CHAPTER VI.

WAITING AND TRUSTING.

AS Mrs. Crook entered, a welcoming hand was extended to her, and the sweet voice which she had always liked to hear, though she could scarcely tell why, said, "I am so glad to see you, dear Mrs. Crook. It is very good of you to come. You will sit near me, will you not? For I cannot speak loudly or for long together."

"It is very good of you to let me come," said Mrs. Crook, as she held the white hand gently between both of her own, for a moment, and then laid it reverently down on the white counterpane. "I was sorry to hear of your illness. But," she added, in a hopeful tone, "I trust you will get better. You do not look ill, and you have quite a beautiful colour in your cheeks. Maybe the doctors are mistaken."

Mrs. Crook knew that it depressed sick people sometimes to be told that they were not looking well. She was glad that she could honestly say the contrary to Miss Lawton.

The sick girl smiled, as she answered, "You know the old saying, 'while there is life, there is hope.' I have so many to love that for their sakes I might wish to live, but God has enabled me just to leave myself in His hands. To live and work for Him would be very sweet. To depart and be with Christ far better still. I have only to wait and trust. All will be well."

The sweet low tones of the sick girl's voice fell like music on Mrs. Crook's ear, and they went to her heart and filled it with a strange new longing—a deep desire to know what it was which filled the speaker's whole being with measureless content and peace, that made her face radiant with love and joy, that enabled her to set such little store by the best this world could offer.

In broken words, which she could hardly recognise as her own, Mrs. Crook managed to tell Miss Lawton what she felt, and to add—

"I have always hated to think about death, and counted a long life here as the thing most of all to be wished for; please tell me how it is you are not afraid to die?"

The sick girl's face grew brighter still as she listened. The inquiring words were surely an answer to her prayer that Mrs. Crook's coming might be helpful to the good of her soul. So, once again, she told how the old (but ever new) story of God's love for sinners had been brought home to her own heart, and how she had been enabled to see her own sinfulness and need of a Saviour, and how she had found one in Jesus.

She spoke of His life, His love, His death, His tender compassion for a lost and ruined world, His willingness to receive, His many invitations to each weary and heavy laden soul, His promise, His victory over sin, Satan, and the grave, of the glory He had laid down for a time, but which He had taken again, and which every believer should share with Him in heaven.

"Believing in His love, do you wonder, dear Mrs. Crook, that, while I feel it sweet to serve and trust Him here, I feel that it will be sweeter still to have the precious promises all fulfilled, and to be with Jesus for ever and ever? In the presence of Jesus is fulness of joy. Once there, sorrow and sighing would flee away, and I should just be looking forward to meeting again those I loved on earth, and who loved Jesus. My dear parents, my Sunday scholars, your and my little Fanny amongst the rest, and you, too, Mrs. Crook."

A groan came from the person thus addressed, and down the face that mostly had such a hard stern expression, the big tears chased each other, whilst in a voice broken by sobs she cried—

"I have never loved Jesus; I have loved nobody but myself! It would be of no use to look for me there."

Again the girl took up the sweet words of invitation, "'Come unto me;' 'I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance;' 'Whosoever will, let him come,'" with many another message which came straight from the very lips of Jesus when on earth, and told her visitor how they had been brought home to her own heart. There was no preaching as it seemed in her way of speaking. It was only just telling what the Lord had done for her soul, and she could say, "What God has done for me, He is ready and willing to do for you; His words are, 'Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.'"

Happy Agnes Lawton, in being able thus to speak of her Saviour's love. Happy Mrs. Crook, in being at last made willing to listen to the precious message.

Not that Mrs. Crook felt glad at heart. On the contrary, she was sorely troubled; but, though she did not yet realise it, she was on the way to happiness. The Holy Spirit was striving with her and bringing the words of the young disciple home with power.

Her hard heart was softening beneath this Divine influence. The eyes of her understanding were being enlightened, and at that moment it could have been said of Mrs. Crook for the first time in her life, "Behold she prayeth," though no human ear caught the sound of words, and only the great Searcher of hearts knew of the yearning cry for pardon which was going out from hers.

"Agnes, darling. I fear you have talked too long."

The voice was that of Mrs. Lawton, who, fearing for her daughter, now entered the room.

"I am sure you would not wish your visit to do her harm," she said, turning to Mrs. Crook.

"Not for all the world," was the answer, though it was with difficulty the words were uttered. "I don't know how to thank you for letting me come."

"It has not hurt me, mother," said Miss Lawton. "I am a great deal happier for having seen Mrs. Crook," and truly the sweet face shone with a holy joy as she looked at her visitor.

Mrs. Crook took up the little white hand again and held it tenderly, as she whispered, "Pray for me. God will hear you."

"And you and all who come in the name of Jesus," replied the girl.

Then she put her disengaged arm round Mrs. Crook's neck, and, drawing her gently towards her, she kissed her, as a loving child might have done.

"Good-bye, dear Mrs. Crook," she said. "If we do not meet again here, may we meet in heaven."

