bit of it!" cried Norman lightly. "The little brute has no
fangs to bite with, and if it had, the chain is quite strong enough to—"

The sentence was never finished, for while the last word was yet on the
smiling lips of the youth, the sudden sound of a savage roar from a
neighbouring thicket made him start, turn pale, and grasp his gun more
firmly. Forth from the shade of the bushes sprang a large tigress. In
a minute, with a few bounds, she had cleared the space between herself
and her cub! Snap went the chain, as the strong wild beast caught up
her little one in her mouth; and before either Norman or the captain
(who had snatched up a second gun) had time to take aim, the tigress
was off again, bearing away her rescued cub to the jungle!

"That was a sight worth seeing!" exclaimed Captain Guise. "I never
beheld a more splendid creature in all my life!"

Norman, who was very young, and quite unaccustomed to having a tiger
so near him with no iron cage between them, looked as though he had
not enjoyed the sight at all. "I should not care to meet that splendid
creature alone in the jungle," he observed. "Did you not notice how the
iron chain snapped like a thread at the jerk which she gave it?"

"Yes," replied Captain Guise, as he turned back into the tent; "what
will hold in the cub, is as a spider's web to the full-grown wild
beast. You had, as I told you, a dangerous pet, Norman Stanley. You
might play for a while with the young creature, but claws will lengthen
and fangs will grow. And," the captain added more gravely, "this is
like some other things which are at first but a source of amusement,
but which are too likely to become at last a source of destruction."

Norman Stanley's cheek reddened, for he felt that it was not merely of
a tiger's cub that his friend was speaking. Evil habits, which at first
seem so weak that we believe that we can hold them in by a mere effort
of will, grow fearfully strong by indulgence. Many a wretched drunkard
has begun by what he called merely a little harmless mirth, but has
found at last that he has been fostering something more dangerous still
than a tiger's cub. His good resolutions have snapped; he has been
carried away by a terrible force with which he has not had the strength
to grapple; and so has proved the truth of the captain's words, that
what is at first but a source of amusement may be at last a source of
destruction.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

IV. NOT ONE TOO MANY.

"NO, neighbour, you've not one too many," observed Bridget Macbride,
as she stood in the doorway of the cottage of Janet Maclean, knitting
coarse gray socks as fast as her fingers could go.

"It's easy enough for you to say so," replied Janet, who was engaged
in ironing out a shirt, and who seemed to be too busy even to look up
as she spoke—"it's easy enough for you to say so, Bridget Macbride.
You've never had but three bairns [children] in your life, and your
husband, he gets good wages. You'd sing to a different tune, I take it,
if you'd nine bairns, as I ha'e, the oldest not twelve years old—nine
to feed, to clothe, and to house, and to toil and moil for, and your
goodman getting but seven shillings a-week, though he's after the sheep
from morning till night!" Mrs. Maclean had been getting quite red in
the face as she spoke, but that might have been from stooping over her
ironing work.

"Still, children are blessings,—at least, I always thought mine so,"
observed Bridget Macbride.

"Blessings; yes, to be sure!" cried Janet. "I thought so too, till
there were so many of them that we had to pack in the cottage like
herrings in a barrel."

Janet was now ironing out a sleeve, and required to go rather more
gently on with her work. "I'm sure nae folk welcomed little ones more
than Tam and I did the four first wee bairns, though many a broken
night's rest we had wi' poor Jeanie,—and I shall never forget the time
when the measles was in our cottage, and every ane o' the four had it!
Yes," the mother went on, "four we could manage pretty well, with a
wee bit o' pinching and scraping; but then came twins; and then little
Davie; and afore he could toddle alane, twins again!" And Janet banged
down her iron on its stand, as if two sets of twins were too much for
the patience of any parent to endure.

"You must have a struggle to keep them all," observed Bridget Macbride.

"Struggle! I should say so!" cried Janet, looking more flushed and
angry than ever. "We never could have got on at all, had I not taken in
washing and ironing; and it's no such easy matter, I can tell you, to
wash and iron line things for the gentry with twin-babies a-wanting you
to look after them every hour in the twenty-four!"

It seemed as if the babies had heard themselves mentioned, for from
the rude cradle by the fire came a squall, first from one child, and
then from both, and poor Janet was several minutes before she could get
either of them quiet again.

"You've a busy life of it indeed," observed Bridget, as soon as the
weary mother was able once more to take up her iron.

"'Deed you may say so," replied Janet sharply, plying her iron faster,
as if to make up for lost time. "And for all my working, and Tam's, we
can scarce get enough of bread or porridge to fill nine hungry mouths;
and as for meat, we don't see it for weeks and weeks—not so much as a
slice of bacon! Then there's the schooling of the twa eldest bairns
to be paid for, as Tam and I won't ha'e them grow up like heathen
savages; and we'll hae them gae decent too, not in rags and barefooted,
like beggars. And I should like to know—" Janet was ironing fast, but
talking faster—"I should like to know how shoon [shoes] and sarks
[shirts], and a plaidie for this ane, and a bonnet for anither, and
breakfasts o' bannocks, and porridge for supper, are a' to come out of
that wash-tub?"

"And yet," observed Bridget Macbride, "hard as you have to work for
your children, I don't believe that you would willingly part with one
of them, neighbour."

Even as she spoke, there was a distressful cry of "Mither! Mither!" as
Janet's two eldest children burst suddenly into the cottage, looking
unhappy and frightened.

"What ails the bairns?" asked Janet anxiously, turning round at the cry.

"O mither, we've lost wee Davie; we can't find him nowhere in the wood,
and we be afeard as he may have fallen over the cliff."

"Davie! My bairn! My darling!" exclaimed poor Janet, forgetting in a
moment all her toils and troubles in one terrible fear. Down went the
iron on the table, and without waiting to put on bonnet or shawl, the
fond mother rushed out of the cottage, to go and search for her child.
Bridget had spoken the truth; Janet might complain of the trouble
brought by a large family, but she could not bear to part with one
out of her flock. If Davie had been the only child of a rich mother,
instead of the seventh child of a poor one, he could not have been
sought with more eager anxiety, more tender, self-forgetting love.

Followed by several of her children, but outstripping them all in her
haste, Janet was soon at the edge of the wood. "Davie! Davie! My bairn!
My bairn!" resounded through the forest. The mother's cry was answered
by a distant whoop and halloo;—Janet knew the voice of her husband, and
her heart took courage from the sound. But her hope was changed into
delight, when she caught a glimpse between the trees of the shepherd
coming towards her, with her little yellow-haired laddie Davie perched
on his broad shoulders, grasping with one hand his father's rough
locks, and with the other a bannock, which he was nibbling at as he
rode.

"The Lord be praised!" cried poor Janet, and rushing forward she caught
the child from her husband, pressed Davie closely to her heart, and
burst into a flood of grateful tears.

"You must look a bit better after your stray lamb, Janet," said Tam
with a good-humoured smile. "I was just crossing the wood when Trusty
set up a barking which made me go out o' my way just to see if he had
found a rabbit, or started a black-cock. There was our wean [child]
sitting much at his ease, munching a bannock, as contented and happy as
if he'd been a duke eating venison out of a golden dish. But you mustna
let the wee bairn wander about by himself, for if he'd gaen over the
cliff, we'd never hae heard the voice o' our lammie again."

