"I don't think I put much finery on our children," said Patience. "But I do like to have them look nicely,—as their mother would like to have them look if she could see them."

"I think you do keep them very nicely," said Miss Armstrong. "It is easy to see that Eddy and Eben are not neglected for the sake of any thing. I never saw two better-trained or pleasanter children."

Patience's pale cheek flushed with pleasure. These two babies, left her by her fair young stepmother, herself a dear friend and playmate, were as the apple of her eye.

"Pa and Faithie deserve most of the credit of that," said she frankly. "Perhaps I do think too much about my housekeeping and all that. You see, I was left in charge when I was very young, and I felt such a responsibility. Even when mother Hester came, she was such a delicate little thing, I felt I ought to spare her all I could. And she staid with us such a little time,—only a year and a half—"

"It was a dreadful foolish thing of your father, marrying that child, and when every one knew her family was consumptive," said Aunt Betsy.

"I don't think so," returned Patience. "It was one of the best things that ever happened in our house. Hester was like a sunbeam, or like an angel that came to make a visit, and then went back to heaven again. Eddy is just like her."

"Yes, I expect she'll inherit the disease," rejoined Job's comforter. "She has just Hester's clear blue eyes and red cheeks."

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Bassett. "Eddy is as tough as a little knot. That is another notion that does no end of harm,—I mean, thinking a girl must needs have the consumption because her mother had it. My grandfather was bitten in two by a sperm whale, but I don't expect that is going to happen to me."

"Whales don't run in families," said Aunt Betsy with dignity, while all the rest laughed: "consumption does."

"Whales have run in my family for a good many generations,—ever since Nantucket folks took to catching them," said Mrs. Bassett. "But, as to Ednah, I do hope nobody will put such an idea in the child's head. I do believe prophecies of that kind sometimes bring their own fulfilment."

"I think you are right, Mrs. Bassett," said Miss Armstrong. "I have known of at least one case in which melancholy insanity was brought on, apparently from no other cause than the one you mention."

"Talking of insanity brings us round to Kit again," said Mrs. Weston. "I do wish something could be done for that child. I spoke to Symantha about her coming to Sunday school; and she said she should have no objection herself, but there was no use in talking to her father: he would never allow it, and would only be angry. I think she feared, though she did not say so, that he would visit his anger on the child."

"Yes, I know," added Mrs. Bassett. "He told pa he hated the very name of God.

"'That's queer,' says pa, 'to hate somebody you don't believe in. I'd never trouble myself to hate a man if I believed there was no such person,' says pa.

"And Phin never said another word. Well, we must just bear poor Kit on our minds, and maybe some way will be opened. She seems to have a sense of religion, too, from all I hear. Myra says she asked Sarah Leet if she didn't think the Lord told her how to catch the snake."

"No doubt He did," said Miss Delia, "but it isn't every one that would have minded as quick as she did. Some folks would have said, 'Oh, dear! Lord, I can't: I'm afraid.'"

"Good-afternoon, ladies. Settling all the affairs of the parish, I expect," said Mr. Bassett, appearing at the parlor door in his dusty miller's coat, his hair and face white with flour.

Mrs. Bassett looked scandalized.

"Now, pa, what do you mean coming in like that? Do go and dress yourself. There's your clean things all laid out for you, and you come in all over flour. I do declare, I never saw such a man! Go and get dressed, there's a dear, for I expect Myra has got tea all ready."

Mr. Bassett indulged in a jolly laugh as he withdrew, which was echoed from the great kitchen where Myra and her little sisters were getting tea. Such laughs were common in the Bassett family. The household was one of those through which a fresh, warm gale seems always blowing, making a good deal of noise and stir, but keeping every thing bright and sweet.

"Did you ever see such a man?" said Ma Bassett, appealing to the company in general, with wifely and motherly pride shining all over her comely face. "And he makes the children as bad as he is. Such hands to laugh, I never saw."

"The crackling of thorns under a pot, that's what Scripture calls it," said Aunt Betsy, who always resented a laugh as though it must needs be directed at herself.

"That is the laughter of fools," returned Miss Delia, bristling a little in defence of her host. "And I, for my part, would rather hear thorns crackling under a pot than the east wind screeching through a keyhole."

Aunt Betsy betook herself to her snuff-box, her usual refuge when worsted.

"Never mind, Delia; we all know Aunt Betsy's bark is worse than her bite," said Ma Bassett. "Ladies, will you walk out to supper?"

At the tea-table, the subject of the church-cleaning was renewed. Mr. Bassett approved heartily.

"Such a piece of work ought to be easy here," remarked Miss Armstrong: "you all seem so united."

"Yes, we are very fortunate in that," answered Mr. Bassett. "There has never been any church here but ours. There is a small Methodist society over at the cross-roads; very nice folks they are too, I must say."

"I don't see how you can say that," interrupted Aunt Betsy. "Joe Hilton belonged to them, and he got drunk at the county fair, and gambled away his cow."

"There are black sheep in every flock," said Miss Delia.

"And they took him back again, and he belongs there now," continued Aunt Betsy triumphantly, as though she considered the niceness of the Methodist folks forever disproved.

"Yes, they restored him in the spirit of meekness," said Mr. Bassett. "Poor Joe was a very hard case for many years before he joined the Methodists; and it was no wonder, perhaps, that the old temptation overcame him. He has worked for me all the spring, and I don't want a better man."

"Mr. Martin said the Methodist society was the natural refuge of the lower classes," observed Myra.

"Yes, I know he did; and that foolish remark repeated did more harm than he would ever do good. What business had he talking about upper and lower classes? His father was a foundryman, and his mother kept a little candy-shop to help them along."

"That was no disgrace to them," observed Miss Delia.

"Not a bit. It was an item to their credit, and ought to have kept him from talking such nonsense."

"What kind of a man was he?" asked Miss Armstrong.

"Well, he was a man of a good deal of talent and reading, but he did not get on, somehow," replied Mr. Bassett. "I don't know as I could tell what the matter was—"

"The matter was, that he was always feeling abused, and complaining because, as he said, he had no congenial spirits to associate with," struck in Miss Delia. "He had a great notion of himself and his own consequence, and thought himself buried in a country parish; and you see no church likes to be looked upon in the light of a tomb," added the little lady, laughing. "I hope Mr. Brace is not like that."

"He is not," said Miss Armstrong. "He is not a man to think himself buried anywhere, so long as he has work to do for his Master."

"Then you know him?"

"Oh, yes, I know him," answered Miss Armstrong: "we used to work together in New York years ago. I think you will all like him very much. He is very strong upon the proprieties of public worship," she added. "I could not help thinking of him last Sunday when I happened to notice that great cobweb in the corner over the organ."

"And that brings us to the church-cleaning again," said Ma Bassett, whose womanly eye saw that Miss Armstrong was a little bit agitated.

The subject was discussed in all its length and breadth. And before the party broke up, it was quite settled that the two church-wardens should take the first step toward calling a parish meeting.