Mrs. Crook had longed to kiss the white hand that lay in hers, but she felt afraid to take such a liberty. She could hardly believe her senses when Agnes Lawton's arm clasped her neck, and her lips pressed loving kisses on her cheeks.

How many years had passed since Mrs. Crook last felt the touch of young lips there, or indeed of any? She had never been a demonstrative woman, and her childless condition had helped to dry up any little wellspring of tenderness in her nature, if any such existed. But that unexpected embrace, that pure caress, stirred her as she had never been moved before, not only to thankfulness for the lovingkindness it manifested, but to regretful thoughts, as she looked into the past and knew what she had lost by those years of hardness and loneliness.

It is not for us to trace, step by step, the change which had its beginning, as we have already seen, through the simple words of a little maidservant, and the love for souls which burned in the heart of a young disciple of Jesus. We will rather pass by these years, and look at Mrs. Crook after the interval.

Surely that is she who is making a group of little children happy, by leading them through her pretty garden and telling them the names of the flowers which she plucks from time to time, and ties up in small nosegays which they will carry back with them to brighten their dingy homes.

Of course these are not all the same children who were once driven away with hard words and threats, for some of those are at work already, helping to earn their bread. They look much cleaner too, though their clothes are poor and in some cases, ragged.

But Mrs. Crook has found that she can influence the little ragamuffins for good, by means of a gift of flowers, for it is understood that dirty hands and faces do not match with these fair blossoms, and the small people vie with each other in holding out a clean palm to receive them.

Mrs. Crook has found these kind words avail more than sharp ones, and that a great deal of happiness may be diffused at a very small cost, not that she grudges anything now for such a purpose.

At church, mistress and maid occupy two seats in the same pew, and the third is always at the service of any stranger who requires one.

Of course, too, since God opened Mrs. Crook's heart, she has been willing to open her hand and her purse, and all who work for Him find in her a willing helper. No more hoarding—Mrs. Crook has become a cheerful giver.

Her little maid resembles the Fanny of three years ago, but can hardly be the same, unless time has stood still with the girl.

Mrs. Crook's present domestic is the younger sister of her old one, and Fanny is the happy mistress of a neat little home of her own, and the wife of a worthy young man, a neighbour's son.

Miss Lawton's life was considerably prolonged, and she had the joy of knowing that her words had been blessed to Mrs. Crook.

The latter seems full of love and goodwill to all the world. She once cared only for herself, but since Christ has filled her heart there has been no place for self, though there is room in it for everybody else.

Truly the heroine of this little story may now well be called, Comfortable Mrs. Crook.

_____________

It may be added that Agnes Lawton was no ideal character. The original, a most beautiful girl, was well known to the writer. She died nearly twenty years ago, but many of her actual words are noted in this little story.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CAN'T AFFORD TO PLAY.

"WHY, John, can this be you? It is so unusual to see you anywhere but on the box, that I can hardly believe my eyes. Have you left the Tramways Company?"

John Carrington took Mrs. Markham's questions in order, and replied, "Yes, ma'am, it is me sure enough. It is strange to see me walking about, for I believe most people are so used to notice me a-front of a tram-car, that they think I sleep on the driving-seat. I have been driving something or other ever since I grew big enough to take a good grip of the rains, and that's over fifty years since. I have not left the Company."

"Then, I suppose, you are having a holiday, John?"

"Queer sort o' holiday," returned John, speaking in a very husky voice, and from under a thick muffler. "Spent it on my back, in bed. I can't say but I could have done with a little extra rest, for working hours are very long. But being in bed is one thing, and resting is another. I had bronchitis, and when you feel as if you were going to suffocate almost, and your breath comes whistling out of your throat with a noise loud enough to serve as a signal to start the horses, you gain very little comfort by that sort of rest, do you, now?"

"Indeed, you do not, and you ought to be resting at this moment, for you are still unfit to be out of doors. You should have stayed in on such a keen frosty day as this, seeing you are not on duty," said Mrs. Markham.

"Come out to get hardened to it a bit, ma'am. Doctor said it wouldn't do to go straight from bed to the driving-box."

Mrs. Markham felt troubled at John's words. He was quite the favourite tram-car driver on that route, and liked by all his passengers. He was constantly on the lookout for his patrons, and saluted them by a flourish of the whip, or a touch of his white hat, sometimes even by a brief remark, when practicable. He anticipated their signals, telegraphed through the window to know if he were to stop at the usual place, and managed to do almost double duty as driver and conductor.

A crusty new-comer in the latter capacity would sometimes remark that, but for collecting fares, there might as well be no guard when John was on the box, for he didn't seem to know what was his own share of the work. But John's unfailing good temper and cheery ways were certain to convert the grumbler into a friend before many days were over.

It seemed to Mrs. Markham such a pity for the man to be out in the keen air when he was better fitted for bed, and she urged him to go home and stay indoors a little longer.