Very joyful and very thankful was Janet Maclean, as, with her boy in
her arms, she returned to her cottage. Bridget had remained there to
take care of the twins during the absence of their mother.

Mrs. Macbride received her neighbour with a smile, and the words,
"Didna I say, Janet, that ye'd not one too many, nor would willingly
part wi' a single bairn out o' your nine?"

"The Lord forgi'e my thankless heart!" said poor Janet, and she fondly
kissed her boy. "We ne'er are grateful enough for our blessings until
we are like to lose them."

Then putting the little child down on the brick floor, with fresh
courage and industry the mother returned to her ironing again.

May we not hope that all Janet's toil and hard work for her children
had one day a rich reward? May we not hope that not one out of the
nine, when old enough and strong enough to labour for her who had
laboured so hard for them, but did his best to repay her care and her
love? How large is a parent's heart, that opens wide and wider to take
in all the children of her family, however numerous those children may
be! Though each new babe adds to poor parents' toils, and takes from
their comforts, still the kind father and the fond mother, as they
look round their home circle of rosy faces, can not only say but feel,
"There is not one too many."

[Illustration]



V. THE IRON RING.

CHANG WANG was a Chinaman, and was reputed to be one of the shrewdest
dealers in the Flowery Land. If making money fast be the test of
cleverness, there was not a merchant in the province of Kwang Tung who
had earned a better right to be called clever. Who owned so many fields
of the tea-plant, who shipped so many bales of its leaves to the little
Island in the west, as did Chang Wang? It was whispered, indeed, that
many of the bales contained green tea made by chopping up spoilt black
tea-leaves, and colouring them with copper—a process likely to turn
them into a mild kind of poison; but if the unwholesome trash found
purchasers, Chang Wang never troubled himself with the thought whether
any one might suffer in health from drinking his tea. So long as the
dealer made money, he was content; and plenty of money he made.

But knowing how to make money is quite a different thing from knowing
how to enjoy it. With all his ill-gotten gains, Chang Wang was a
miserable man, for he had no heart to spend his silver pieces, even on
his own comfort. The rich dealer lived in a hut which one of his own
labourers might have despised; he dressed as a poor Tartar shepherd
might have dressed when driving his flock. Chang Wang grudged himself
even a hat to keep off the rays of the sun. Men laughed, and said that
he would have cut off his own pigtail of plaited hair, if he could have
sold it for the price of a dinner! Chang Wang was, in fact, a miser,
and was rather proud than ashamed of the hateful vice of avarice.

[Illustration]

Chang Wang had to make a journey to Macao, down the great river
Yang-se-kiang, for purposes of trade. The question with the Chinaman
now was in what way he should travel.

"Shall I hire a palanquin?" thought Chang Wang, stroking his thin
moustaches. "No, a palanquin would cost too much money. Shall I take my
passage in a trading vessel?"

The rich trader shook his head, and the pigtail behind it,—such a
passage would have to be paid for.

"I know what I'll do," said the miser to himself; "I'll ask my uncle
Fing Fang to take me in his fishing boat down the great river. It is
true that it will make my journey a long one, but then I shall make it
for nothing. I'll go to the fisherman Fing Fang, and settle the matter
at once."

The business was soon arranged, for Fing Fang would not refuse his rich
nephew a seat in his boat. But he, like every one else, was disgusted
at Chang Wang's meanness; and as soon as the dealer had left his hovel,
thus spoke Fing Fang to his sons, Ko and Jung,—

"Here's a fellow who has scraped up money enough to build a second
porcelain tower, and he comes here to beg a free passage in a fishing
boat from an uncle whom he has never so much as asked to share a dish
of his birds' nests soup!"

"Birds' nests soup, indeed!" exclaimed Ko. "Why, Chang Wang never
indulges in luxuries such as that. If dogs' flesh * were not so cheap,
he'd grudge himself the paw of a roasted puppy!"

"And what will Chang Wang make of all his money at last?" said Fing
Fang more gravely. "He cannot carry it away with him when he dies!"

"Oh, he's gathering it up for some one who will know how to spend
it," laughed Jung. "Chang Wang is merely fishing for others; what he
gathers, they will enjoy!"

It was a bright, pleasant day when Chang Wang stepped into the boat of
his uncle, to drop slowly down the great Yang-se-kiang. Many a civil
word he said to Fing Fang and his sons, for civil words cost nothing.
Chang Wang sat in the boat twisting the ends of his long moustaches,
and thinking how much money each row of plants in his tea-fields
might bring him. Presently, having finished his calculations, the
miser turned to watch his relations, who were pursuing their fishing
occupation in the way peculiar to China. Instead of rods, lines, or
nets, the Fing Fang family was provided with trained cormorants, which
are a kind of bird with a long neck, large appetite, and a particular
fancy for fish.

It was curious to watch a bird diving down in the sunny water, and then
suddenly come up again with a struggling fish in his bill. The fish
was, however, always taken away from the cormorant, and thrown by one
of the Fing Fangs into a well at the bottom of the boat.

   * Noted Chinese dishes.

"Cousin Ko," said the miser, leaning forward to speak, "how is it that
your clever cormorants never devour the fish they catch?"

"Cousin Chang Wang," replied the young man, "dost thou not see that
each bird has an iron ring round his neck, so that he cannot swallow?
He only fishes for others."

"Methinks the cormorant has a hard life of it," observed the
miser, smiling. "He must wish his iron ring at the bottom of the
Yang-se-kiang."

Fing Fang, who had just let loose two young cormorants from the boat,
turned round, and from his narrow slits of Chinese eyes looked keenly
upon his nephew.

"Didst thou ever hear of a creature," said he, "that puts an iron ring
around his own neck?"

"There is no such creature in all the land that the Great Wall
borders," replied Chang Wang.

Fing Fang solemnly shook the pigtail which hung down his back. Like
many of the Chinese, he had read a great deal, and was a kind of
philosopher in his way.

"Nephew Chang Wang," he observed, "I know of a creature (and he is
not far off at this moment) who is always fishing for gain—constantly
catching, but never enjoying. Avarice—the love of hoarding—is the iron
ring round his neck; and so long as it stays there, he is much like one
of our trained cormorants—he may be clever, active, successful, but he
is only fishing for others."

I leave my readers to guess whether the sharp dealer understood his
uncle's meaning, or whether Chuang Wang resolved in future not only
to catch, but to enjoy. Fing Fang's moral might be good enough for a
Chinese heathen, but it does not go nearly far enough for an English
Christian. If a miser is like a cormorant with an iron ring round his
neck, the man or the child who lives for his own pleasure only, what
is he but a greedy cormorant without the iron ring? Who would wish to
resemble a cormorant at all? The bird knows the enjoyment of getting;
let us prize the richer enjoyment of giving. Let me close with an
English proverb, which I prefer to the Chinaman's parable,—"Charity is
the truest epicure; for she eats with many mouths."