When the friends separated, Mrs. Weston and Miss Delia were deep in some occult mystery concerning the coloring of carpet-rags, an art for which the little lady was renowned, and Miss Armstrong and Patience Fletcher walked on together.

"How easy Mrs. Bassett does take every thing!" said Patience. "I wish I was like her."

"Is she always so?" asked Miss Armstrong.

"Just the same, whatever happens. Even when her children were little, and they were not as well off as they are now, she never fretted. She always would take time to rest and read. I staid there once for three weeks when father had small-pox. Every day after dinner, when she had washed up the dishes and got the baby to sleep, she used to take her Bible or some other book, and lie down for half or three-quarters of an hour. Sometimes she would read, and sometimes she would take a little nap, but she always got up as fresh as a daisy."

"I suspect that is one secret of her cheerfulness," said Miss Armstrong. "She takes time to rest, and to feed her spirit."

"Well, I wonder if that is what ails me," said Patience.

"Does any thing ail you?" asked Miss Armstrong. "I thought you were a happy woman."

"Well, I am not," answered Patience. "I don't know what the matter is, either. It is all right enough outside, if I did not have quite so much to do. But I don't know how it is, I don't have any peace or joy in religion. I pray, of course, and go to communion, but I don't have any comfort in it. My prayers never seem to get outside of the room."

"Since the Hearer of prayer is undoubtedly in the room, there is, perhaps, no need of their getting out," said Miss Armstrong. "I understand the feeling, however, and it is a very sad one. But, Miss Fletcher—"

"Call me Patience, please. Everybody does."

"So I will, for it is a favorite name of mine. Are you sure, Patience, dear, that you are not starving your soul all this time? It must have nourishment, you know, as well as the body. Excuse the freedom of the question, but do you take time enough for your devotions?"

"I don't suppose I do," answered Patience. "I am so hurried in the morning, and at night I am so tired."

"But during the day, while the children are at school—"

"Yes, I know, but there always seems some sewing or cleaning to do, that takes up the time."

"Are you sure that all that sewing and cleaning are necessary? Or, if it is, why not leave some of it for Faith when she comes home? She ought to help you a good deal."

"Well, she does; and she would like to help me a great deal more. She isn't a bit of a shirk, Faith isn't. But—Well, the fact is, Miss Armstrong, I have my own ways and plans; and, if things are not done just exactly so, it puts me out, and makes me uncomfortable."

"Isn't it possible that you are making idols of your own ways and plans?" asked Miss Armstrong gently.

"Idols?" repeated Patience, as if a little offended. "I don't know what you mean."

"An idol is any thing which comes between us and God," said Miss Armstrong; "whatever we set up in His place is an idol. Your ways and plans may be ever so good; but if you allow them to take all your time and thoughts—" Miss Armstrong paused, and added, "The cares of this world, you know, can choke the Word as well as the deceitfulness of riches."

"Yes, I know," said Patience, "but if He sends the cares?"

"The cares He sends don't often have that effect. It comes from the cares we make for ourselves. Let me tell you a little story to illustrate my meaning. I once attended a missionary meeting in a certain city, and staid with a very kind lady with whom I was slightly acquainted. The first meeting was in the afternoon, and I asked Mrs. M— if she did not mean to go. She said it was impossible: she had been busy all the morning, and expected to be busy all the afternoon. I brought back with me another lady, who had been assigned to the same quarters. When we sat down to tea, we had four kinds of cake and two kinds of biscuit, besides a strawberry shortcake and some hot dish or other. We could not have eaten the four kinds of cake and the strawberry shortcake without risk to our lives; yet she must make them, though she lost the whole day's meeting. Now, were that lady's cares of the Lord's sending?"

"I suppose not," said Patience, laughing, as it seemed in spite of herself. "I don't think I am so bad as that, and yet I don't know. Perhaps I am. But, Miss Armstrong, I talked to Mr. Martin when he was here, and told him how I felt, and how little interest I had in religion; and he said it was the state of my health,—that people always felt so when they were not well, and that he was the same way himself."

"I think that excuse is used far too often," replied Miss Armstrong. "It seems your health does not hinder your taking such an interest in your household matters that you can allow no one to help you. And if so, why should it prevent you from being interested in your devotion?"

"There is something in that," observed Patience. "Mr. Martin himself was in a terrible taking because my Leghorn chickens were heavier than his. Besides that, it seems as if our religion can't be worth much if it is going to fail us when we want it the very most. Well, Miss Armstrong, I should not wonder if you were right. Anyhow, I will think it over."

"And pray over it," said Miss Armstrong. "And, dear Patience, remember that He who said, 'Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness,' was one who knew every one of our burdens and hinderances as well as ourselves, or better."

"If one could always remember that," said Patience rather sadly. "Well, good-night, Miss Armstrong. I am ever so much obliged to you."

And Patience went home so full of thought that she actually failed to remark that Faith had hung up the dish-towels endways instead of lengthways, and had set up the teacups in twos instead of threes.

Another tea-party had been held that afternoon, quite as pleasant, though smaller and more informal.

"Kit," said Symantha after dinner, "don't you want to go up and play on the mountain this afternoon? I'm going to clean up the kitchen, and I want it all to myself."

"Yes, indeed, I should like it!" answered Kit. "But I thought perhaps you would want me to sit with aunt Martha."

"No, she had a bad time this morning, and she will be sure to sleep all the afternoon. I'll give you some gingerbread and a bottle of milk, so you can have a picnic and a nice time reading. Wait a minute: I've got something else for you."

She left the room, and presently returned with a book bound in colored calf, old but still in good preservation.

"That was my grandmother's book," said she as she put it into Kit's hands. "I found it this morning on the top shelf of a cupboard in the back room. Take good care of it."

Kit opened the volume, which proved to be a copy of the "Pilgrim's Progress" and "The Holy War" bound together.

"Oh, how glad I am!" she exclaimed. "Now I can read it all. Thank you, Symantha."

"I was looking for a Bible for you; and perhaps I shall find one yet, somewhere," said Symantha. "There ought to be one about the house, I should think."

"I have got a Testament," said Kit timidly.

"Have you? Where did you get it?"

Kit told the story. Symantha listened with her face turned away.

"Don't let pa or Melissa see it or know any thing about it," was her comment. "Keep it hid away. After all, I don't see why he should care," she added, speaking more to herself than to Kit. "If it is all a dream, at least it is one that gives people comfort; and there is not too much of that in the world."

"But it isn't all a dream, I am sure it isn't," said Kit with tearful earnestness. "I don't know as I could tell you why,—I am only a little girl,—but I am just as sure it is true as that I am alive."

"Well, child, think so if it does you any good. I wish I did, though I am badly off if it is," Symantha added with a bitter smile. "But there, run along, and have a nice time. Pa and Melissa have gone to Oldbury, and won't be at home till night, so you can stay as long as you like."

Kit kissed Symantha, and betook herself to her favorite place on the hill.