John shook his head and replied gravely, "No use talking, ma'am, thank ye all the same. I can't afford to play. You see, there's my old woman has been an ailing body for many a year. The doctor has been kind, and charged as little as he could afford. But a-many things go to making an invalid comfortable, beside the doctor and the physic. I must go at it again to-morrow, for certain."

"I thought you tram people had a fund of some kind, so that when laid by through illness, you would have a weekly allowance," said Mrs. Markham.

"There is one for the young 'uns. But when I started in the service there was no such thing, and now there is, I am too old to join."

"That seems hard. Those most likely to need the help are shut out from it."

"Excuse me, ma'am, but there's no hardship in it. They could not take on old men members that would come on to the fund very soon after they began paying, and it would not be fair to the young 'uns. It is expected that you will pay for a good while before you want anything back, except through accident or sudden illness. Young and old must take their chance of such things. The fund is started so that members may get ready for the rainy day whilst the sky is clear overhead. I cannot benefit by it myself, but I thank God when I think that, if these young fellows live to be old and ailing, they will not have to choose between working when they are not fit for it, or playing and starving."

John was preparing to pass on his way with a touch of the hat, and "Good-day to ye, ma'am, and thank ye. A kind word always cheers me up a bit, and I tell it over again to the old woman," but Mrs. Markham stopped him to bestow a little sum which would insure him a couple of days more rest, and left him with kindly wishes for his recovery.

"I can't afford to play."

There is something very touching in the expression when we think of its meaning, as John Carrington used it. As most of us understand the word, play means recreation, happy pastime, accompanied by brightness, enjoyment, and freedom from care for the time.

We hear it spoken, and straightway we see visions of merry youngsters, gambolling in the fields, or home, and making the air ring with, or the walls echo, their joyous shouts and laughter.

But the word in the mouth of working folk carries a sadder meaning. As a rule it refers to the enforced idleness brought about by the lack of something for the busy hands to do, and, if long continued, means want of everything else for wives and children at home.

An anxious, careworn woman in real distress will say, "My husband is on short time. He has worked three days and played three, every week for the last two months." Or, "He has played since Christmas and we are into February."

Such an application of the word gives little heartache to those who hear it for the first time, and who have hitherto regarded play and joy as twins.

There are tens of thousands of toilers who, like John Carrington, have home claims which compel them to go the endless round of daily work, because they cannot afford to lose an hour's pay, though they are unfit for labour.

Think of this, you who call your time your own. Who have so much of it at your disposal that you are put to shifts and contrivances to kill it, or fritter away the hours which drag on too slowly, whilst you wait for some new pleasure that you have promised yourselves.

Think of it, you who have never experienced a moment's anxiety about a supply of the bread that perisheth and all its luxurious accompaniments which you would call the necessaries of life.

Try to imagine what it would be to go on, on, on, ever repeating the same tasks in the same place, with nothing new to look at even, no expectation of anything better, no hope of cessation, except through sickness which means suffering, or lack of work to do, which means lack of food also. And all this to support a bare existence of ceaseless toil, and for the barest bread as its reward.

Have you ever thought that a day's rest to such would be like a foretaste of heaven? A something longed for, but never hoped-for or looked for, by tens of thousands? A something you might give now and then without feeling the cost of it, though, having never been placed in such circumstances, you could not estimate its value. I do not mean the giving a day in the country. That kind of change is a very delightful one, a summer blessing which dwellers in dim city alleys know how to value. But this day of rest that I mean, would be an all-the-year-round boon, and would perhaps, be most precious in winter time, because then, the aching eyes and head of the weary seamstress suffer more, on account of the small allowance of light. Then the delicate frames shrink most from the pinching cold; and to have, just for one day, wages without toil, and food without having first to earn it, the freedom to sit at ease by a warm fireside, without being driven back to toil by the voice of necessity, would, I say, be heaven upon earth to many a deserving worker, who can never "afford to play."

I know a lady who gives this happiness now and then, to some of her poor acquaintances. When she sees one of them beginning to droop, say over her sewing machine, she says "What will a day's rest cost. Tell me, and I will pay for it."

Sometimes there is a press of work, and even the paying would not secure the holiday, but she bides her time, and waits, till the toiler would be allowed the day off, if she could afford to take it. Then the money is forthcoming, only the giver bargains that the day shall be spent happily and restfully, and the task work entirely put aside. She gives more than the wages, which are often small enough, so that there may be food and fire without stint, and advises that part of the time be spent out of doors, weather permitting, except where the person helped will be benefited by staying in and enjoying warmth and rest together.

One poor woman said to her, "You made me promise not to work, ma'am, and, at first, it seemed so strange to be able to do as I liked, that I felt quite lost.

"Then, I thought, I might do a bit—not enough to tire me—for we want so many things, and half a day's wage would be something extra. But I was vexed at myself for even thinking of breaking my promise when you had been so kind as to set my hands free and make things comfortable for the day. So I set to work to enjoy myself. I cooked the dinner, such a good one! And I had a real play with the children, poor things! They could hardly believe their ears when they saw my face and heard me laughing, and we all sat down instead of snatching a bite anyhow.