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

VI. THE ILL WIND.

"IT'S an ill wind that blaws naebody good, Master Harry—we maun say
that," observed old Ailsie, Mrs. Delmar's Scotch nurse, as she went to
close the window, through which rushed in the furious blast; "but I hae
a dear laddie at sea, and when I hear the wind howl like that, I think—"

"Oh, shut the window, nurse! Quick, quick! Or we'll have the casement
blown in!" cried Nina. "Did you ever hear such a gust!"

Ailsie shut the window, but not in time to prevent some pictures,
which the little lady had been sorting, from being scattered in every
direction over the room.

"Our fine larch has been blown down on the lawn," cried Harry, who had
sauntered up to the window.

"Oh, what a pity!" exclaimed his sister, as she went down on her knees
to pick up the pictures. "Our beauty larch, that was planted only this
spring, and that looked so lovely with its tassels of green! To think
of the dreadful wind rooting up that! I'm sure that this at least is an
ill wind, that blows nobody good."

"You should see the mischief it has done in the wood," observed Harry;
"snapping off great branches as if they were twigs. The whole path
through the wood is strewn with the boughs and the leaves."

"I can't bear the fierce wind," exclaimed Nina. "When I was out half
an hour ago, I thought it would have blown me away. I really could
scarcely keep my feet."

"I could not keep my cap," laughed Harry. "Off it scudded, whirling
round and round right into the river, where I could watch it floating
for ever so long. I shall never get it again."

"Mischievous, horrid wind!" cried Nina, who had just picked up the last
of her pictures.

"Oh, missie, ye maunna speak against the wind—for ye ken who sends it,"
observed the old nurse. "It has its work to do, as we hae ours. Depend
on't, the proverb is true, 'It's an ill wind that blaws naebody good.'"

"There's no sense in that proverb," said Harry, bluntly. "This wind
does nothing but harm. It has snapped off the head of mamma's beautiful
favourite flower—"

"And smashed panes in her greenhouse," added Nina.

It was indeed a furious wind that was blowing that evening, and as
the night came on it seemed to increase. It rattled the shutters, it
shrieked in the chimneys, it tore off some of the slates, and kept the
children awake with its howling. The storm lulled, however, before the
morning broke; and when the sun had risen, all was bright, calm, and
serene.

"What a lovely morning after such a stormy night!" cried Nina, as with
her brother Harry she rambled in the green wood, while old Ailsie
followed behind them. "I never felt the air more sweet and fresh, and
it seemed so heavy yesterday morning."

"Ay, ay, the wind cleared the air," observed Ailsie. "It's an ill wind
that blaws naebody good."

"But think of your poor son at sea," observed Harry.

"I was just thinking o' him when I spake, Master Harry. I was thinking
that maybe that verra wind was filling the sails o' his ship, and
blawing him hame all the faster, to cheer the eyes o' his mither. It is
sure to be in the right quarter for some one, let it blaw from north,
south, east, or west."

"Why, there's little Ruth Laurie just before us," cried Harry, as he
turned a bend in the woodland path. "What a great bundle of fagots she
is carrying bravely on her little back!"

"Let's ask her after her sick mother," said Nina, running up to the
orphan child, who was well-known to the Delmars.

Ruth dwelt with her mother in a very small cottage near the wood;
and the children were allowed to visit the widow in her poor but
respectable home.

"Blessings on the wee barefooted lassie!" exclaimed Ailsie. "I'll be
bound, she's been up with the lark, to gather up the broken branches
which the wind has stripped from the trees."

"That's a heavy bundle for you to carry, Ruth!" said Harry. "It is
almost as big as yourself."

"I shouldn't mind carrying it were it twice as heavy and big," cried
the peasant child, looking up with a bright, happy smile. "Coals be
terrible dear, and we've not a stick of wood left in the shed; and
mother, she gets so chilly of an evening. There's nothing she likes so
well as a hot cup of tea and a good warm fire; your dear mamma gives us
the tea, and you see I've the wood for boiling the water. Won't mother
be glad when she sees my big fagots; and wasn't I pleased when I heard
the wind blowing last night, for I knew I should find branches strewn
about in the morning!"

"Ah," cried Harry, "that reminds me of the proverb: 'Tis an ill wind
that blows nobody good."

"Harry," whispered Nina to her brother, "don't you think that you and I
might help Ruth to fill her poor mother's little wood-shed?"

"What! Pick up sticks, and carry them in fagots on our backs? How funny
that would look!" exclaimed Harry.

"We should be doing some good," replied Nina. "Don't you remember that
nurse said that the wind has its work to do, as we have ours? If it's
an ill wind that does nobody good, it must be an ill child that does
good to no one."

"That's a funny little tail that you tack on to the proverb," laughed
Harry; "but I rather like the notion. The good wind blows down the
branches, we good children pick up the branches; so the wind and the
children between them will soon fill the widow's little shed."

Merrily and heartily Harry and Nina set about their labour of kindness;
Ailsie's back was too stiff for stooping, but she helped them to tie up
the fagots. And cheerfully, as the children tripped along with their
burdens to the poor woman's cottage, Nina repeated her old nurse's
proverb, "'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody good."



[Illustration]

VII. THE TWO PETS.

A FABLE.

"AH! Poll! Poll!" cried the little spaniel Fidele to the new favourite
of the family. "How every one likes you, and pets you!"

"No wonder," replied the parrot, cocking her head on one side with
a very conceited air. "Just see how pretty I am! With your rough,
hairy coat, and your turned-up nose, who would look at you beside me!
Just observe my plumage of crimson and green, and the fine feather
head-dress which I wear!"

"I know that you are a beauty," said Fidele, "and that I'm only an ugly
little dog."

"Then how clever I am," continued Miss Parrot, after a nibble at her
biscuit. "No human beings are likely to care for you, for you can't
speak one word of their language."

"I wish that I could learn it," said Fidele.

"You've only to copy me." And then in her harsh grating voice the
parrot cried, "What's o'clock?"

"Bow-wow!" barked Fidele.

"Do your duty!" screamed the bird.

"Bow-wow!" barked the dog.

"There's not a chance that any one will ever care for you, ugly, stupid
spaniel," cried Miss Poll. "You may just creep off to your kennel, you
are not fit company for a learned beauty like me."

Poor Fidele made no complaint, but he felt sad as he trotted off to his
corner. Before Poll's arrival at the Hall, the spaniel had been the
favourite playmate of all Mrs. Donathorn's children. They had taught
him to fetch and carry, to toss up a biscuit placed on his nose and
catch it cleverly in his mouth, or to jump into the water and bring a
stick that had been flung to ever so great a distance.

But as soon as pretty Polly came, no one seemed to care for Fidele
any more. To teach the parrot to speak was the great delight of the
children. They shouted and clapped their hands when she screamed out
"Pretty Poll," "What's o'clock?" or, "Do your duty." Stupid Fidele!
He could not be taught to speak. Ugly Fidele! Who could for a moment
compare him to a beautiful parrot. So all the kind words, and soft
pats, and sweet biscuits were given to Poll. It is true that she
made little Tommy once cry out with pain from a bite from her sharp
beak,—and that the least thing that displeased her would make her
ruffle up her feathers in a very ill-tempered way; but still she was
petted and praised for her cleverness and her beauty; and she quite
despised poor Fidele, who was nothing but an ugly hairy dog.