As she came round the end of the ledge, she saw two figures ascending from the other side, carrying a basket between them. And her heart beat with pleasure as she recognized the two young ladies from the stone house.

"Oh, I do hope they are coming here!" she said to herself. She was not mistaken.

"Here is our little hostess," said Ida. "I hoped we should find her. Kitty, my dear, will you lend us the use of your summer parlor this afternoon, and join us in a picnic? You see we have brought our basket."

Kit never knew exactly how she answered. But certain it is, neither of her guests found any fault with their welcome.

"Now, where shall we put our provisions, to keep them fresh and cool till we want them?" asked Amity.

For answer Kit moved away a thin slab of stone, and showed a deep, shady cavity, which seemed to be of some size.

"I call that my spring-house," said she. "There really is a spring in there. If you listen, you will hear it."

Both the girls bent down, and distinctly heard the silvery plash of water-drops in the little cave.

"How very pretty!" said Amity. "If we lighted a match, we might see the whole of it."

"I don't know as I want to," replied Kit a little shyly. "I like to think it is a great, deep cave with jewels and all kinds of beautiful things, and a lovely lady like the one in my old fairy-book."

"Exactly," said Ida. "I understand. You and I like to imagine, while Amity wants to go to the bottom of every thing with a match and a candle. However, we won't disturb your romance, Kitty. And now what shall we do to amuse ourselves? What book have you there?"

Kit displayed her treasure.

"What a nice old copy!" said Amity. "See, Ida, what a beautiful title page, with the warriors of 'The Holy War' winding down one side, and Christian and Hopeful toiling up the other. Suppose we take turns in reading aloud, Ida: I dare say Kitty will like to hear some of her book. And then you shall give us some music.—You will like that, won't you, Kitty?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am!" answered Kit with sparkling eyes. "But perhaps you and Miss Van Zandt would rather read your own books," she added with instinctive politeness, glancing at the volumes the girls had taken from their basket.

"No, indeed!" answered Ida. "The 'Pilgrim's Progress' is just the book for such a place and such an afternoon."

"Well, don't let us waste all our time getting ready," said practical Amity, producing her knitting, which her friends were wont to consider as much a part of herself as her fingers. "Begin at the beginning, Ida."

   "'As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place where was a den; and I laid me down in that place to sleep.'"

How many children during the last two hundred years have had their attention arrested, and their imaginations charmed, by these words! I know of no book which gains more by being well read aloud than the "Pilgrim's Progress." And Ida read aloud uncommonly well, having been thoroughly trained in that most desirable accomplishment by her mother and aunt Barbara. I do not mean to imply that she was that fearsome creature, an elocutionist. On the contrary, she read like a lady, in a clear, soft voice, with due emphasis, and attention to stops.

Kit sat with folded hands, and listened as in a happy dream. The weather was perfect, sunny but not too bright, with fleecy clouds passing over the blue sky,—

"Shepherded by the soft, unwilling wind,"

which did not reach the sheltered hillside. She felt a pleasure in the pretty calico dresses and well-suited colors, the glossy hair and becoming hats, of the young ladies, in their well-trained voices and manners, and above all in the wonderful story. She did not, of course, understand it fully,—it is a book wherein the most experienced Christian may find much to ponder,—but she had a general idea of the meaning; while to her Christian and his wife, Obstinate and Pliable, Mr. Worldly Wiseman and the keeper of the wicket gate, were as real as uncle Phin and Mr. Bassett and all the other people she saw every day. Kit often looked back on that day as one of the happiest of her life.

"Now we will have some music," said Amity after they had got Christian safely to the House Beautiful. "What will you sing, Ida?"

"What would Kitty like to hear?" asked Ida.

"Please, would you sing the hymn they sang in the schoolhouse the other night?" asked Kit with bashful eagerness. "The first one, I mean."

Ida complied, and sang that most beautiful of hymns all through; Kit listening meanwhile as if her life depended on not losing a note.

"That is lovely!" she said, more to herself than to Ida, when the hymn was finished. "I think I could sing it now if I knew the words."

"Can you sing?" asked Amity.

"Yes, ma'am, I could always sing every thing I heard; but I never had a chance to learn many hymns. I can sing 'Swing low, sweet chariot,' through."

"Sing it," said Amity.

And Kit complied. Her voice, of course, was quite uncultivated.

"You ought to take singing-lessons," remarked Ida. "I suppose you never had any."

"No, ma'am. I never had lessons in any thing till I came here, only Symantha taught me to read and write, and to sew; and sometimes I would go to school a few weeks at a time, but not very often."

"You don't remember any thing about your mother?"

"No, ma'am, not really. Sometimes when aunt Martha is pretty quiet, and especially when I look at her asleep, she makes me think about my mother, but I can't tell why. Melissa says my mother died in the poorhouse, but she is such a liar I never believe any thing 'she' says," concluded Kit in a matter-of-fact tone which scandalized Amity.

"Hush, hush!" said she. "Little girls should not call people liars."

"Not when they tell lies?" asked Kit. "Melissa does; you 'can't' believe a word she says about any thing."

Ida bent down to hide a smile, and Amity found it convenient to change the subject.

"Does not Symantha tell you any thing about your mother?"

"No, ma'am. I asked her once or twice, but she did not answer; and I saw she did not like it, so I didn't say any more. Symantha has so much trouble, and she is so good to me, I don't like to do any thing to bother her."

"Quite right," said Amity. "But you say you do not think you lived in the poorhouse. Why?"

Kit knitted her brows, and her eyes assumed the far-off look they always took when she tried to recall her faint recollections of her former home.

"Because of things I can recollect," said she. "I remember sitting on the floor, and tracing out the pattern of the carpet with my finger. When I saw Mrs. Blandy's carpet hung out, I thought of it. And I remember a gray bird in a round cage, and—I know that can't be true though—it seems just as if it could talk."

"I dare say it did," said Ida. "Probably the bird was a gray parrot. But don't you recollect any lady that took care of you, and that you called mamma or mother?"

"No, not really," said Kit. "Whenever I try, it seems for a minute as if I did; and then she gets all mixed up with aunt Martha. Only there is one thing I have thought of since you said that name Kathleen," added Kit eagerly. "I know that is my name; and somebody, I don't know who, used to sing a song about Kathleen,—'Kathleen My—' something. I think I should know the tune if I heard it: I always do remember tunes."

"Was this it?" asked Ida. And she sang a verse of the beautiful Irish song,—

"Kathleen Mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking."

She had not finished the verse when Kit broke in, her eyes and cheeks blazing with excitement,—

"That is it, that is it! I have dreamed it sometimes, but I never could remember it when I was awake. Oh, I know it was my mother that sang that!" And she burst into such a passionate fit of crying and sobbing, that the girls were alarmed.

"Hush, my dear. Don't cry so; you will be sick," said Amity, putting her arm round the child. "There, try to quiet yourself."

