Front Cover
 Front Matter
 Half Title
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 The birth-day gift
 The stolen ring
 Mary in prison
 The trial
 The meeting in prison
 The sentence
 A friend in misfortune
 The wanderers find a home
 More lessons from nature
 James's illness
 James's death
 More sorrow
 Mary again homeless
 Help in need
 Amelia accounts for her sudden...
 The finding of the ring
 Atonement for injustice
 An evening in the hunting-lodg...
 A visit to the pine farm
 Covetousness punished
 Mary's life at Eichbourg
 The monument
 Back Cover

Group Title: The basket of flowers : a tale for the young
Title: The basket of flowers
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00026267/00001
 Material Information
Title: The basket of flowers a tale for the young
Physical Description: 161, 6 p., 2 leaves of plates : ill. (some col.) ; 17 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Schmid, Christoph von, 1768-1854
J. H. St. A ( Translator )
Paterson, Robert, fl. 1860-1899 ( Engraver )
Thomas Nelson & Sons ( Publisher )
Publisher: T. Nelson and Sons
Place of Publication: London
New York
Publication Date: 1872
Copyright Date: 1872
Subject: Orphans -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Diseases -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Piety -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Family -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Publishers' catalogues -- 1872   ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1872
Genre: Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Publishers' catalogues   ( rbgenr )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
Scotland -- Edinburgh
United States -- New York -- New York
General Note: Added t.p. printed in colors; other illustrations engraved by Paterson.
General Note: Publisher's catalogue follows text.
Statement of Responsibility: translated from the French by J.H. St. A.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00026267
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: ltqf - AAB9050
notis - ALH7637
oclc - 24492934
alephbibnum - 002237155

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Front Matter
        Front Matter
    Half Title
        Page i
        Page ii
    Title Page
        Page iii
        Page iv
    Table of Contents
        Page v
        Page vi
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
    The birth-day gift
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
    The stolen ring
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
    Mary in prison
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
    The trial
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
    The meeting in prison
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
    The sentence
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
    A friend in misfortune
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
    The wanderers find a home
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
    More lessons from nature
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
    James's illness
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
    James's death
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
    More sorrow
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
    Mary again homeless
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
    Help in need
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
    Amelia accounts for her sudden appearance
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
    The finding of the ring
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
    Atonement for injustice
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
    An evening in the hunting-lodge
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
    A visit to the pine farm
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
    Covetousness punished
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
    Mary's life at Eichbourg
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
    The monument
        Page 160
        Page 161
        Page 162
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 165
        Page 166
        Page 167
        Page 168
    Back Cover
        Page 169
        Page 170
        Page 171
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T.'IHE story which is related in the following little
book happened long ago, in a country the
n manners and customs of which are in many
respects different from ours. This will account
for some things in it which might otherwise
seem strange and improbable. Two things, however,
will be found the same through every difference of
time and place-two principles which have constantly
been acting in opposition to each other from the earliest
period of the world's history. On the one hand, we find
the sinful human heart the same in all ages, producing
what the Bible calls the works of the flesh," and lead-
ing to misery unutterable; and, on the other hand, the
remedy for this evil, in the work of the Holy Spirit of God,
producing what the Bible calls the fruits of the*Spirit,"
and leading as surely to perfect happiness and peace.


In this little story the working of these opposing prin-
ciples, and the fruits brought forth by each, may be
easily traced; and as we are all partakers of the same
evil nature, to be sanctified and saved, if saved at all,
by the same Holy Spirit, we may all profit by studying
the working of these in the experience of others, however
their outward circumstances may differ from ours.
In the little village of Eichbourg in Germany, there
lived, about a hundred years ago, a very worthy man,
whose name was James Rode. When James was quite
young, he was sent to learn to be a gardener in the
beautiful gardens of the Castle of Eichbourg. He was
a poor orphan, little cared for at that time by any one,
poorly clothed and scantily fed, and obliged to work
very hard, for the Count of Eichbourg's gardener was
rather a hard taskmaster. Yet James was happy.
Though poor, he was rich; he possessed a treasure more
precious than gold or silver. He had been the child of
many prayers; carefully instructed by a pious father and
mother; and his heart had been early touched by God's
grace. Piety is lovely in all, but more especially in the
young, when the new nature is implanted in the heart
before the evil passions have had time to grow strong,
and the inward struggle becomes hard and difficult.
The fruits of the Spirit were early seen in the character
and conduct of James, and attracted the notice and ad-
miration even of those who did not understand whence
they proceeded. Gentle and obedient, always diligent
at his work, ready to oblige, possessing the natural
politeness that flows from a kindly heart, and the bright
sunny cheerfulness produced by a contented mind and