One fine summer's day, the children carried the stand of their
favourite to the bank of the pretty little river which flowed through
their mother's grounds. Bessy and Jamie amused themselves by feeding
and chatting with the parrot, while little Tommy gathered daisies and
buttercups, or rolled about on the grass. No one cared for Fidele; no
one noticed what he was doing.

Presently, Bessy and Jamie were startled by a scream, and then a
sudden splashing noise in the water. Poor little Tommy, eager to pull
some blue forget-me-nots which grew quite close to the brink, had
overbalanced himself and tumbled right into the stream. Oh, what was
the terror of the children when they heard the splash, and saw the wide
circles on the water where their poor little brother was sinking.

"Do your duty!" screamed the parrot, merely talking by rote, and not
caring a feather for the danger of the child, or the distress of his
brother and sister.

At that moment, there was heard another splash in the water, and then
the brown nose and hairy back of Fidele were seen in the stream, as
the little dog swam with all his might to save the drowning child. He
caught little Tommy by his clothes; he pulled—he tugged—he dragged him
towards the shore, just within reach of the eagerly stretched-out hands
of Jamie.

"Oh, he is saved! He is saved!" cried Bessy, as Tommy was dragged out
of the river, dripping, choking, spluttering, crying, but not seriously
hurt. He was instantly carried back to the house, undressed, and put
into a warm bed; and the little one was soon none the worse for his
terrible ducking and fright.

"Oh, you dear—you darling dog!" cried Bessy, as she caught up Fidele,
all wet as he was, and hugged him with grateful affection. "I will
always love you, and care for you, for you were a true friend in need."

"Pretty Poll!" screamed the parrot, who did not like any one to be
noticed but herself.

"Fidele is better than pretty; he is brave, and useful, and good,"
cried Bessy.

"Do your duty!" screamed out Miss Poll.

"Ah! Poll, Poll, it is one thing to prate about duty, and another thing
to do it," said Bessy. "Fine words are good, to be sure, but fine acts
are a great deal better."

                             MORAL.

Beauty and cleverness may win much notice for a time; but it is he who
is faithful, good, and true, who is valued and loved at the end.

[Illustration]



VIII. THE BOY AND THE BIRD'S NEST.

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

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

The carriage was at the door, all packed, the last bandbox and shawl
had been put in; Eddy could hear the sound of the horses pawing the
ground in their impatience to start. But the clinging arms of his
mother were round him,—she held him close in her embrace, as if she
would press him into her heart, and the ruddy cheeks of the boy were
wet with her falling tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



[Illustration]

IX. THE ENGLISH GIRL AND HER AYAH.

A LITTLE English girl in India was one day playing outside her father's
tent, near the edge of a jungle. Her attention was attracted by a
beautiful little fawn, that seemed too young to run about, and which
stood timidly gazing at the child with its soft dark eyes. The girl
advanced towards it; but the fawn started back with a frightened look
and fled. The child gave chase; but the fawn was soon hid among the
tall reeds and grass of the jungle.

When the girl's ayah (nurse) missed her charge, she quickly hurried
after her. But so eager had the child been in pursuit of the fawn, that
she was some distance from the tents before the ayah overtook her.
Catching up the girl in her arms, she attempted to return; but the
vegetation around grew so high that she could scarcely see two yards
before her. She walked some steps with the little girl in her arms,
then stopped, and looked round with a frightened air.

"We are lost!" cried the poor Hindoo. "Lost in the dreadful jungle!"

"Do not be so frightened, Motee," said the fair-haired English girl;
"God can save us, and show us the way back."

The little child could feel as the poor Hindoo could not, that even in
that lonely jungle a great and loving Friend was beside her!

Again, the ayah tried to find her way; again she paused in alarm. What
was that dreadful sound like a growl that startled her, and made her
sink on her knees in terror, clasping the little girl all the closer in
her arms?

Both turned to gaze in the direction from which that dreadful sound
had proceeded. What was their horror on beholding the striped head of
a Bengal tiger above the waving grass! The ayah uttered a terrified
scream, and the little girl a cry to God to save her. It seemed like
the instant answer to that cry when the sharp report of a rifle rang
through the thicket, quickly succeeded by a second, and the tiger,
mortally wounded, lay rolling and struggling on the earth.

Edith—for that was the girl's name—saw nothing of what followed.
Senseless with terror, she lay in the arms of her trembling ayah.

It was her father whom Providence had sent to the rescue. Lifting his
little girl in his arms, he bore her back to the tent, leaving his
servants, who had followed in his steps, to bring in the dead tiger. It
was some time before the little girl recovered her senses, and then an
attack of fever ensued.

Her mother nursed her with fondest care; and with scarcely less
tenderness and love, the faithful ayah tended the child. The poor
Hindoo would have given her life to save that of her little charge.

On the third night after that terrible adventure in the woods came
the crisis of the fever. The girl's mother, worn out by two sleepless
nights, had been persuaded to go to rest and let Motee take her turn
of watching beside the child. The tent was nearly dark—but one light
burned within it—Edith lay in shadow—the ayah could not see her face—a
terror came over the Hindoo—all was so still, she could not hear any
breathing—could the child be dead! The ayah, during two anxious days,
had prayed to all the false gods that she could think of to make Missee
Edith well,—but the fever had not decreased. Now, in the silence of
the night, poor Motee Ayah bethought her of the English girl's words
in the jungle. Little Edith had said that the Lord could save them—and
had He not saved from the jaws of the savage tiger? Could He not help
them now? The Hindoo knelt beside the charpoy (pallet) on which lay the
fair-haired child, put her brown palms together, bowed her head, and
for the first time in her life breathed a prayer to the Christian's
God: "Lord Jesus, save Missee Baba!"

"O Motee! Motee!" cried little Edith, starting up front her pillow with
a cry of delight, and flinging her white arms round the neck of the
astonished Hindoo. "The Lord has made you love Him! And oh, how I love
you, Motee!—more than ever I did before!" The curly head nestled on the
bosom of the ayah, and her dark skin was wet with the little child's
tears of joy.

Edith, a few minutes before, had awaked refreshed from a long sleep,
during which her fever had passed away. From that hour, her recovery
was speedy; and before many days were over, the child was again
sporting about in innocent glee. From that night, the ayah never prayed
to an idol again. She was now willing to listen to all that was told
her of a great and merciful Lord. Of the skin of the tiger that had
been slain, a rug was made, which Edith called her praying-carpet.
Upon this, morning and night, the English girl and her ayah knelt side
by side, and offered up simple prayers to Him who had saved them from
death.



X. I'LL NOT LET YOU GO.

PART I.

"HE is the naughtiest child in my class. I think that I must give up
trying to teach him!" sighed Miss Lee, a very sickly looking lady, as
on one cold afternoon in March, she returned from the Sunday-school in
which she had been for some years a teacher.