Kit made a violent effort, and succeeded in regaining some degree of composure. "I can't think what makes me cry so easy," she said as she wiped her eyes. "I cried about the snake this morning. I think it must be because my hand keeps me awake nights."

"Perhaps so. Is your hand so bad?"

"Yes, ma'am; it is very sore."

"What was it about the snake?" asked Ida, looking nervously about her. She was dreadfully afraid of snakes, and was always suspecting them in every possible locality.

"Oh, there are none here," said Kit, seeing Ida's movement. "I never saw a snake on this hill. It was down at the schoolhouse. I think it did scare me, for I have felt shaky ever since."

"But what was it?" persisted Ida.

Kit told the story in as few words as possible.

"You dear, brave little thing!" exclaimed Ida. "How could you do it? It makes me shudder to think of it."

"Well, it wasn't 'nice,'" said Kit emphatically: "it felt so cold and horrid! I felt as if I wanted to wash my hands a dozen times over."

"I don't wonder. But don't let us talk about it any more now," said Amity. "I think we had better have our tea. I don't know how you two feel, but I am hungry."

"I have got some gingerbread and milk, if you like it," said Kit modestly. "Symantha makes real nice gingerbread."

"That will be a fine addition to our feast. Come, Ida, let us set the table; and Kit shall be the company, and look on."

Never was any thing so pretty, Kit thought, as the little china plates and cups produced from the basket, never any thing so wonderful as the spirit-lamp over which Amity heated up the tea, or so nice as the sandwiches and sponge-cake.

When all was ready, Ida made a sign to Amity, who bent her head and said a simple grace. Kit looked on with awe. It was the first time she had ever seen or heard of such a thing.

The girls ate their supper with abundance of jokes and laughter. Kit had not much appetite, but she enjoyed the delicate sandwich, and the fragrant cup of tea which helped the headache she had carried all day.

"Well, we have had a very nice time," said Amity after she had repacked the basket. "Now, Kitty, what can we do for you?"

"You have done too much for me now," replied Kit. "I never had such a nice time in my life. Only—"

"Only what?" asked Ida.

"I wish I had the words of that hymn," said Kit, blushing. "I think I could sing it sometimes if I knew the words. And that about the shadow of the wing is so nice: it makes me think of the little chickens running under the old hen when it rains, or they are scared."

"That is what it means," said Ida. "Let me tell you a verse in the Bible about that:

   "'He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust' (Ps. xci. 4).

"You shall have the hymn, Kathleen. I will send you a little book which has it and a good many more. I will give it to Miss Armstrong to-morrow. Good-night, my dear. I hope we shall have another nice picnic some time."

When Amity and Ida reached home, they told Mrs. Van Zandt what Kit had said, and how she remembered the song.

"I do believe she is Kathleen Joyce's child," said aunt Barbara. "But how should she come into these people's hands, and why should they wish to keep her away from every one?"

"I was struck with one thing she said," remarked Ida,—"that when she thought of her mother, she always got her mixed up with aunt Martha. Do you suppose it possible that she can be Mrs. Mallory's child?"

"It does not seem likely," said Mrs. Van Zandt. "Why should they wish to conceal it?"

"There might be some money in the case," said Ida.

"It is possible. I heard that Kathleen's husband became quite wealthy at one time, from some fortunate speculation."

"Did she never write to you after her marriage?" asked Amity.

"Never," answered Mrs. Van Zandt sadly.

"Perhaps her husband would not allow it."

"I think that very likely; he never forgave my opposition to the match. And some notion of loyalty to his memory might have kept her from writing afterward."

"It seems loyalty to his memory did not prevent her marrying again," said Amity.

"That is different, as the children say," replied Mrs. Van Zandt. "And besides, we do not know that it is the same person."

"Some people would consider poor Kathleen's conduct as an argument against the adoption of children," said Amity.

Mrs. Van Zandt smiled rather sadly.

"I have heard of other than adopted daughters making runaway matches," said she. "Moreover, on looking back, I can see where I was myself to blame in Kathleen's case. I indulged and petted her beyond all reason. I allowed her to please herself in all things, and never taught her to exercise self-denial or self-control. Spoiled children are not often grateful to their spoilers; and, indeed, I do not know why they should be. Well, my dears, we must keep our eyes on this poor little girl, and try to befriend her. Whoever she may be, she is one of the Lord's little ones. Perhaps the truth may come out some time. I am glad that you have given her at least one pleasant afternoon."

CHAPTER X.

THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.

KIT had hardly reached home when she saw her uncle drive into the yard, and presently he entered the kitchen with Melissa.

Phin's brow was dark, and he had an uneasy expression, as though (so Kit said to herself) he had been doing something he was ashamed of. Melissa, on the contrary, was in excellent spirits, and wore a decided expression of triumph. There was something in the way she looked at Kit which made the child feel uncomfortable, she did not know why.

Phin hardly spoke, except to inquire for his wife, till after supper. Then he turned to Kit, and asked, not unkindly,—

"Well, Kit, how is your hand?"

"It is very sore," said Kit: "I can't use it a bit, and it ached all night almost."

"What is it about the snake?" asked Melissa. "We stopped at the tavern, and some one told pa a great story about your saving Fletcher's girl from a snake."

"It wasn't any great story," answered Kit composedly. "A copperhead snake twisted round Eddy's leg, and I pulled it off and killed it."

"Yes, that's a likely yarn," said Melissa contemptuously. "How did you pull it off, I should like to know? And how did you know it was a copperhead?"

"I took it with my thumb and finger right behind its head, and then stamped on it," answered Kit. "And Mr. Bassett said it was a copperhead. But I knew it just as soon as I saw it."

"I don't believe a word of it," said Melissa.

"And I don't care whether you believe it or not," retorted Kit.

Somehow Melissa always aroused all that was unamiable in the child's disposition.

Melissa delighted in teasing her, and found great amusement in the fits of passion she sometimes provoked.

"Well, well, you were a brave child, but you had no business to run such a risk," was Phin's comment. "Suppose the snake had bitten you?"

"Then I should have died, I suppose," replied Kit simply.

"We don't want you to die just yet," said Phin with some show of feeling. "You must hurry and get your hand well."

"Why?" asked Kit, struck with something unusual in the tone.

"Oh, because. Maybe I shall want you to do something for me," answered Phin with assumed carelessness.

"What is the use of mincing matters, pa?" asked Melissa. "The long and the short of it is that we have got a place in Oldbury for Kit; and she is going to it as soon as her hand gets well, so there!"

And Melissa threw herself back in her chair with a glance which spoke of satisfied and malicious triumph.

"There will be two words to that," said Symantha dryly. "What sort of a place?"

"A place to wash dishes and wait on table at Stillwell's confectionery and dining hall," answered Melissa. "They will give her a dollar and a half a week, and perhaps more if she earns it."

"Oh!" said Symantha in the same dry tone. "And what are they going to give me?"

"You?" said her father. "What do you mean?"