a conscience at ease, James soon became a general
favourite. He was often invited into the castle, and
sometimes permitted to share in the instructions given
to the children of the Count; and when the young
Count, having finished his education, was sent to travel,
James was chosen to accompany him as his at-
In this situation he diligently made use of all the
means of improvement within his reach. By the grace of
God in his heart, he was preserved amid the many
temptations by which he was now surrounded, and he
became daily more a favourite with his master; so that,
on his return to Eichbourg, after having fulfilled his
engagement, the Count offered him an honourable and
lucrative employment in his household, in the magnifi-
cent palace which he possessed in Vienna.
James was now compelled to make a choice, some-
thing like that set before Lot when he chose to go and
live in Sodom, because it was in a well-watered and
pleasant land. In the Count's household God was not
honoured, and James knew that he would there be
required to do many things contrary to his conscience.
He therefore declined the honourable and lucrative
situation offered him, and preferred returning to the
humble labour from which he had been taken. The
Count willingly gave him a lease, on easy terms, of a small
piece of ground near Eichbourg. This little domain
consisted of a pretty cottage, an orchard well planted
with fruit-trees, and a large kitchen garden. Shortly
after he took possession of it, James married a wife,
whose principles, feelings, and tastes were like his own;


and they lived comfortably in their pleasant cottage by
the sale of their vegetables and fruit.
Many pleasant years passed smoothly and happily by.
Children had been sent to enliven their cottage; and
James and his wife for some time enjoyed the purest
earthly happiness. But God, who chastens even his
best-loved children, will not suffer them to become too
deeply attached to the things of earth. Afflictions are
sent to remind them that this world is not their rest-to
wean their affections from earth, and fix them above. It
pleased God to remove one after another of James's chil-
dren, thus gradually loosening his earthly ties; and at
last the severest blow of all was struck, and after a brief
illness his wife followed her children. One only daughter
was left; and in this beloved child he centred all his
care and affection.
The little Mary was a beautiful child, and as she grew
up she became daily more engaging. Her father's
instructions and prayers seemed to have been blessed to
her, for she appeared to grow in goodness as she grew in
stature. When she was only fifteen, she was able to
take the entire charge of her father's house. Never was
there a more amiable or more useful girl. Their little
dwelling was a pattern of neatness and order; not a trace
of dust was to be seen in it, and the kitchen utensils
shone as if they had just come from the shop. Her
father's in-door comforts were all attended to, yet Mary
found time to help him in his work in the garden. The
hours thus spent were the happiest of her life. She had
grown up among the flowers, and she loved them as those
only can who watch their growth and cultivate them


with their own hands. Her father fostered and indulged
this taste by procuring for her the rarest seeds and
flower-roots. These were well cared for and anxiously
watched by Mary. Her flowers were her friends and
companions; she waited impatiently for the opening of
the first bud of every new kind, and if its beauty equalled
her expectations, she eagerly flew to her father to tell
him of her new treasure. James smiled at her delight,
and rejoiced to see her satisfied with such innocent
pleasures. How many men," said he, lavish much
more money in gay dresses and ornaments for their chil-
dren than I spend in flower-seeds, without procuring for
them half the enjoyment that Mary feels in her flowers !
Then this enjoyment is of so much superior a kind. The
love of dress and ornament degrades the taste, and renders
the character frivolous; but the love of flowers, rightly
directed, enriches both the intellect and the heart."
James's garden became celebrated for its beauty in all
the neighbourhood. Few could pass that way without
stopping to admire it; the village children, as they
passed from school, peeped through the hedge, or stood
lingering by the little gate; and Mary seldom failed to
give them some pretty nosegays to carry home, or a few
seeds or roots to plant in their own little flower-plots.
James took advantage of his daughter's love for flowers,
to give her many lessons of heavenly wisdom.
"He found
Religious meanings in the forms of nature." *
" He knew," to use the words of an eloquent American
author,t that the beauties of nature are not given for

* Coleridge.



our amusement or enjoyment merely, but for our educa-
tion and instruction; that "ours is a disciplinary
world, and that the lessons of nature are a part of God's
own discipline with us." He had the spiritual eye
which can see the Creator in his works, and read the
blessed messages he thus sends to his children; and the
clear and enlightened faith which thus holds communion
with God. He felt how near we are to God in every
part of his creation, when alive unto him through Jesus
Christ our Lord."
"One spirit, His
Who wore the plaited crown with bleeding brows,
Rules universal nature. Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain,
Of his unrivalled pencil. He inspires
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues,
And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes
In grains as countless as the sea-side sands
The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth.
Happy who walks with him! whom what he finds
Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower,
Or what he views of beautiful or grand
In nature, from the broad majestic oak
To the green blade that twinkles in the sun,
Prompts with remembrance of a present God."
COWPEr'S Task.