"After dinner, the sun was shining, and we went for a short walk, and looked in at shop windows, and after that I nodded in the old chair whilst they played with some more children in the court.

"I went to bed same time as they did, knowing I must begin again in the morning, but one day's rest did me more good than medicine, and I felt twice the woman after it that I did before it, thanks to God and you, ma'am."

If anybody wants to make a poor toiler happy, let her look round for some worthy, weary body, and give it a day's rest, by bestowing a conditional day's wages and the little more which shall spread the board and brighten the hearth. Such an expenditure pays good and immediate interest, and the night's rest of the giver will be all the sweeter for the memory of the drop of sweetness which she has been able to infuse into the cup of one less favoured than herself.

The Master will not forget the work of love, and those are precious words which tell us, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto Me."

[Illustration]

WALKING TOO BIG.

UNCLE Maurice and his little niece, Minnie, had gone through the whole book together; looked at the pictures, talked over the stories; and now there was nothing else to be done but to shut it up and put it aside. There had been many a laugh during the hour spent upon it, and, though it was a mere baby book, I doubt if the child had enjoyed the time more than her tall uncle had done.

Minnie gave a little sigh as she put down the volume, and looked around, as if asking what was to come next. She was a blue-eyed, curly-haired, five-year-old lassie; her uncle's special pet and darling, and I am afraid that, knowing how dearly he loved her, she was a little bit of a tyrant, and ordered him about as if he were the child, and she a grown-up aunty.

Uncle Maurice obeyed her commands almost too well. We generally say and think that obedience is a lesson that should be learned whilst we are very young, but we are often no longer young when we conquer ourselves, which is really the same thing.

"What shall we do now, Uncle Maurice?" was the child's inquiry.

"Go for a walk," was the prompt answer, "the same as we did yesterday. We have been sitting a long time, and I want to stretch my legs. Besides, it is lovely out."

Minnie shook her head, and with a child's bluntness, retorted, "Your legs are too long already, Uncle Maurice."

"I am sorry for it, dearie; but I cannot help it. It would spoil them to cut pieces off. They are better for walking with, anyway, so let us go."

"No. I don't want to walk with you, because you are too big."

There was something ludicrous in the child's way of measuring her tall uncle with her blue eyes, so wide open, as she let them travel from the tips of his toes to the top of a head as curly as her own, and then down again.

Uncle Maurice looked quite perplexed and troubled by his little niece's words and actions.

"But, Minnie, darling," he said, "you went with me to the park yesterday, and I thought you were very happy. If I am big, you can always reach my hand."

"You walk too big," retorted Minnie, retreating before her uncle's outstretched arm, and taking refuge by her mother's side, as if she were afraid of being carried off against her will.

"What does the child mean?" he asked, addressing his sister, for the little one's manner puzzled him.

Mrs. Payne understood her tiny daughter better than even Uncle Maurice did, for of course mothers can read their children's thoughts and know all about their wants, better than anybody else in the world.

"I think she means that you took too long strides," she answered. "Even if you walk slowly, her little feet would be kept on the trot all the while. It is not Uncle Maurice that Minnie objects to, as a whole, but to his long legs which walk too big. Is not that it, Minnie?" she asked of the child.

Minnie nodded approvingly and said "Yes." Mother, as usual, knew all about it.

"I remember," replied Uncle Maurice, "that the child seemed hot and flushed, and complained of being tired. I wanted to carry her, but she resented the proposal. She was too big for that, she told me. Poor little woman, I am sorry. The walk seemed nothing to me."

"Nor would it have been to Minnie, if you had accommodated your long step to her short one. It was the 'walking too big,' that did the mischief. To-day, now, as you looked over the pictures, you were like two children together. You brought yourself down to her level, laughed at what pleased her, and looked sorrowful when her young heart was stirred to pity. There was true sympathy between you, hence the happy hour you spent together."

"And yesterday, I was always a little ahead, and Minnie toiling on behind, and never able to keep beside me, unless she had my hand, or kept at a steady trot."

"The sitting down in the park was nice, Uncle Maurice," interposed Minnie, who did not wish him to think that yesterday's struggle had no bright side to it. "I will go again, only you must walk little, because I am little."

Uncle Maurice promptly agreed, and once more the two started off together, to return equally happy. Minnie herself proposing numberless walks in the future.

When the child's curly head was peacefully resting on her pillow, Uncle Maurice and her mother sat talking together about the household pet and her winning ways and quaint talk.

"That was a queer expression of hers, 'You walk too big,' was it not?" said he, laughing again as he recalled it and her face to mind. "I should not have understood her meaning but for you. Since you threw light upon it, I have thought of the many ways in which we all 'walk big' without considering the effect of our so doing upon our neighbours."

"You are finding out far more in little Minnie's saying than I did, Maurice, and turning it to better account. What unconscious teachers are our little ones," responded Mrs. Payne.