"Kit, run out and let in the cows," said Symantha. "I mean what I say, father," she continued firmly as Kit left the room. "That child is not going to any such place as Stillwell's, or to any place at present; or if she does, I go with her."

"You do? And who is to take care of Martha and the work?"

"I'm sure I won't," said Melissa.

"That is your affair," answered Symantha. "All I know is, that, if Kit goes to work in Oldbury, I go too."

"What nonsense!" said Phin peevishly. "What is the child to you? Besides, Melissa is going to work in the same place; and she can see to the child if she needs any seeing to."

"Melissa will have enough to look after herself if she goes to that rum-hole," returned Symantha. "I should think, if she wants a place, she might at least take a decent one."

"I am not going into any one's kitchen when I can get four dollars a week and lots of presents by standing behind a counter," said Melissa. "However, you can settle it between you," she added, rising from the table. "I am going over to Mariette Jewsbury's. I have been doing some shopping for her."

"I think you might stay and help do up the work," said her father.

But Melissa only laughed as she slammed the door behind her.

"See here, father," said Symantha gravely. "I want to talk about this matter sensibly. You promised me, when I gave up every thing—as you know I did—to stay with you, and take charge of ma, that I should always have my own way about Kit. Haven't I kept my part of the bargain?"

"I don't deny that you have," answered Phin, "but a man can't always keep his promises."

"You must keep yours in this case, or I shall not keep mine," said Symantha. "Just as surely as Kit goes to Oldbury, I shall go too. You know best how you would get on without me."

"You are a fool," said her father roughly, but evidently moved. "I tell you, we ought to get her away from here. She grows more like her mother every day. This old lady, Mrs. Van Zandt, is sure to see her; and then there will be an inquiry, and all will come out, about the property and all."

"Well, let it come. It was foolish to make a secret of it in the first place. You are not accountable for the property."

"That is all you know about it. I tell you the child must go."

"Then I must go, too, that's all," was the calm rejoinder. "And there is another thing: I can't spare Kit. She can manage ma better than anybody, and sometimes when I can't do any thing with her; and it is every thing to keep her quiet."

"That is true; and, if Melissa goes away, you will need her help about the work," said Phin, evidently wavering in his purpose more and more as he saw the steadfastness of his daughter. "Perhaps you had better keep her out of school."

"I don't want to do that. She is getting on nicely, and making good friends."

"Yes, that is one trouble. She makes too many friends."

"It won't be a trouble if you don't make a fuss about it. Please listen to me, father. I have been a dutiful daughter to you, haven't I? I don't set up for goodness, but you know whether I have been that."

"Yes, my girl, you have," said her father with feeling. "I don't deny it. You have stuck to me through thick and thin, as very few girls would have done."

"Then, if I have, give me my way in this," pleaded Symantha. "Let me keep Kit. If I can find the right kind of place for her, I will let her go by and by. But let me keep her now. Don't send her straight to ruin. Melissa is a woman, and must go her own way. But don't send the innocent child into such a place as Stillwell's."

And, to her father's amazement and alarm, Symantha burst into tears. He had never seen her cry before, since she was a child.

"There, there, my girl, have your own way, and don't cry," said he. "I didn't think you cared so much about it. Her arm is too sore to do any thing now, and I can make that an excuse to Stillwell. There, do stop crying. I won't say any thing more about it just now, at any rate."

"Thank you, father," said Symantha, trying to check her sobs.

Phin's lip twitched. "It is little you have to thank me for," he said in a husky voice. "I've thrown away your life as well as my own."

"You needn't throw it away,—any more of it, I mean," said Symantha. "Now we have got this place, why can't you settle down and be steady? The farm isn't a bad one for dairy-work, and the cows are good and growing better. I'll do my share if I work my fingers off."

"Yes, I dare say you would, but—Well, there is no use talking," said Phin gloomily. "There is no such thing as a man's breaking away from his past life. It will come after him. But never mind that. You shall have your way about Kit. Poor girl, you don't have much comfort of your life, anyhow."

A few minutes afterward, Phin had occasion to go to the barn-loft. There was a small, roughly finished room in one end, which was a favorite playing-place of Kit's in bad weather. Phin thought he heard a voice, and peeped through a knot-hole. What did he see and hear? He saw a young child on her knees, almost on her face, in an agony of prayer, and heard over and over again,—

   "Oh, don't, don't let me go to that dreadful place, away from Symantha and Miss Armstrong and all! Please do make uncle Phin let me stay here, and do make him be a good man and believe in the Bible; and please forgive him for burning me, for I don't think he meant to do it."

When Phin reached the lower floor, he stamped his foot, and muttered as if in anger, but his anger was not directed against Kit.

When Melissa, in the course of the evening, said something about the place at Stillwell's, she was promptly silenced.

"Kit can't go now: her arm is too bad. And I don't know that I shall let her go at all. We can't spare the only saint in the family. Eh, Kit? Come here."

Kit came trembling, for she never knew what to expect.

"So you don't want to go and earn wages, and have all the candy you can eat? You would rather stay with Symantha?"

"Yes, I would," replied Kit, taking courage. "I don't care about candy, and I don't want to go away. Please, uncle Phin, don't send me."

"Well, I won't, then, not just now, at any rate. I thought perhaps you would like a change. Is your arm so sore?" he asked, as Kit winced on his touching it. "Let me see."

He undid the arm tenderly enough. It was red and angry, and had the peculiar odor of a bad burn. Phin looked grave over it.

"If this is not better by Monday, we must take you to the doctor," said he, carefully replacing the bandage. "You don't think I did it on purpose, do you, if I did burn the book?"

"No," answered Kit. "Anyhow, I cared more about the book than I did about my arm."

"I'll get you a prettier book than that some day. There, give me a kiss, and go to bed."

"Oh, very well," said Melissa in an affected tone of carelessness, which nevertheless trembled with anger. "I'm sure I don't care. If pa thinks he can afford to quarrel with Stillwell, it is nothing to me."

Phin made no reply, and the matter was dropped.

Sunday morning rose warm and beautiful, with that indescribable atmosphere of tranquil repose which belongs to Sunday in the country, and especially in New England. By ten o'clock, however, the roads were alive with teams of all sorts, from Mrs. Van Zandt's phaeton and Mr. Weston's roomy family carriage, to old Miss Jewsbury's venerable "one-horse shay," and Mr. Bassett's long wagon, with its straight-backed, splint-bottomed wagon chairs, with its crickets and cushions put in here and there for the accommodation of the smaller fry, for Mrs. Bassett always took her children to church by the time they were three years old.

Manifold were the greetings and hand-shakings as groups of friends and relations alighted at the horse-block by the door of the old church on the green, and many and kind the inquiries for this or that one detained at home by illness in their families.

"No, Celia isn't out this morning," said Miss Delia. "She had one of her bad headaches last night, and they always leave her kind of prostrated for two or three days. Who is going to preach?"