James was accustomed to devote the first morning
hours of every day to meditation and prayer; and in
order to save time for this, he rose before the dawn.
He felt that no one can live as a Christian who does not
endeavour to save the first hour, or even half hour, in the
morning, for communion with God. In the fine summer
mornings, Mary often accompanied him to a little arbour
which commanded a beautiful view of the garden, and of
the rich and lovely country round. Here he taught his
beloved child, and prayed with her; and here he found a


text for his lessons in every surrounding




ing to the bright rays of the rising sun, he spoke to her
of the Sun of Righteousness; he explained to her the


darkness of
and life; h

her heart
e pointed

by nature, and

the Source of


out the lessons taught in Scripture

from the rain
the praises of

and from the dew; he made her listen to
God in the morning songs of the birds.



He endeavoured to teach her trust in God, who clothes
the lilies and feeds the birds, though they sow not, nor
reap, nor gather into barns. He read with her the
parables of the sower and the seed, the wheat and the
tares, the small grain of mustard seed--emblem of the
kingdom of heaven--the barren fig-tree and the vineyard.
He spoke to her of the first garden, where man was
placed, and of his sad expulsion from it ; of the garden
as the emblem of her own soul, given her to cultivate,
and to bring forth fruit to God; of the garden as the
emblem of the Church of God, in which Jesus himself
delights (Canticles iv. 12, 16; v. 1; vi. 2), where his
people flourish as trees of righteousness, the planting of
the Lord; and of the glorious garden above, to which, in
his own good time, God transplants his people, through
which flows the river of the water of life, and in which is
the tree which bears twelve manner of fruits, whose leaves
are for the healing of the nations.
He explained to her the blessed hope of the resurrec-
tion of the body, taught to us by the springing of the
seed (1 Cor. xv. 35-38). But above all, he loved to
trace the Saviour in the various emblems under which he
is presented to us in Scripture, as the Root of David
(Rev. xxii. 16), the Branch of Righteousness (Zech. iii.
8), the First-Fruits of them that sleep (1 Cor. xv. 20),
the Plant of Renown (Ezek. xxxiv. 29), the Rose of
Sharon (Canticles ii. 1), the Fountain, the Sun, the
Bright and Morning Star. Kneeling by her father's
side, Mary learned to pray-no formal prayer, but as she
heard her father pray, from the very depths of his heart.
The first hours of the morning thus spent were very



profitable to the little girl, and contributed much, by the
blessing of God, to the education both of her mind and of
her heart.
Mary's favourite flowers were the violet, the lily, and
the rose; and James loved to find in them emblems of
the graces of the mind which he wished her to cultivate.
When she brought him her first spring violet, he said
to her, Let this flower, my dear Mary, be the emblem
of humility, and of that quiet benevolence which does
good in secret. In its quiet dress of deep blue, decked
by no gaudy colours, it modestly hides under the green
leaves, and is scarcely seen, while shedding around it the
richest perfume. Try to resemble it, dear Mary; care
not for gay ornaments and vain display, but strive to
obtain that ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which
is in the sight of God of great price.'"
In the season of roses and lilies, James said one
morning, pointing to the spotless white of a beautiful
lily, rendered still more dazzling by the rays of the sun
shining full upon it, "This lily, my dear child, is the
emblem of purity. How easily its bright leaves are
stained! Scarcely can they be touched when they are
injured. Thus the very least approach of vice pollutes
and corrupts the soul. Pray, dear Mary, for purity of
heart. Remember that though polluted by nature, we
may nevertheless be washed free from stain in the
Fountain opened for sin and for uncleanness, and that
God has promised that though 'our sins are red as
crimson, they shall be white as snow.' None but the
pure in heart shall see God; none but those washed and
clothed in the spotless white robe of Christ.'s righteous-


ness shall ever sit down
Lamb. Let the rose,"
modesty, as it resembles
cheek of a modest girl.
be learned from the rose.
faded, it still retains its
brown and withered, they
fresh and lovely youth.
true Christian. Thus let
youth will fade, outward

at the marriage-supper of the
he said, be the emblem of
the blush which rises to the
But there is another lesson to
After its beautiful colours have
fragrance; when its leaves are
are even sweeter than in their
Thus is it, dear Mary, with a
it be with you. The cheek of
beauty will decay, but strive to