"Yes; Minnie set me thinking, first of all how, as a boy at school, I often walked too big, when I might have accommodated my step to that of a weaker companion, and perhaps helped him on the road. I had great strength, and was proud to display it, and the height which was beyond that of other boys of my age. I liked to look down from it on some little lad whose growth had perhaps been stunted by illness, or the want of the abundant nourishment which I had never lacked, and so I made him feel the difference all the more keenly.

"How often have I, and such as I, put out our God-given strength to mortify our weaker fellows, boasting, perhaps, 'I can hold you down with one hand, although you are my senior in years,' and so making the poor fellow writhe both in body and mind.

"How often have I boasted of God's good gifts which were mine, not because I deserved them better than the rest, but because He had graciously given me more! Or been proud of the place in class that I had attained without effort, when one who had worked ten times as hard, perhaps, was sighing over his failure. I can see that, as a schoolboy, even when beside my fellows, I walked too big. I boasted where there was no real merit, and I discouraged others, when, by slackening my speed, and shortening my step a little, we might have walked side by side, cheering and being cheered on the path."

"There are so many ways of doing this walking too big," replied Mrs. Payne. "In entertaining our friends, for instance. From a children's party up to one at which we prepare to receive our most honoured guest, and those amongst our acquaintances who stand highest in the social scale, we all try to walk big, do we not? Quite lately, our friend, Mrs. Longworth, gave a juvenile party. She is a large-hearted woman, and a loving mother. Every child interests her, and she would like, if she could, to add to its happiness. Moreover, she has a well-filled purse, and can afford to entertain her friends right royally, old or young. And she does.

"I will venture to say that it was purely out of this large-heartedness of hers, and not with a thought of outshining her neighbours, that she gave her youthful guests a spread fit for a prince to sit down to.

"The rooms were beautifully decorated, and the supper-table was laden with all sorts of dainties, probably more than the children had ever seen together before, or dreamed of being permitted to partake of at will. Professional amusers were engaged, lest the little people should not be able to amuse themselves and each other. In short, all was done that kindness could suggest, and money provide.

"I am not in a position to say whether any of the guests suffered in body after such unwonted indulgence, but I do know that the moral effect of the entertainment was not altogether satisfactory.

"Some of the children were made envious, some discontented by this effort to give them pleasure.

"'Why cannot we have as nice things at our party as Mrs. Longworth gave us?' inquired one.

"'Because,' said his mother, 'we are not so rich.'

"'Then don't let us have a party,' was the next remark; 'I should hate for the boys to come here and say, "How different it is from Mrs. Longworth's!"'

"And yet, until then, there had been happy gatherings of bright children under the roof where the speaker lived, and the unwonted luxuries seen on the richer lady's table had neither been missed nor wanted.

"The mother of another young guest ventured to invite her children's friends to a simpler feast, in accordance with an annual custom, though she, too, rather dreaded an allusion to Mrs. Longworth's grand doings, and it came at last.

"'Are you enjoying the party?' said one of the youngsters, who was looking as happy as possible, to another who was standing aloof, as if Blind Man's Buff were a degradation after conjurors and marionnettes.

"'Fairly,' was the cool reply. 'But I don't call this a party, it is only going out to tea, you know.'"

Uncle Maurice laughed as his sister finished her account of the grand spread and its results.

Dear, kind Mrs. Longworth was, all unconsciously, walking too big, both for her child guests and their parents. When she racked her brain to give them pleasure, and neither spared trouble nor purse, she little imagined that she could possibly do harm by the very lavish nature of her kindness.

I had a similar experience after a grown-up party where the entertainment was magnificent, not at all beyond the givers' means, but such as few of their guests could return in kind. A lady amongst these, when saying farewell to her hostess, thanked her for the delightful evening she had spent.

"But," she added frankly, "I shall never dare to ask you to my house again, because we live so plainly in comparison, and cannot entertain in similar style."

"Then I shall come without being asked," was the prompt reply. "I should be grieved indeed if the good gifts which God has bestowed upon us were to be the means of robbing us of others which we value far more highly still—the society of our old and true friends."

In this case again, the givers of the entertainment had not thought of displaying their own wealth and resources, but of honouring and giving pleasure to their guests. Nevertheless, they too had unthinkingly "walked too big," for most of them, and made them feel small by comparison.

"Ah, Maurice, we walk too big in so many ways. In dress, in social surroundings, even sometimes in our Christian profession and work. For instance, if I am going to pay calls, I am tempted to consider what dress is the handsomest and most becoming, instead of combining with this idea a thought for those I am about to visit; but two old friends of mine joined in teaching me a lesson.

"One of them is a dear old gentlewoman who has come down in the world, but who, in her prosperous days, was very fond of rich attire. She cannot now indulge her taste for it; but she likes to see pretty things as well as ever. So to her I go in all my bravery. She discusses the style of my gown, appraises my bonnet, perhaps asks the loan of some garment as a pattern, and is sure to thank me with a hearty kiss, for having come in my newest and prettiest things to her little bit of a place which two people almost fill.