"Yes, little Seth seems as if he could neither be won by kindness,
nor moved by reproof. He cares neither for smiles nor for frowns. He
disturbs all the rest of the boys in my class; sets them off laughing
when I most wish them all to be quiet and attentive; he teases this
one, quarrels with that; never by any chance knows his verse; and meets
my reproofs with only a saucy look of defiance. And this is not the
worst of it," thought the weary, anxious teacher, as she leaned for
some moments on a high stile, as if to gather strength before she could
make the effort of climbing over it; "I cannot depend on Seth's word!
I am certain that it was he who threw the orange-peel under my seat,
though he boldly denies that he did so, and tries to cast the blame
upon others. And this is not the first time that I have had to doubt
the truthfulness of the boy. I really must turn him out of my class!"

Having made this half resolve, Miss Lee set her foot on the lowest step
of the stile, but instead of crossing over, she sat down to rest on
the top one, though the March wind made her shiver. The lady felt very
weary and faint; and a pain in her side, from which she often suffered,
was more distressing than it had ever been before.

"I am sure that my pupils would give me less trouble if they knew how
tired I always am when I leave them," thought the lady; "but they are
all tolerably good, except Seth. And I am unwilling to give up even
little Seth, troublesome, naughty boy that he is. He lost his mother
when he was a baby; and his father, the farmer, is out all day long
in the fields. Seth is allowed to run wild—and this is not the boy's
limit. Then Seth is so young, and so small—he is only seven years old,
and he scarcely looks five; surely I ought to be able to manage and
guide such a child! But my strength and vigour are gone," continued
Miss Lee, still speaking to herself, and she pressed her hand to her
aching side. "I am scarcely fit for the effort of teaching at all; and
one wilful, troublesome, saucy child tires me out more than all the
rest of the boys put together. I think that I must tell Seth Rogers to
come no more to my class."

With an effort which made her bite her lip with pain, Lee managed to
get over the stile, and she then slowly walked along the path over some
wide grassy uplands beyond.

It was pleasant to see those green uplands, dotted with sheep, and
sweet was the tinkling sound of the sheep-bell. But Miss Lee was
not inclined to enjoy either sight or sound. She was tired, chilly,
discouraged. She was thinking for how many years she had laboured to
teach children the way to Heaven, often going to the Sunday-school when
scarcely well enough to walk to it. And after all her labour and pains,
the teacher was not at all sure that she had been the means of really
leading one little one to the Good Shepherd.

"Is it not—must it not be by some fault of my own?" thought the poor
lady, as she slowly went on her way. "I have not worked hard enough, or
prayed earnestly enough for my little flock, and yet not a day passes
without my remembering every one of them in my prayers. I have tried
to do the best that I can; but it seems as if all my efforts had been
in vain, at least as regards Seth Rogers, that naughtiest child in my
class!"

The path grew steeper, and Miss Lee walked yet more slowly, often
stopping to take breath, until she had passed the crest of the hill.
Then the loud bleating of a sheep near the bottom of it drew the lady's
attention, for it sounded like a call from a creature in distress. Miss
Lee turned aside from the pathway, and went down towards the sheep, to
see what was the cause of its trouble; for a rough knoll hid it from
view. On passing the knoll, Miss Lee came in sight of a fleecy mother
who was piteously bleating, as she bent over a rushing torrent which
ran at the bottom of the hill.

The lady quickened her steps; she was sure that some poor lamb must be
struggling below in the water; and though very doubtful whether she
herself would have strength to lift it out, she thought that she could
but try. But Miss Lee's feeble help was not needed. The next step that
she took brought before her view a young shepherd lad, stretched at
full length on the grass, evidently engaged in a violent effort to pull
something out of the water.

"I'll not let you go, little one, I'll not let you go!" muttered the
lad, whose face was flushed scarlet from stooping so low over the brink
of the torrent, for he could just manage to put down his hand far
enough to touch the fleece of the drowning lamb.

Miss Lee stood still for several minutes, watching with interest the
efforts of the young shepherd, although she had no power to aid them.
It was no easy task for the lad to get the little wanderer out of the
dangerous position into which it had fallen. Thrice, the strong current
seemed to bear the lamb beyond reach of the shepherd lad's grasp,
thrice, he had to jump up and change his position for one further down
the stream; his hands were torn with brambles; but still muttering
"I'll not let you go," he only redoubled his efforts, till at length
the struggling creature, trembling and dripping, was lifted out of the
torrent, and given back to its bleating mother.

"You are rewarded for your patience and your kindness, my lad," said
Miss Lee with a smile to the youth, who was panting after his exertions.

"Ey, ma'am; 'twas a wilful lamb, it was; but I would not let it go,"
said the youth, as he slowly got up from the ground, and wiped his
heated brow. "If I had let it drown, I'd have had to answer for it to
my master."

Miss Lee turned, and went again on her homeward way, her mind full of
the little incident of the rescue of the lamb, and the words of the
shepherd lad seemed to ring in her ears as she walked. "Has not the
Heavenly Shepherd given me some of His lambs to tend," thus reflected
the Sunday-school teacher; "and shall I forsake one of them because it
has wandered farther, fallen lower, and is in more danger than the rest
of my little flock? Shall not I have to answer for it to my Master?
More earnest, persevering effort may be needed; I may be, as it were,
torn by the brambles; my poor Seth may require more constant prayers
and pains; but may grace be given me to say of him what the shepherd
boy said of his charge, 'I'll not let you go, little one; I'll not let
you go!'"

This was the Sunday-school teacher's resolve; but she seemed likely
never to be able to carry it out, for she had scarcely reached her home
when she fainted.



PART II.

"No, there's no use, boys, in your coming here this morning; there's no
one to hold the class; so you'd better be off till the bells ring for
service."

So spake old Ridger, the clerk, on the morning of the Sunday following,
as he stood outside the closed door of the room in which Miss Lee was
wont to meet her young pupils.

Some of the boys looked surprised, but Sam Wright, the gardener's son,
observed, "I was a'most sure as there would be no class to-day, because
Miss Lee is so ill."

"Ill!" echoed several voices.

"Ay, she's been ailing this long time," replied Sam. "Father says that
she's never so much as taken a turn in the garden for months, and she
used to have such pleasure in the flowers."

"But she has never missed her Sunday teaching once," said one of the
boys.

"No, she'd come to that, if she were able to crawl," observed Sam;
"that wasn't a pleasure, but a duty."

"It might have been a pleasure too, if it had not been for some chaps,"
said an elder boy, glancing at Seth.

"I thought that teacher looked very pale last Sunday," observed Eli
Barnes, who had been one of her most attentive pupils; "but then she
had been so worried. I noticed that she twice put her hand to her side."

"It was on Friday night that she was took so bad, so very bad," said
Sam. "Father was just turning into bed, when there was a rap at our
door; one of the servants had come over to tell him to go off in haste
for the doctor. You may guess as father was not long in getting ready,
for the servant said as Miss Lee seemed to be dying. The doctor came in
an hour, as fast as his horse could gallop, though 'twas raining and
blowing like mad. I couldn't get to sleep till I'd heard what he said
of our teacher; neither could father, when he got home all wet to the
skin; he must go up to the Hall for news of the lady."