acquire those graces of the mind which are unfading and
Among the many beautiful trees which adorned
James's garden, there was one especially prized. It was
a dwarf apple-tree, scarcely higher than a rose-bush,
which had been planted by James on the very day of
his daughter's birth. Small as it was, it bore every
year a number of beautiful apples. One early spring it
blossomed with peculiar beauty. The tree was one mass
of flowers.
Oh, how lovely my apple-tree is this year! said
Mary. How brilliant its colours are, how pure the
white, how bright the rose-colour! It is like one large
But, alas! next morning, on entering the garden,
Mary found all the lovely flowers nipped by the frost;
they were brown or yellow, and when the sun rose, they
withered and shrivelled. Mary was in tears at the
See," said her father, an emblem of the effect of
sinful pleasures on the soul. They blight and wither


the fair promise of youth; and bright as may have been
the blossom, it produces no fruit. 0 my dear Mary, if
this should ever be the case with you, if the hopes that
I cherish of your future should be thus blasted, I too
would shed tears, tears far more bitter than you have
ever shed. It would bring my gray hairs with sorrow
to the grave."
These words made a deep impression on Mary.
Thus did Mary, day by day, learn from her good old
father to use the eyes of her mind, as well as her bodily
eyes, and to see in the beautiful things around her the
lessons they were intended to teach. Have you, who
read this little book, thus learned to use your eyes? Do
you know that the eyes of your mind are naturally
darkened, so that you can neither read with understand-
ing the book of Nature, nor the book of God's Word.
When David prays, Open mine eyes, that I may see
wonderful things out of thy law," he speaks of the eyes
of the mind, which must be opened before the Bible can
be rightly understood; and in the same way we must
pray to God to open our eyes before we can see him in
his works, and learn the lessons he has inscribed upon
them. If your eyes are not yet opened, young reader,
you are losing a rich source of pleasure, as well as profit.
Pray to God to open them, and then go into the free air,
with the Bible for your interpreter, and read the lessons
that Mary read. Listen to hear the still small voice that
speaks from among the birds and the flowers; and if you
once hear it, you will find the enjoyment so sweet, you
will ever wish to hear it again; you will love it more than
can be told, you will wonder at your former blindness.
(374) 2


Here he might lie on fern or withered heath,
While from the singing lark, that sings unseen
The minstrelsy that solitude loves best;
And from the sun, and from the breezy air,
Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame;
And he with many feelings, many thoughts,
Made up a meditative joy, and found
Religious meanings in the forms of nature.
And so, his senses gradually wrapt
In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds;
And dreaming hears thee still, 0 singing lark,
That singest like an angel in the clouds."
COLERIDGE, Tears iit Solittude.



NE fine morning, in the beginning of May, Mary
went into the wood to cut some willows and
twigs of hazel for her father's work, as he was
accustomed to employ himself in his leisure
hours in making ornamental baskets of various
kinds; for James was an industrious man, who
liked to be constantly busy. He knew that we are com-
manded in the Bible to redeem the time." After Mary
liad cut the willows, she found a beautiful bed of lilies
of the valley. She gathered a large bunch, and tied
them up into two neatly arranged bouquets-one for her
father, and one for herself. She then proceeded home-
wards by a narrow foot-path through the wood.
She had not gone far when she met the Countess of
Eichbouro and her daughter, who had lately returned to
the castle from their residence in the capital. Mary, who
possessed that native politeness which is natural to a
sweet and gentle spirit, stepped modestly aside, to allow
the ladies to pass, courtesying respectfully at the same



" Oh, what beautiful lilies


of the valley! exclaimed

the young Countess, who loved flowers passionately, and
preferred wild-flowers to any other.

On hearing

this exclamation, Mary offered a




to each of the ladies.

and the

Countess, taking

They received them

out a silk


with pleasure;
richly embroi-


dered with

gold, offered some

money to Mary;

but she

refused to accept it.

for my

no, no, lady," said


she ;

My father and

" I cannot take money
I have received many



to have the pleasure of offering
out being paid for it."

ase to permit a poor girl
you this little gift with-

The Countess smiled pleasantly, and said,

child, will you be so

" Well, my

kind as sometimes to bring a bunch

of lilies of the valley to the castle for my daughter ? "
Mary promised to do so; and every morning, as long-
as the lilies of the valley lasted, she carried a beautiful
bunch to the castle.