"I am not sure we shall have any one," answered Mr. Weston, to whom the question was addressed. "Mr. Martin sent word the last minute that he could not come—"

"Just like him," interposed Miss Delia.

"Oh, come, you mustn't be hard on him. Perhaps he couldn't help it," said Mr. Weston. "Dr. Chase drove over to Oldbury last night to see if he could find any one, but whether he succeeded or not, I don't know. However, we shall soon find out."

"Well, I shall be glad when we have a settled minister again.—How is your mother, Agnes? I see she isn't out."

"No: Mrs. Richmond and Milly wanted to come, so ma staid at home with Cordelia. I am going home after Sunday school, so she can come this afternoon."

"How do you do, Mrs. Richmond?" said Miss Delia as that lady sailed up the steps attired in a silk which had once been rich and handsome, but was now decidedly the worse for wear.

Mrs. Richmond had a way of wearing out her old finery in the country. She seldom went to church in Oldham, or, indeed, anywhere else. But she had a desire to get, as she said, a good look at Mrs. Van Zandt. She acknowledged Miss Delia's greeting with great condescension; while her daughter did not notice it at all, but hastened on to speak to Selina Weston.

"Well, Selina, how have you been? I've been looking out for you all the way. I have wanted to see you so! You don't know how often I have thought of you."

"Yes, you must have thought of me very often," answered Selina coolly, "you wrote to me so many times."

"Oh, my dear, you don't think how many engagements I have in town. And besides, I don't know how it is, I haven't any taste for writing letters: I can't express what I feel, and writing seems so cold and heartless. But I have thought of you, whether you believe it or not. I should have come over to your house yesterday, only we were so busy getting settled, and poor Cordelia was so tired with the journey."

Amelia Richmond was one of those people whose very voices are suggestive of flattery; a "palaverer," Miss Delia called her, but Miss Delia was a little apt to be severe.

"Do you sing in the choir now?" asked Amelia. Then, as Selina nodded, "I mean to sit up there this morning, and then we can get together in sermon time. Oh, you needn't look so shocked. I don't mean to talk, of course, but just for the pleasure of sitting by you."

"Come, then," said Selina; "it is time we were in our places."

"Wait just a minute. I want to see the Van Zandts come in. Well, they don't mean to hurt themselves dressing, but I suppose any thing is good enough for the country, as ma says. Anyhow, if I was heiress to half a million, like Miss Bogardus, I would wear something better than satteen."

"Her dress is elegantly made, though," said Selina, feeling all the time that she ought not to be discussing such matters in church. "See that other young lady. Doesn't she look like a cloud in all that soft cream-color?"

"You goose! It is only nun's veiling, and did not cost a cent over fifty cents a yard," said Amelia, who estimated every thing by the price. "Well, they are no great sight, after all. Here comes the preacher, I suppose. Who is he? Some stupid old country parson, I dare say."

"Do be quiet," whispered Selina: "everybody will hear you. Come, we must go up-stairs."

"On second thoughts, I believe I will sit with ma," said Milly. "I want to get a nearer look at Miss Van Zandt's dress."

Selina was not sorry. She had been brought up to behave properly in church; and greatly under Milly's influence as she was, she could not bring herself to believe that whispering and laughing in the sanctuary of God were any marks of high breeding. Selina had come to church more than usually disposed to serious thought. She could not, perhaps, have given any reason for her state of mind that day, but she felt almost ready to say, once for all, that she would take a decided stand, and enlist openly under the banner of her rightful King. She took her seat quietly, arranged her books, and then opened her Bible to look over her lesson.

Oldham church was a simple, pretty building, quite plain but comfortable, and perfectly adapted to the purpose for which it was used, if it had been kept in order. But the green blinds were faded, and rusty with the dust of many summers. The high white-glass windows cast a light which, though dim, was by no means "religious," as the poet has it, being darkened, not from being "richly dight," but by successive deposits of dirt and cobwebs. Dust and flue lay in corners, yes, even of the chancel itself. The chimneys of the kerosene lamps were dark with smoke and fly-specks, and the lamps themselves looked as if the wicks had not been changed since kerosene was invented.

Of all the notable housewives who came thither to worship Sunday after Sunday, not one, probably, would have allowed such a state of things, even in her garret; yet they saw it in the house of God without even a thought of incongruity. Now and then somebody would make a remark about the dust or the smoke, but that was all. It was Mr. Archimball's business. He was a most respectable man and a church-member, and nobody liked to hurt his feelings by suggesting to him that his business was not attended to.

But somehow that clean-swept, well-aired schoolhouse had waked people up wonderfully. Mr. Bassett sniffed the air as he entered, and said to himself that it was "stuffy." And his wife saw the dust in the corner by the stove as she had never seen it before. Patience Fletcher looked at the windows, and thought she should really enjoy washing them. And Mrs. Weston had to make an effort to withdraw her mind from a calculation relative to the number of yards of new carpet which would be required for the chancel and aisles. It is to be feared that more than one feminine mind was a little distraught during the service.

But dust and cobwebs and carpet were all forgotten when the preacher began his sermon. He was an old gentleman, very plain and quiet in appearance; and his voice, as he gave out the text, was somewhat low and tremulous:

   "Come up hither, and I will show thee things which must be hereafter" (Rev. iv. 1).

He had not spoken five minutes when the attention of the whole congregation was fixed as one man. It was not the brilliancy of his style, which was simple with the simplicity of much reading and study: it was his intense earnestness, and his evident deep conviction of the awful truths which he set forth. The discourse was upon the "last things,"—death and judgment, hell and heaven. Even poor, frivolous Mrs. Blandy forgot to study the dress of the strangers in church, and almost resolved that she would think more of these matters. To many of the congregation, the words were as the bread of life.

To say truth, Oldham had not of late been greatly favored in the matter of preaching. Mr. Martin, the late rector, had prided himself on being liberal and broad in his views. A clergyman, he thought, should keep up with the interest of the day; so he talked much of science and criticism, and gave his hearers hashes of certain monthly magazines, slightly warmed and mildly seasoned with Scripture quotations, or preached mild little moral essays, adapted, as he was wont to say, to that class of minds which make up most country congregations. In truth, Mr. Martin felt himself thrown away in Oldham; and he did not make things any more pleasant for himself by saying so, and by his continual complaints of the hardships of his position. He had at last given up that position for the place of assistant in a large city church, but the large city church had not found Mr. Martin any more congenial than he had found the people of Oldham, and he was at present living at home with his mother.

But this present preacher spoke of things which every one wished to hear. Agnes Gleason drank in every word, only wishing that her mother was there. Selina listened intently, forgetting for the time to wonder whether some one did not think Myra Bassett's voice better than hers. She had naturally a fine taste, and she had read good books. She appreciated the finished elegance of the discourse, but that was not all.