"And what did the doctor say?" asked several voices at once.

Sam Wright looked very grave as he answered, "The doctor don't much
expect that she'll get over the fever."

Some of the boys uttered exclamations of regret, others sighed and said
nothing. All of them turned from the closed door, feeling sorry to
think that their teacher might never enter it again.

In the meantime Miss Lee was lying in bed in a darkened room, while the
spring sun was shining so brightly, as if to invite all to come out
and enjoy his beams. The few persons who entered that room moved about
as noiselessly as if they were shadows, for the poor patient was in a
burning fever, and the sound of a step, or the rustle of a dress, would
have been to her most distressing. No one spoke to Miss Lee, not even
to ask her how she felt, for the fever had mounted into her brain, and
the sufferer knew nothing of what was passing around her.

The teacher's mind was, however, still working, and even in delirium,
she showed what had been the uppermost care on her mind. From the lips
so parched and blackened by fever, words continually burst, though she
who uttered them knew not what she was saying. The sick-nurse little
guess why the patient grasped her own bed-clothes so tightly, and again
and again cried out in a tone of distress, "I'll not let you go, little
one; I'll not let you go!"

Most of the boys of the Sunday class strolled out on the uplands, to
gather wild flowers, or to chat together, until it should be time for
them to go into church. There was one little boy, however, who did not
go with the rest, but preferred lingering alone amongst the graves in
the churchyard. That boy was Seth Rogers, the naughtiest child in the
Sunday class.

Old Ridger the clerk watched Seth, as the little fellow went slowly and
laid himself down on the turf close to the grave of his mother. Ridger
saw the child hide his face in his hands when he thought that he was
out of the sight and hearing of all.

"That poor little motherless chap takes the lady's illness much to
heart," said the good-natured clerk to himself. "I should not have
expected it of Seth Rogers, for he has been—so my grandson tell me—the
very plague of his teacher's life; and I myself have had to complain
to the vicar a dozen times of his rude behaviour in church. Many a
Sunday I've said, 'I'd like to give that young rogue a good thrashing,
for there's nothing else as will bring him into order.' But the child
seems quiet and sad enough now," added Ridger, and taking up his cane,
the old clerk walked slowly up to the spot where Seth Rogers was lying
on the turf, and as he did so, he heard from the boy something that
sounded much like a sob.

[Illustration]

"Come, child, you mustn't take on so," said the clerk, stooping over
Seth, and gently touching his shoulder. "Miss Lee may recover, and get
about again, if it be the Lord's will; and if not—"

Seth raised himself from the ground; the little fellow's cheeks were
wet, and his eyes were glistening with tears.

"O Mr. Ridger, do you think she will die?" he asked in an agitated tone.

"We should all be very sorry were Miss Lee to die," was the old man's
rather evasive answer.

"No one would be so sorry as I," cried the child, bursting into tears,
"because—because—" Seth could not finish the sentence, his heart was
too full for words.

Old Ridger seated himself on a bench, and drew the little boy close to
his breast, for the clerk was a kindly man, and always felt for a child
in trouble. He gently stroked Seth's shoulder, as he said, "I never
thought that you loved your teacher so much more than do the rest of
the boys."

"It's not that I loved her more, but that I worried her more," murmured
the child, in a scarcely audible tone. "They did not plague her, and
make her so tired, and bring the tears into her eyes. They did not
tell her untruths." The boy was speaking rather to himself than to the
clerk; Seth was thinking aloud in the spirit of those touching lines on
the death of a mother,—

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

The old clerk rose from his seat, for the church-bells were sounding,
and it was time for him to go and look out the psalms and the lessons
for the day. Ridger had but one word of comfort to give the poor little
boy before he left him alone.

"You know that you can pray for the lady," said he.

But could Seth Rogers pray? He never had prayed in his life, no, not
even when he had been kneeling close to Miss Lee, while she besought
the Lord to bless her and her little pupils. Seth had, alas! been
too apt even then to stare around, perhaps trying to make others as
careless and inattentive as he was himself. Seth had never once really
joined in the prayer of his teacher, he had only been restless and
impatient to have the praying-time over.

But when old Ridger had gone away, and the child was left for some
minutes alone in the churchyard, then, for the first time, Seth
Rogers really did pray. He threw himself again on the ground on which
lay the shadow from the grave of his mother, and sobbed forth, "Oh,
please—please don't let teacher die, until I've seen her again, and
tried to make up for the past."



PART III.

The little boy's prayer was answered. On the following day, the doctor
told the anxious watchers in the sick-room that he hoped that the worst
was over. A night of deep, quiet sleep succeeded, and on the Tuesday
morning Miss Lee awoke quite free from fever, but so weak and low, that
she could not turn in her bed.

From that hour, the lady's recovery was steady, though slow. It was
not till the middle of April that the invalid was permitted to leave
her room, and any occupation that could tire either body or mind was
strictly forbidden. Miss Lee was, however, able to enjoy sitting in an
easy-chair by the open window, as the days grew warm and long. Every
morning, she found on the sill a few wild flowers; she did not know who
had placed them there, but perhaps my readers may guess.

But Miss Lee only looked upon rest as a preparation for work; her
life had not been prolonged to be spent in luxurious ease. As soon as
the lady felt that a little strength was restored to her, she began
thinking how she could best set about doing her heavenly Father's
business.

"I have been able to take a little walk in the garden every day this
week," said Miss Lee to herself one evening towards the close of May.
"I think that I may take up my work again next month,—at all events,
I will try." The lady opened her desk, and with her thin, wasted hand
wrote a note to her Vicar to say that on Sunday week she hoped to meet
her Bible-class in the schoolroom.

"It will be an effort, a very great effort," thought poor Miss Lee, as
soon as she had sent off the note. "When I remember all the weariness
and the worry that I had to bear through the winter, I can scarcely
help hoping that Seth Rogers at least may have been withdrawn from my
class. But oh, how this shows my want of faith and of love! Have I not
prayed—prayed often both before and during my illness for the soul of
that motherless child, and may not my poor stray lamb be given to me at
last!"

The appointed Sunday arrived, and the first to meet his teacher at the
door of the schoolroom was Seth. Miss Lee's first glance at the face
of the boy raised her hopes that he was changed and improved; and her
hopes were not to be disappointed. The prayers of teacher and pupil
for each other had been abundantly blessed. Seth Rogers became the
most steady and obedient boy in the class; it was he who most watched
his teacher's eye, and most earnestly heeded her words. Of him, Miss
Lee was wont to think as her "joy and crown of rejoicing;" for Seth
was the first of her pupils whom she was permitted to look upon as the
fruit of her labours of love. Often the sight of the boy recalled to
the teacher's mind that day when she had seen the poor lamb saved from
perishing; and a silent thanksgiving arose from her heart, "Heaven be
praised, I did not let him go!"

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

XI. THE WHITE DOVE.

A PARABLE.