"'But there is room for me to turn you round in, my dear,' she says; 'and light enough to see you by, for, thank God, the window is large and the sun is sure to shine on me, if it shines anywhere.'

"I come away feeling that all my garments are worth double the price they cost, and I feel glad for my old friend that poverty has not changed her bright nature, and that she is large-hearted enough to enjoy the mere sight of whatever is beautiful or pleasant to look upon, without envying the possessors. No fear of 'dressing too big' and thereby paining her.

"I have to deal differently with another old friend, who is similarly placed, owing to an unexpected reverse of fortune.

"I always walk either too big or too little to please her, and I invariably enter her presence in fear and trembling. I would not wilfully pain her for the world, and I have tried to make her understand this, but I am always wrong. If I go very plainly dressed, she will scan my garments, and, after the first greetings, remark: 'I suppose you are not on your way to call on Lady Hope?'

"'No,' I reply cheerfully; 'I set out early in order to have a long pleasant chat with you, if I were fortunate enough to find you at home and at liberty;' hoping to please by showing that I did not look in merely on the way to a luxurious home. I failed utterly.

"'I need not have asked the question,' she answers. 'A glance at your dress might have told me that you would not call at Hopefield in that gown, Marian, but anything is good enough for my poor little hut of a place. It was different when you and I were at school together, for then, Sir John Hope's father was working for weekly wages, and mine was member for the county. As to my being at home and at liberty, there is little fear of my being out. People who have come down in the world are not overdone either with callers or engagements.'

"I listen in silence and not unsympathetically, for I know it must be hard for my old friend to compare the past with the present; but all the while she is speaking, I cannot help contrasting her with that other clear friend who has suffered similar reverses, but finds brightness in everything, and is ever looking out for causes of thankfulness. I try to tell her, perhaps, how well I remember those old days, and how gratefully I think of the hospitality I received under her father's roof. I even venture to reproach her for refusing my invitations, when she knows no guest would be more honoured here than herself. Then she tells me, with tears, that she cannot bear to meet people who are mere nobodies, but who would look down upon her on account of her poverty.'

"What an unpleasant old lady!" said Uncle Maurice. "Have you tried the effect of going in all your grandeur, or of a little wholesome neglect in the matter of invitations?"

"I have tried both and with equal success," replied Mrs. Payne. "When I went in my best bib and tucker, I heard remarks made about the taste which induced people to flaunt their finery before the eyes of those whose birth and social position entitled them to similar luxuries, but whose purse would only provide bare necessaries. I was once so annoyed at her ungracious reception of my invitations, that I resolved to give no more, but the result was too terrible."

"Is it worth while to concern yourself about pleasing a person of such an unhappy temperament?" asked Uncle Maurice. "I feel with you that if by slackening our pace, or shortening our steps we can strengthen the weak, encourage the timid, or stimulate the fainthearted to renewed effort, we ought to make the attempt, but in cases like the former—"

"It is perhaps still more incumbent upon us, and that because they are so unhappy. I have no doubt that during her solitary hours, my discontented friend would be more miserable still but for my efforts to please her, and I am quite sure that I am the happier for having tried to do it, whether successful or not," said Mrs. Payne.

"True, Marian, and it seems to me that there is hardly any act in our social, even our religious life, about which we might not advantageously ask ourselves, 'Am I walking too big?' Sometimes, the timid Christian is afraid to offer his services, though he is longing to do something for God's glory and the souls of his fellow-creatures, because he thinks that others are dedicating five talents while he has only one. By comparison, his powers are so contemptible. Or, he does not like to give shillings where his neighbour gives pounds. He sees him stride on boldly, both in his work and gifts, and he shrinks into himself and fears to step out at all, because he cannot keep pace with him. Ah! I have often thought that in addition to the magnificent generosity of the poor widow who gave her two mites, there was also magnificent courage in the mode of their bestowal.

"Surely, if ever there was a place when people were trying to walk big and look big, it was when the rich were casting in their coins by handfuls, and with an ostentatious clatter into the treasury of God's house in old Jerusalem! Yet she of her penury gave more than they all, though it was the least the law permitted, and was all her living.

"She dared to step beside them, and her Lord saw and valued her offering at true worth."

Uncle Maurice spoke from his heart, and his sister sympathised with his enthusiasm.

"Yes, dear Maurice," she said, "we have to be careful neither to walk too big, for the sake of our neighbours, nor too little, for our own sakes and for God's cause. But, simply remembering that He judges and rewards every man according to his works, to walk, as the disciples of Him who left us an example that we should follow His steps, in a manner worthy of the vocation to which we are called."

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WINKLES.

"PLEASE, missis, have you got a pin?"

The question was addressed to me, in a childish voice, which had, however, a merry ring with it. I had paused for a moment to gather up my skirts a little, so as to keep them clear from the mud on the pavement. As it chanced, the stop took place in front of a shop where oysters, cockles, mussels, and periwinkles were displayed in tempting profusion.