As the preacher, with the solemnity of deep conviction, set forth "the things that must be hereafter," Selina felt that these were indeed the real things which make life worth living, which give to worldly things all the significance which they possess, which must have a being after all the triumphs and treasures, the battles and victories, of this world, are but forgotten dreams. She made up her mind that she would no longer live as she had done; she would strive to live as a Christian should, to fulfil the vows of her baptism: and then—here the little mean bosom snake of envy reared its head—then father and mother would think as much of her as they did of Lizzy. Selina was not to blame for the voice of the tempter any further than that she had given him encouragement before. She might have silenced him by refusing to listen to him, but she did not. She began thinking, how much more devoted she would be than Lizzy had ever been, how she would teach others, how she would influence Milly Richmond, and make her a Christian, and, perhaps, go on a mission, as Miss Armstrong had done.

"But I won't come home the first minute I get sick. No, indeed! I will die on the field of battle," she said to herself. And then she recollected herself with a blush, and found she had lost the thread of the discourse.

"I won't be so silly again," she said to herself. "I believe I 'am' always thinking about myself, as father says."

She managed to elude Milly when she came down, and went straight into Sunday school.

"Wasn't that a noble sermon?" whispered Faith as Agnes and Selina came into the class. "Don't you wish we could have him all the time?"

"Yes, indeed. Who is he?"

"Dr.— Somebody from New York, I did not catch the name. See, Mrs. Van Zandt is speaking to him."

"I wonder what we shall do for a teacher," said Agnes. "I am so sorry Miss Celia isn't here. I wanted to see her particularly."

"Perhaps Miss Armstrong will teach us," observed Faith.

"No, she won't. The doctor has forbidden her teaching in Sunday school this summer," replied Selina. "See there, girls; father is speaking to Mrs. Van Zandt. I wonder if he is asking her to hear us. I wish she would. She is so sweet-looking."

"You will have your desire, then," said Agnes, "for here she comes."

"O mother, how I wish you had been in church!" said Agnes after Sunday school, coming into the room where Mrs. Gleason was pouring out an after dinner cup of tea for her boarders. "We did have such a noble sermon!"

"Is that so?" asked Mrs. Gleason. "Mrs. Richmond did not like it."

"You see, it is not the kind of preaching I am used to," said Mrs. Richmond in a tone which always seemed to say, "See how superior I am." "In the city, one hears such a different style. You should hear Dr. Madison,—that is an intellectual feast, though I admit that he is rather old-fashioned. And such a congregation as he has! You can't hire any kind of a pew for less than five hundred dollars."

"It was Dr. Madison who preached this morning," said Agnes quietly, but with a gleam of mischief in her eyes.

"Nonsense!" said Milly. "A likely story, indeed, that Dr. Madison would be preaching in a place like this!"

"It could not be 'our' Dr. Madison," added Mrs. Richmond. "Very likely that might be his name, however: it is not an uncommon one."

"All I know is," said Agnes, "that Mrs. Van Zandt taught our class. Dr. Madison came into Sunday school, and Mrs. Van Zandt introduced him to us. He said a few words on the lesson. Afterward I asked Mrs. Van Zandt where he preached, and she said in St. Timothy's Church in New York. She goes there, so she ought to know."

"Dear me!" said Mrs. Richmond. "I am so very short-sighted, and I am sure the dear doctor did not do himself justice this morning. But he is growing old, poor dear man."

"Well, I never wish to hear a better sermon than he gave us this morning," said Agnes.

"You are a judge, no doubt," sneered Milly; "you have had so many opportunities of forming a taste."

"It is not a matter of taste exactly," said Agnes, getting hold of her temper, which was in some danger of escaping from her control. "Dr. Madison's sermon was just what I wanted to hear. It went straight to the right spot, as poor Aunt Betsy says about her coffee. And what he said in Sunday school was so nice. He did not talk baby-talk, as some do, or tell funny stories, but spoke as if the children were rational beings. You must go this afternoon, mother. Do get ready. I will do up the work."

"I believe I will go too," said Milly. "I want to see whether it was really Dr. Madison."

"I thought you would stay with Cordelia," remarked Mrs. Richmond. "I want to lie down a while. My head aches very badly."

"Oh, she won't want any thing," replied Milly carelessly. "You can just as well lie down in her room." And, without saying more, she went away to get ready for church.

Her mother looked after her with a sigh. She often had occasion to deplore Milly's selfishness, but it never occurred to her to think that it was the direct result of her own training.

"I will stay with Cordelia, Mrs. Richmond," said Agnes. "I will put the dishes to soak, and wash them after supper. And you can lie down in my room, and have a good sleep. I am sure you need it."

This was something of a sacrifice for Agnes. She had been looking forward to a quiet afternoon with her Bible. She was fond of Cordelia, and sorry for her. But the poor, feeble child was often fretful and hard to please, and Agnes sometimes thought she invented wants to keep her attendants from sitting still. But Agnes had a new principle of action within, which made her apply to herself the Golden Text she had recited that very morning,—"For even Christ pleased not Himself."

"Thank you, my dear; you are really very kind," said Mrs. Richmond. Hard, worldly woman as she was, nothing touched her so quickly as kindness shown to her sick child. "But I don't like to deprive you of the pleasure of hearing your favorite preacher."

"Oh, I shall hear him again some time," answered Agnes: "he is going to stay at Oldfield all summer. And, besides, I did not mean to go to church this afternoon, at any rate. My room is shady and cool, and I hope you will have a nice nap. Don't you think I might draw Cordelia out on the veranda? IL is sheltered on that side of the house, and the air is lovely."

"I should be very glad if you can persuade her to go out," said Mrs. Richmond. "The doctor says she must have as much fresh air as possible, but it is hard to get her to move."

"You will have your hands full," said Mrs. Gleason as Agnes helped her to put on her shawl. "The poor child is worse than I ever saw her."

"Cross?" asked Agnes.

"No, not exactly, but nervous and full of fancies. It seems she did not want to come away from home. She says she knows she shall never be well, and it is just tormenting her for nothing."

"I believe she is right there," said Agnes. "She has failed a great deal this winter. I wonder her mother doesn't see it."

"Folks can't see what they won't see," was Mrs. Gleason's remark. "Perhaps Cordelia may go to sleep, and then you can have a nice time reading."

But Cordelia had no mind to go to sleep. She had always been a delicate child, and was now fading away in one of those mysterious "declines" for which no reason can be given, suffering much at times from neuralgia, and always from that nervous weakness which is still harder to bear.

"Where is mother?" was her first question.

"She has a bad headache, and has gone to lie down. You can stand it with me a little while, can't you?" asked Agnes cheerfully.

"Why don't you go to church?" was the next sharp inquiry.

"Because I staid at home to let mother go, and to take care of you."

"I am sure that was very good of you," was the somewhat unexpected answer. "I don't think I am very entertaining company."

"We don't expect sick people to be entertaining," said Agnes. "But, Cordelia, I wish you would let me put you in your chair, and take you out of doors. You don't know how lovely it is."

Cordelia objected at first, but suffered herself to be persuaded.