ERNST SEELE was a ruined man, there could be no doubt of the fact. For
years he had pursued his trade as a dairyman in a wasteful and careless
way, spending much more than he earned, seeming to be prosperous while
his affairs were getting into a terrible state of disorder.

Ernst owed no less than three years' rent for his comfortable dwelling
to its owner, the absent lord of the manor, and Seele had not laid
by a single farthing with which to pay that rent. The foolish and
improvident dairyman, with thoughts of debt and difficulty ever preying
upon his mind, was like a tree which looks fair at a distance, but
which is quite decayed at the core, so that the first strong blast must
lay it in dust.

That blast of misfortune came suddenly upon Seele. A disease swept away
every one of his cows, upon which he depended for bread. The lord of
the manor returned to his castle and claimed his due—the rent which
his thriftless tenant had for so long neglected to pay. Ernst Seele
was indeed a ruined man; there seemed to be nothing before him but a
prison, and for his wife and family the workhouse.

Grace, the youngest child of Seele, was but a little child; but she
saw and shared the troubles of her parents. She marked how bitterly
her mother wept, and how her father would stride up and down the room,
groaning aloud in his anguish of soul. Grace, young as she was, learned
to know what is meant by that terrible word ruin.

"O Heartslove!" said Grace softly to her white dove, as she fondled it
in her arms, and her tears dropped fast on its feathers, "poor, poor
father will be taken away and shut up in the dreadful place, and we
shall have to leave this home, and everything that we care for! I must
lose you, my own little pet Heartslove. Some stranger will have you,
who may be cruel to you, and kill you. I shall never hear your soft coo
in the morning; I shall never stroke your white feathers again!"

Seele was almost in despair. He knew that it was not only misfortune
that had brought him to this depth of distress, but that he had been
careless, wasteful, and dishonest; for it is dishonesty to run up debts
when we know that we are not likely ever to be able to pay them.

"I might have struggled through my difficulties," muttered the unhappy
debtor, "but for that crushing sum for rent which I owe to the lord of
the manor."

Little Grace turned from the window at which she had been standing with
Heartslove, her white dove, in her arms. "O father," said she, "could
you not go to the great lord, and tell him of your misfortunes, and ask
him to forgive you your debt?"

The suggestion was a very simple one. The same thought had often arisen
in the minds both of Seele and his wife, but they had not acted upon
it, until it was expressed by the lips of their little daughter. Seele
rose hastily from his seat.

"Yes, I will go at once to the Castle," he said, "and try to move the
pity of my lord. This is my last chance, my last hope. If he do not
show mercy to-day, I shall be in a prison to-morrow."

Very anxious and very sad was Seele's wife during his absence. She
could settle to no occupation, but sat weeping and wringing her hands,
as if her husband were already carried off to a prison. She was so
fretful in her misery that she could scarcely bear to have even
her children near her; only Grace softly stole up to her once, and
whispered, "Let us hope on, dear mother; perhaps the great lord will
have pity when he sees in what trouble poor father is now."

At last the sound of rapid steps was heard on the road—steps that
quickened into a run. Seele's wife looked up eagerly, for she knew that
her husband was approaching, and that he would have come more slowly
and sadly had he been bringing evil tidings. Seele burst into the
cottage, his face, lately so careworn and gloomy, beaming with hope and
delight.

"Give me joy, wife!" he cried, breathless with running and with
excitement. "My lord has forgiven me all—"

The wife uttered a loud exclamation of pleasure.

"Nay, more than this," continued Seek, "he has not only allowed me to
stay in my home, but has offered to advance me money sufficient to
start me in business again!"

Seele's wife threw her arms round his neck, and cried and sobbed with
delight. The children, who had crowded round their parents to hear
the news, jumped and clapped their hands. Past sorrows seemed at once
to be almost forgotten; Seele and his wife thought now of nothing but
pleasant plans for the future.

But little Grace thought of something besides. Her heart was indeed
very full of joy, but there was in it room for gratitude also. She went
to her own little chamber, and there on her knees returned thanks to
the Giver of good. Grace then went and threw open her window to let in
Heartslove, who was tapping on the glass with her bill.

"Have you come, my pretty one," said Grace, "to share in our pleasure!
I shall not have to part with you now, my darling." Tenderly the little
girl kissed and fondled her pet. "Oh, that dear, dear lord, that most
generous friend, how good he has been to us all! I do love him, though
I never have seen him. Oh, how I wish that I could do something, were
it ever so little, to show him how very, very thankful I am."

The desire to show her gratitude in something more than words had
taken strong hold of the loving heart of the child. Grace sat for more
than an hour thinking and thinking what she—even she—could do for the
merciful lord of the manor.

"I should like to make him a nosegay of all the best flowers in my
garden; I would strip off every blossom," said the child to herself.
"But flowers die so soon; and then the gardens round the Castle hold
flowers a hundred times prettier than mine. I am afraid that the rich
master would scarcely look at my nosegay. I should like to work from
morning till night to make something fit to give him; but I am little,
and cannot work well;—I do not see what I could make. But oh, I must
find some way of letting the generous lord know how grateful I am for
his goodness!"

In the midst of her perplexity, the eye of little Grace rested on her
white dove. This was her greatest treasure, the one thing which she
valued beyond all others.

"I wonder if the great lord would accept Heartslove," murmured the
child. "I should not indeed like to lose my dear dove; but I have
nothing else worth offering to the friend who has saved my father. The
bird is my own, my very own; I may give it to any one that I please;
and shall I grudge it to him to whom we owe everything that we have?"

There was a little struggle in the mind of the child, but it ended in
her resolving to offer her pet bird to the lord of the manor.

Full of her grateful design, Grace put her dove into a little woven
basket, with open work on the lid, and lined the basket with moss, that
her favourite might take no harm by the way. Grace then wont and asked
her father to carry her dove to the great and good lord at the Castle.

"I am far too busy to do any such thing," said Seele, who was just
about starting off to make a new purchase of cows for his dairy, with
the money advanced by his kind benefactor. "Go you up to the Castle,
child, and take your present yourself."

Grace was afraid to go up to the Castle, though she knew the road to it
perfectly well, for she had often gathered acorns under the great oaks
of the park while the lord of the manor had been absent. But though
feeling timid and shy, Grace was too anxious to offer her humble gift
to be easily put aside from her purpose.

"I will just venture as far as the outer gate," she said to herself,
"and give the basket to one of the servants, and beg him kindly to take
it to the generous lord."

So Grace put on her little bonnet and cloak. In vain she tried to get
one of her brothers or sisters to go with her—they too said that they
were too busy: not one seemed to think that it was in the least needful
to show gratitude, or even to feel it.

So Grace set out quite alone. Ofttimes on her way, she raised the lid
of the basket a little to take a last peep of her pet.

"I shall miss you, but I do not grudge you, my little beauty!" said the
child. "I am sure that so kind a lord will be gentle and good to my
bird. He will not despise or hurt you; and when he hears your soft note
in the morning, he will know that you are cooing the thanks of a little
child for what he has done for us all."