I looked to see whence the voice came, and found that the owner of it was a little fellow, whose head was so overshadowed by an old, wide-brimmed straw hat that he seemed to be standing under a small umbrella. I had quite to look beneath this shade to discern a pale face and a pair of merry black-eyes, fringed with long lashes. He might be a small-sized five-year-old, for he was only in pinafores. Beside him was another youngster, evidently under the protection of little Black-Eyes, who waited with a look of intense anxiety for my answer.

"Supposing I have got a pin," said I, "what then?"

"Oh, please, would you give it us?"

"What for? Why do you want a pin?" I asked.

"Winkles!" was the prompt reply, with a glance towards the open window of the fish shop.

I understood the position. Black-Eyes and his friend wanted the pin in order to extract the little sea-snails from their shells with it.

But I could see they had no winkles in actual possession, so whilst extracting a spare pin from the edge of my cloak, I said, "I can give you a good strong pin, but where are the winkles?"

"In there," indicating the pile with his thumb. "We've had some. Only two or three though, yet—"

The thought flashed across my mind, "Why, the little rogues have been stealing. They watch their opportunity and snatch at odd ones that drop on to the slab within their reach." I put on a severe look, and said, "But you ought not to take even one winkle that is not your own."

"Oh, missis, we didn't!" returned Black-Eyes, with a troubled face. "When the woman measures 'em she 'most always spills one or two, and they roll out 'o window, and we pick 'em up. She don't want 'em back. She says so."

The child looked so straight at me out of those wonderful eyes, and gave such a prompt response, that I felt quite ashamed of myself for having suspected him. Poor little chap! He had stood there on the chance of picking up a stray winkle, and even when the first fell into his possession, groped for on the greasy-feeling pavement, he had bravely checked the impulse to make it his own, and had asked the shop-keeper if she wanted it back. From instant observation, I concluded that the question had gone to her heart, for one or two winkles rolled off into the street just then, in what seemed a preventible way, as she served a juvenile customer.

I wondered how the youngsters had got at their winkles at first, or whether the pin had been too weak and had become hopelessly crooked.

"Here is a good strong pin for you," I said, handing the article, which was received by Black-Eyes with rapturous thanks, and an attempt at a bow, which had the effect of jerking off the big hat on to the pavement, whence it was speedily recovered.

"How about the winkles?" said I. "I suppose a penny would buy you quite a lot."

"Oh, wouldn't it?" returned Black-Eyes, and then stood as if absorbed in contemplating a vision of bliss that he could never hope to realise.

"Here, take this penny and buy some then," said I. "I'm sorry, I have not another pin for you. Good-bye, children."

"Oh, thank you, missis. Say 'Thank you, and take your cap off;'" this to his wee companion. Then, "You shall have the pin first, Johnny, or maybe the shop lady will give us another."

Black-Eyes put his arm lovingly round the less child's neck, and led him into the fish shop in a state of delight which it was worth a good many pennies only to witness. And I could not help lingering to see the children with the materials for what would be to them a feast.

Beside, when one thought over this little scene, there were a good many lessons to be learned from it. Little as the elder child was, he was guarding a brother or companion weaker, younger, more helpless still.

There was the patience with which he waited for a windfall, and the sturdy honesty which made him unwilling to use it until he was quite sure it would be right to do so. There were good manners and gratitude for a small kindness, which the natural longing for a banquet of winkles would not let him forget.

There was not only this example to the less child, but the lesson in civility which made Black-Eyes wait for his companion's thanks to be added to his own. And there was the delightful unselfishness that resolved to give the younger the first turn in using the pin, and the love which threw the guiding arm round his neck.

How easy it would have been for Black-Eyes to appropriate the penny, or absorb the lion's share of the little coming treat,—to dole Johnny out a winkle now and then, and to reserve to himself the use of the pin, so that the other could never have the felicity of extracting his own dainty morsel.

But, in turning my back upon this little picture, I felt satisfied that, if anything, the younger would have most and best of what had to be shared, and that his interests were safe in the hands of his companion. I left the well-lighted thoroughfare and turned into a dim side street, but, as I passed on, I seemed still to see the faces of my little friends, and often since I have recalled, with pleasure, that scene to my memory.

I witnessed another picture not far from the spot where Black-Eyes and I became acquainted. I saw it in the broad daylight, and the actors were two boys, each about a year apart, and as much older than the former two. This is a world of contrasts, and these street pictures proved it.

One little fellow—his face streaming with tears and all besmeared through his frantic efforts to wipe them away with one hand, whilst, with the other, he tugged at a bit of a handkerchief entangled amid the varying contents of a small boy's pocket, was running after his elder companion. What with crying, running, and sobbing out at intervals:

"Willie. Do stop. Do stop!"

The child became exhausted, and coming to a stand-still, he leaned against the wall and wept bitterly.