Agnes wrapped her up carefully, and, putting her into her wheeled chair, drew her out upon the broad old-fashioned "stoop" before the front-door, which commanded a lovely view of field and mountain.

"Isn't this nice?" said she as she settled her charge in the pleasantest, shadiest corner, and arranged her wraps, for Agnes was a born nurse. "Look, you can see the people going into church."

"I wish I could go," said Cordelia with a deep sigh. "But I shall never go anywhere again: I know that very well, for all they say about my getting better."

Agnes did not answer, except by a kiss upon the pale forehead. She knew how to be silent when there was nothing to say. She brought her Bible, and sat down on the step by Cordelia; and the two were quiet for some time.

"Who is that very dark, very old-looking man walking up the street?" asked Cordelia at last. "There, he is just going up the church steps."

"That is old Abner Kettle," answered Agnes. "He is the last full-blooded Indian left anywhere about here. He is a hundred at the very least. We know that, because he remembers the Revolution quite well. He has a very nice little place of his own over on Indian Hill, and works in his garden as well as any one, besides walking to church every Sunday. We must ask him up here some day. You would like to hear him talk."

"And I am only fifteen, fifteen my next birthday, and I shall never walk again anywhere," said Cordelia in a tone of deep sadness. "But there, I won't bother you. Read your book in peace. What is it?"

"The Bible," answered Agnes. "I was going to look over my Sunday school lesson, but I can do it another time if you would rather talk."

"I don't mind," said Cordelia. She was silent a while, and then spoke again,—

"Agnes, isn't there a chapter in the New Testament somewhere about 'many mansions,' or some such thing as that?" ¹

¹ This may seem improbable, but I have met with worse cases. An elderly lady asked me if "Do as you would be done by," or "something like it," was not in the Bible. This same lady, by the way, could talk quite glibly about "the latest results of German criticism."

"Yes: in the fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel. Shall I read it to you?"

"Yes, please."

Agnes read the chapter. She had a pleasant voice, and read well and reverently. It seemed to her as if the wonderful words had never seemed half so wonderful before.

"Thank you," said Cordelia when she had finished. She was silent a little, and then said, with a kind of abruptness,—

"Agnes, how should you feel if you knew you were dying, as I am?"

"I don't know," answered Agnes. "I never was dangerously ill a day in my life. But what makes you think you are dying, Cordelia? The doctors do not say so, and your mother thinks you are better."

"What do 'you' think?" asked Cordelia with a kind of fierceness. Then, as Agnes did not reply, she said more gently,—

"Do tell me just what you think. I can't say a word to mother, because she cries so; and Milly only laughs, and says, 'Oh, you are notional.' Do tell me."

"I think you are not as well as you were last summer," answered Agnes.

"But now, suppose I were your sister," persisted Cordelia, "would you have any hopes of me?"

"No," answered Agnes, "I don't think I should."

"Thank you," said Cordelia. She was silent a little, and then asked,—

"Agnes, would you be afraid to die?"

"I don't know," answered Agnes. "People are not always afraid. There was Jenny Bassett, Myra's cousin, who died last summer of consumption: she had no more fear than you have of coming out here. And it was the same with young Mrs. Fletcher."

"But it is so dreadful," said the poor girl, shuddering, "to go away from every one you have ever known, out into another world, one doesn't know where; and that fearful judgment!"

"I will tell you what I think, Cordelia, if you will try to be quiet, and not agitate yourself," said Agnes. "I am only a girl like yourself, you know."

"Never mind. Tell me what you think."

"It is just like this," said Agnes: "if we are children of God, we don't go out into a strange world among strangers. We go home to our Father's house, as the chapter says, where He is, and where our Saviour has gone to prepare a place for us. We don't know very much about it, to be sure; sometimes I wish He had told us more. But we know that there will be no more pain, or sorrow, or death; that our Lord will be there, and He will wipe away all tears from our eyes. So we shall not go among strangers. And, as to the judgment, I don't think we need fear that, because He says—See here." Agnes turned to the first chapter of the First Epistle of John, and read,—

   "'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'

"And there are other places where it tells of our sins being blotted out, and remembered no more. I don't think we need fear the judgment, after that."

"But that is for Christians, and I am not a Christian."

"But you may be, Cordelia."

"I don't know how."

"The Bible tells us. We have only to believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and we shall be saved."

"That seems very simple and easy," said Cordelia doubtfully.

"That is what St. Paul said to the jailer when he asked what he should do to be saved,—believe on Him, and take Him for your Saviour; that is all. Oh, do try! You don't know what a difference it will make. I am not fit to teach you,—I have only just begun myself," said Agnes, blushing. "But I know how different every thing looks to me from what it did a week ago to-day. But, Cordelia, doesn't your minister ever come to see you?"

"We haven't any, not really," answered Cordelia. "Mother and Milly don't belong to any church, and they don't go anywhere regularly. They just run about from one church to another to hear any famous preacher, or for the sake of the music. A lady we know—Miss Little—did use to talk to me sometimes when I was first sick, and she used to read good books to me, but mother did not like it. Last winter, I wanted to see a minister, but she said he would only put gloomy thoughts in my head. ¹ As if the gloomy thoughts did not come of themselves!"

¹ A literal fact.

"I hope I have not hurt you," said Agnes.

"No, indeed. You have done me good," said Cordelia. "You don't know what a comfort it is to open my mind to some one. But, Agnes, are you sure that is all,—just believing?"

"I am as sure as that I sit here."

"But why doesn't every one do it, then?"

"Well, you see, it involves a good many things. People have pet sins that they don't like to give up."

"That would be just my trouble," said Cordelia thoughtfully. "I know I am horridly cross and selfish a great many times; and I try not to be, but I always get beaten sooner or later."

"There is just where the help comes in," said Agnes eagerly. "If you ask Him, He will give you help to conquer those very things. Of course, we can't do it alone, but St. Paul says, 'I can do all things through Christ who strengtheneth me.'"

"How much you know about the Bible!"

"I ought to; I have had pains enough taken to teach me. But, Cordelia, I dare say Dr. Madison will come to see you if you ask him. He is going to stay in Oldfield all summer."

"I will speak to mother about it. Agnes, you don't know how much good you have done me." She coughed as she spoke, and Agnes's quick eye saw that she was tired.

"Don't talk any more now," said she. "Let me turn your chair back, so that you can rest. And then I will read to you, and perhaps you will go to sleep. What would you like to hear?"

"I would rather hear the Bible than any thing," replied Cordelia, "I know so little about it. Begin the Gospel of St. John."

Agnes turned the reclining-chair into a comfortable couch, added another shawl to Cordelia's coverings, and sat down to read. Cordelia listened at first with earnest attention, but by degrees her eyelids drooped, and presently her soft, regular breathing showed that she was asleep.

"How like death she looks!" thought Agnes, as she gazed at the white cheek and almost transparent eyelids. "How can they think she is better? Well, at any rate, she has freed her mind, poor child. I am so glad I staid with her!"