But when Grace reached the large gate beside which hung the great iron
bell, she had hardly courage to ring it. After all, thought she, might
not so grand a nobleman think it presuming in her to come even to offer
a gift? Was the bird, though it was her all, worthy to be placed before
him? Should she not rather carry Heartslove back to her home?

While Grace stood hesitating and doubting, with her small hand raised
to the bell handle, which she did not venture to pull, a man of a noble
appearance, who was walking within the Castle grounds, came up to the
gate.

"What do you want, little girl?" he inquired in a tone so gentle, that
even timid Grace was not afraid to reply to the question.

"O sir, I am the child of Ernst Seele," she replied with a blush. "The
lord of the Castle has been good, oh, so very good to my father, and I
want to give him my dove, just to show how thankful I feel."

"Do you think that the lord of the Castle would value your bird?" asked
the stranger, smiling kindly down on the child.

"I dare say that he has many more, and perhaps prettier birds," said
poor Grace, and she looked wistfully at her covered basket as she
spoke; "but Heartslove is so tame, so gentle—she will come at my call,
and eat crumbs from my lips—he cannot have a more loving little dove.
And then, sir, she is all that I have to give; so, perhaps, the great
lord will not despise her."

"No; I will answer for it that the lord of the Castle will prize your
bird dearly," answered the stranger, and his voice sounded so tender
and loving that it seemed to Grace as if a father had spoken. "Give me
your basket, my child; I will see that the dove reaches safely him to
whom you would give it—he will most surely accept and value it for your
sake."

Grace opened the basket, and pressed down her rosy lips to give one
parting kiss to her Heartslove. She then closed down the lid, and with
simple trust handed the basket to the stranger, who had opened the gate
to take in her little present. The child then, after thanking him and
dropping a curtsey, turned away from the gate.

Grace felt pleased to think that she had done what was right, that she
had at least proved her wish to be grateful; and the remembrance of the
noble stranger's smile lay warm at the little girl's heart. She liked
to recall his words, "I will answer for it that the lord of the Castle
will prize your bird dearly."

During the rest of that day Grace never spoke of her dove, though she
thought of it often. Her parents were far too much occupied with their
business to think of it at all, and, what was far more strange, not
a word of gratitude towards their most generous benefactor was heard
either from Seele or his wife. In the greatness of his gift, they
seemed quite to have forgotten the giver. Grace alone resolved in her
heart that not a morning or evening should pass without her blessing
the name of the friend who had saved them all from ruin; and she smiled
to herself as she thought of her gentle white dove nestling upon his
bosom.

On the following day, as the family sat round the table at breakfast,
talking over the purchases which Seele had made through the help of the
lord of the manor, there was heard the tap of a bill at the window.

"Oh! It's my dove—it's my own Heartslove; she has flown back again to
her old home!" exclaimed Grace, starting up from her seat, and running
to open the window.

The child took the bird in, kissed and fondled it. Pleasant it was to
her to stroke again the downy plumage, and to hear the coo of her pet.

"Look there, Grace!" exclaimed her father, "There seems to be something
white tied under the wing of the bird."

There was indeed a small strip of paper, fastened with a bright thread
of gold. Grace very eagerly untied it, wondering what kind of message
her bird could have brought.

"There is something written, but I cannot read it. Please, father, tell
me what it is!" cried Grace.

There was silence round the table, as Seele read aloud the contents
of the paper to the circle of curious listeners. The writing was as
follows:

   "The child who gave this dove will be welcomed,
    if she come alone to the Castle at noon."

Grace to go to the Castle—Grace to be expressly sent for by the lord
of the manor! Father, mother, brothers, and sisters all wondered at
the message sent to the child. There could be no mistake about it;
the lord's own signature was at the end of the note. It was read and
re-read a dozen times over. Grace said less than did any one else,
though she thought far more than them all.

"Won't you be afraid to go alone into the presence of the lord of the
manor?" asked one of her sisters.

"I should be very, very much afraid," she replied, "only he has invited
me to come."

"And what will you do when you see him?" inquired a brother.

"I will just give back Heartslove to her master," simply answered the
child.

But very fast beat the heart of Grace, and her courage almost failed
her when she had to pass alone the great iron gate, and walk up the
stately avenue to the marble steps that led up to the Castle. She
wished that she could have held her father's hand, or had her mother
beside her. One thought, however, gave her strength to go forward.
"The master has written that I—even I—shall be welcome. I have his own
express invitation, so why should I fear to appear before him!"

So, with Heartslove, not now in a basket, but held in her bosom, the
poor little grateful child drew nigh to the lord's magnificent home.

Grace was met by a kind-looking servant. "My lord has sent me to bring
you to him," said the man. "Do not tremble, little one; my lord is
very fond of children. See! He is coming down the marble staircase to
receive you himself."

Grace eagerly, though timidly, raised her eyes to catch the first sight
of her great benefactor, the mighty lord of the land. She had felt
afraid to enter his presence, but all her fear passed away when she saw
in the form advancing towards her, the same gentle stranger who had met
her before at the gate, and who had taken charge of her dove.

"Did I not tell you that the lord of the Castle would prize your bird
dearly?" he said, as he stooped and lovingly laid his hand on the head
of the child.

Grace was then led by him through the Castle, its splendid galleries,
its beautiful halls, where there was everything that could delight the
eye of the beholder. In one apartment, she found a new dress awaiting
her, spotless and white. She was left alone for awhile to put on the
dress, and was then called to a rich feast spread out in a lofty hall.
Grace, poor child as she was, then was allowed to sit down with the
lord at his table, and to be helped to whatever she liked by his own
princely hand.

Nor was her friend's kindness to end here. That most happy hour was but
the first of many which Grace was to pass in that beautiful place. With
the full consent of her parents, the lord of the Castle adopted the
little girl as his own, and brought her up as his daughter. He lavished
freely upon her every token of love, gratified every wish, and made the
life of Grace so joyful, that every day seemed more bright than the
last. And much did the lord value the bird which had been her first
token of grateful affection; of all his treasures, none was more prized
than the Heartslove of the child.

Shall I leave my young readers to find out for themselves the meaning
of my little parable, or help them to trace out the lesson which it
contains?

There is not one of them that has not a great Benefactor, to whose free
bounty they owe a million times more than Grace and her family owed
to the lord of the manor. Have they received all His benefits without
a word of thanks, without a thought of grateful devotion? Have they
offered nothing to their Heavenly Lord, who has freely forgiven them
all their great debt, and loaded them with blessings day after day?

But perhaps a child may reply, "I have nothing to give to the Lord, no
money with which to help His poor, no power of working for Him." This
may be so, but oh, remember that you have still one offering which you
can make; you have your Heartslove to lay at the feet of your Heavenly
Friend. Be assured that the Lord will prize your love dearly, far,
far more than all the earth's treasures of silver and gold. No being
that has offered Heartslove in simple, grateful homage to his Saviour,
but will be welcomed by Him to a glorious home in heaven, not to be
received as a passing guest, but as a dearly beloved child, adopted
into His family, and made happy for ever and ever with Him!

[Illustration]