He had no real trouble, but it was evident that he had a tender loving disposition, a clinging nature that yearned for kindness and companionship. The two children had come out together, and the elder, a hard-faced malicious-looking boy, but sturdy and self-reliant as one could see, was tormenting the other by racing off ahead, hiding round corners, dodging in and out, and keeping him at a continual strain, in order that he might not lose sight of him altogether.

Perhaps it was very weak and foolish of the child to cry as if his young heart would break about a mere nothing. Far better to have strolled leisurely on, and told the other to go on his way. But it is just the tender loving natures that can bear anything better than unkindness, and it is such natures that are tortured and played upon, by those who find pleasure in witnessing the pain they have caused.

A glance at the mocking evil face of the elder lad, sufficed to discern foreshadowings of a tyrannical manhood in years to come.

When I parted from Black-Eyes, I had thought to myself at what a trifling cost happiness had been purchased for him and his friend. Just a penny expended, and two young hearts were gladdened and a happy memory left to me of two bright faces. "Now," I thought, "I will try the worth of a penny in drying tears."

So I had a talk with the weeping little man, and did my best to cheer him, with such effect that the handkerchief having been extracted from his pocket, he soon effaced the traces of tears and smears from his rosy cheeks. An occasional sob testified to recent trouble, but a very genuine smile appeared when I produced the penny and bade him put it in his pocket and take it home. Down it went under his knickerbocker museum of treasures, and he kept his hand in too, as he lifted his rosy face to kiss his thanks.

Next came what made the contrast between the elder boy and Black-Eyes. Our petty tyrant who had watched the transfer of the coin from round the corner, began to sidle up to the little one, with pretended friendship. That penny had made all the difference, and the selfish rogue was plotting either to share it, or get the whole from his neighbour.

I turned back, though I could ill spare the time, and sent Master Willie to the right about, then cautioned the little one against his wiles. I did not want to make a tender confiding child into a suspicious one, so I had to give him quite a small lecture, and make him promise faithfully not to give the penny, or any portion of what he might buy with it, to Willie. He might share it with another friend if he liked, for little boys should be generous, only this boy ought not to be rewarded for naughtiness, I said.

I really believe the tender heart had forgiven its tormentor already, and that the penny was losing much of its value because it was not to be shared with Willie, for the child's eyes followed him with a sort of yearning look. Maybe on some past occasion, the bigger boy had put forth his strength on behalf of the little one, and the remembrance of a single benefit could never be forgotten.

The two reminded me of a boy and his dog. The lad may plague the beast as much as he chooses, but if the creature loves him, he only rushes to his side with vociferous welcome, to be teased again and again.

Generally speaking, the young master, though a petty tyrant himself, protects his dog from other boy tyrants, and the animal knows it, and looks up to him accordingly.

There might be some such bond between Willie and the sorrowful wee man whose tears I had succeeded in drying.

I had to leave him; but as I went my way, I drew fancy pictures of the homes and mothers of these my street acquaintances.

I pictured Black-Eyes, for instance, in a poor home with a hard-working widowed mother. His clothes bespoke poverty, for I was quite sure they had known other wearers—notably the wide hat—before they were worn by him. Their cleanliness, and that of both the children, told of a mother who did her best for the bodies of her little ones. They were kept warm and tidy to look at.

Then the way in which Black-Eyes protected Johnny seemed to say, that, mere baby as he was, he had often to take charge of the other baby a size less still, probably the mother went out to work—compelled to do it in order to win bread, and left these two to keep house with many an injunction, and a prayer to God to guard them from harm. Perhaps she had read the words, "Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive," and taken them to herself and found comfort in them, as she went about her daily task.

I am sure she had taught her little ones to be truthful and honest, for they would not appropriate a stray winkle without the leave of her to whom it lawfully belonged.

The conduct of Black-Eyes seemed to brighten, by the thought of it, the dim little side street into which I passed when I bade him good-bye, and a prayer went up from my heart to God, that He would bless the children and guide their young feet into the narrow path that leads to everlasting life.

I could not feel the same about Willie's home, for his conduct was tyrannical, selfish and mean. He enjoyed the sight of suffering, and unless he were checked and guided aright, would develop into a cruel and selfish man. Surely he needed to be prayed for most of all my street friends, and I remembered him too. One finds so many to pray for in passing to-and-fro in the world. And are we not all members of the great human family that sprang from the same Creator? Should we not all pray that we may become true children of the same heavenly Father?

As to the troubled little heart, he has a good mother, I am sure, and is loved and cosseted at home. He gets no stinted measure of affection. One could discern a mother's hand and love in every article of his clothing, even to the small pocket-handkerchief which took so much tugging out when most needed.

I know there are wise people who would object to the bestowal of odd pennies on little street children, and I own that it would not do to scatter even these broadcast. But when—well I will not argue, but suggest that, if in going along the streets, we can in any little way give a glimpse of happiness or a gleam of sunshine to a child, it is good for ourselves that we do not let slip the opportunity.

Pardon & Sons, Printers, London, E. C.

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