XIV.

THORNS AND FLOWERS.

[Illustration]

"WHAT can be the difference between Martha and Susan Williamson?" said old Dame Phillips. "They are as like as two cherries—the same rosy cheeks, the same height, the same hair, you could hardly know one from the other."

"No wonder, for they are twins," replied Widow Green.

"And yet, how is it that when one of them comes in, it seems as if a sunbeam were shining into the room; yet, when the other is near, you would think that she brought the cold east wind with her?"

"One lives for others, and one for herself; that's the difference between Martha and Susan," said Mrs. Green, as she poured out her cup of tea.

"Ah! I often think that they are like two travellers, walking through the world with baskets on their arms. Susan has filled her basket with roses, and wherever she goes there's the sweet smell and the pretty flowers to make every one round her glad. Martha has filled her basket with thorns; you fear to come near her for the prickles; she is scattering thorns wherever she passes, and leaves pain behind her wherever she has been!"

"I pity the children when they are left to her care," said the widow.

"Poor little lambs, they have their full share of the thorns. It is a word and a blow with her; and as for poor Albert, with his weak ankles, he may walk on till he drops afore she will take the trouble of carrying him one step.—Why, here she is!" added the old woman, as Martha entered the house with a bold, careless air.

"Good-day, Mrs. Phillips: I've come to borrow your warm new shawl. You see," added she, seeing a look of reluctance on the face of the rheumatic invalid, "I'm going to-morrow in the steamer to Greenwich, and it will be so cold on the water."

"Come to-morrow, then," said the good-natured dame; "why should I be all this cold evening without it?"

"Oh, it is not convenient to come to-morrow!" cried Martha. "I'm off early, so please for it now." And as she stepped carelessly forward to take the shawl from the shoulders of her shivering friend, she knocked down the cup which Mrs. Phillips had just filled. But Martha never said that she was sorry for the mischief done; she never even stopped to pick up the broken pieces; her only thought was ever "self!"

Having got all she wanted, Martha turned to depart, but lingered for a few minutes to talk.

"Ah! Mrs. Green, so your son has gone to sea, I hear. How the wind is blowing, to be sure! I could hardly get up the street. They say there has been a dreadful shipwreck off the Irish coast—every one lost!"

Mrs. Green clasped her hands with a look of terror.

"I hope that the wind will have gone down before I start for Greenwich," said Martha, as she bounced out of the room, forgetting, of course, to close the door. She was gone, but she had left the thorns behind her.

In a few minutes a gentle tap was heard.

"Come in," said Mrs. Phillips; and the bright kind face of Susan appeared.

"Good evening, Mrs. Phillips; I hope that you are feeling better. I have brought you a pair of mittens, which I have knit for you, to keep your poor hands warm in this cold weather.—Mrs. Green, I'm so glad to see you; and will not you be glad to see 'this?'" she added, holding up a letter, and then placing it in the mother's trembling hand, with pleasure almost equal to her own.

"My son's handwriting!" exclaimed Mrs. Green. "How did you come by it, my dear?"

"I knew that you were anxious for letters, so I stepped round by the post-office to ask if there were any for you."

"Bless you!" cried Mrs. Green. "You are always thinking of others."

[Illustration: THE LETTER.]

When Susan entered the house, she had found gloom and anxiety there. Before she left it, there were bright looks and smiles of hope and gratitude. She had left the roses behind her.

And can you guess the secret cause of her kindness, of the constant, cheerful benevolence which made her welcome to all? Why did she seem to live for others?—Because she "lived to God!" One sentence spoken by the blessed Saviour seemed ever present to her mind: "'Love one another as I have loved you.'" She knew that the Lord Jesus had "died for all, that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto Him which died for them" (2 Cor. v. 15).

Oh! dear reader, have "you" lived for yourself, or for your Lord; are you scattering roses or thorns?

On her way home Susan overtook an aged woman, bent down with years, and yet more with trouble, to judge from her sad, hopeless face. She carried a large bundle, which seemed too much for her strength. Cold as was the weather, she walked on but slowly, with a feeble, half-tottering step, often pausing, as though to take breath.

Susan paused; and her kind, pitying look seemed to encourage the poor old woman to address her.

"Could you, please, tell me the way to John Street, my dear? I am a stranger in London."

"With pleasure," replied Susan; "let me see—the third turn to the left, then walk on till you come to a baker's shop, then—"

"I shall never make it out," said the old woman, with a hopeless air.

"Well, then, I'll go with you, and show you the way. Don't hurry yourself, you look feeble, and your bundle is heavy; let me carry it for you, it would be a pleasure to me!" And she relieved the poor stranger of her burden, as they passed through the cold, silent streets.

"You are good, very good!" sighed the old woman. "Too good for this cold, heartless, miserable world!"

"I am sorry that you find it so miserable."

"Miserable enough! Here am I, a lone widow—I who have had a good husband, and three as fine boys as ever the sun shone upon. There is no comfort on earth for me!"

"But there is comfort in heaven! Do you not hope to see again those whom you have loved, never more to part? Do you not hope that they are happy now?"

"Ay, they are happy; for my husband feared God, and my boys were taken before they knew evil. But here am I, a feeble old woman, without a friend on earth."

"But you have a Friend in heaven; there is comfort again!"

"Ay, if I could take it, my dear; but my heart is low, and my spirit weary, and everything looks dark around and above!"

Susan rather whispered than spoke, "'Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.'" (Ps. xlii. 11).

A tear rolled down the pale cheek of the stranger, but her heart felt lighter: she had met with one who could feel for her.

"I wish," said she, after a pause, "that I had thought more of these things when I was young like you. It doesn't do to put off, one's heart grows cold and hard. And, oh! it's a weary, weary thing, old age like mine, no comforts around one, nothing but troubles to look back upon, nothing but death to look forward to!" and she sighed heavily.

"And heaven beyond!" said Susan.

"Ah! If I were sure of 'that,' but maybe heaven is not for a poor, ignorant, sinful creature like me!"

"I thought," said Susan timidly, "that heaven was for those who believe, who repent, who love the Lord Jesus and one another."

Not another word was spoken till they reached the house, when the aged stranger laid her trembling hand on the shoulder of her young guide.

"God Almighty bless you!" she murmured. "You've spoken the first word of comfort that I've heard for many a long day. God will bless you, and make you an angel above, as you love to do angels' work below!"

Reader! May you thus pass through life, blessing and blessed, the roses which you scatter on the paths of others throwing sweetness over your own, and making soft your death-bed at the last!