benefits from the


The young Countess Amelia was charmed with the
flowers; and she became very fond of Mary. She often
invited her to return to the castle after the season of
lilies was past, and frequently kept her there for hours.
Their tastes were similar in some respects, especially in
their mutual love of flowers, which gave them always a
common subject of interest, and they became much at-
tached to each other.
The anniversary of Amelia's birth-day drew near.
Mary wished to give her a little rustic present. She
had taken her so many bouquets, that she tried to think
of something more uncommon for a birth-day gift. Dur-
ing the previous winter, James had made several very


pretty work-baskets. He had given the prettiest of
them to Mary. She asked leave to give this basket to
the young Countess. lie willingly consented ; and still

further improved the gift, by weaving on the basket, in
very delicate workmanship, the letters of the Countess
Amelia's name, and the crest of her family. When
finished, the basket was quite a masterpiece.
On the morning of Amelia's birth-day, Mary gathered
her finest roses and superb stocks-white, red, and
purple. She added to these a variety of flowers of every
colour, so tastefully arranged among the fresh green
leaves that the effect was charming. Round the edge
of the basket she wove a delicate wreath of rosebuds and
moss. The letters of Amelia's name were surrounded
by a coronet of forget-me-nots. The mixture of the rose-
buds, the delicate hue of the forget-me-nots, and the
fi-esh green moss, looked very pretty on the pure white
basket-work. It was an elegant little gift. Even the
grave James was pleased; and when Mary was going to
take it away, he said, Leave it a few minutes longer; I
like to look at it."
At length Mary carried the basket to the castle, and
presented it to the young Countess, with many sincere
wishes for her happiness. Amelia was charmed with the
basket. She could not find words to express her delight
and admiration. You are too kind, my dear Mary,"
said she. You must have quite robbed your little
garden to bring me this profusion of flowers. What a
beautiful basket! It does great credit to your father's
skill. I have never seen anything so exquisite, its
shape is so elegant. Oh, come with me to show it to
Saying these words, the young Countess took Mary
by the hand, and running up the staircase which led to


the Countess's room, she entered hastily,

and exclaiming, as she opened

the do(

leading in Mary,
or, 0 mamma,

mamma, look what a beautiful present Mary has brought

Is it not exquisite!

I am sure you have


seen a more elegant basket or lovelier flowers."

The Countess admired

the basket extremely.

" It is

indeed charming," said she ; "it is beautifully arranged.

I should like to have it painted.

The basket, the flowers,

the fresh


still glittering among

them, would



admirable study for a flower-painter.

does infinite

of this good little gii


credit to the taste and kind feeling
rl. Wait here a moment, my child,"

said she to Mary, making a

sign at the same time to

Amelia to follow her into the next room, and thus leav-

ing Mary alone.
We cannot allow this

child to

go away,

said the

Countess to her daughter, without giving her some pre-
sent for her trouble. What do you propose to give her?"
Amelia thought a moment, and then said, I should

like to


allow me to do so.

her one of my dresses, mamma, if


I think the dress with red and white

flowers on a dark green ground would be the best.

almost new.

I have only had

as I have grown very much, it i

it on once or twice; but,
Ls too short for me. Mary

is not so tall; it will
nice Sabbath dress.

If yo-

fit her, and will make


approve of it, I would

to give it to her."
Very well," replied the Countess;

" it is always best

to give something
private present too.

that is useful.

The green dress with

It will be an appro-

red and white

flowers will be very suitable for the little flower-girl."




It is




The Countess then returned to her room with Amelia,
and, looking kindly at Mary, she said," Go now, children,
carry off this charming basket, and take care that the
flowers do not fade before dinner-time. There will be a
large party at dinner to-day, and the basket will be the
most beautiful ornament on the table. Good-bye, little
Mary. I shall leave Amelia to thank you for your pretty
Amelia hastened to return to her own room, and de-
sired her lady's-maid to bring her the green dress.
Margaret (that was the maid's name) hesitated to obey.
Does your ladyship wish to wear that dress ?" said
No," replied Amelia; I intend to give it to Mary."
"To give it to Mary!" exclaimed Margaret hastily.
" Does the Countess know that ?"
You forget yourself strangely, Margaret," said Amelia,
in a grave tone. Do as I desire you, without making
remarks. Bring the dress immediately."
Margaret turned hastily away to hide her displeasure,
and left the room. HIer face was on fire. She crushed
more than one of the young Countess's dresses in her
anger, before pulling out of the wardrobe the one that
was wanted. Oh, if I dared, I would tear it to pieces,"
muttered she. That horrid flower-girl-how I hate
her! She has already taken my place in the Countess
Amelia's favour, and now she steals this dress from me.
Yes, steals it; for I ought to have all the dresses that
the Countess puts off. Oh, how I hate her! I will be
revenged of her."
Margaret, however, found it prudent to keep her dis-


pleasure to herself; and smothering it as she best could,
she reappeared with a smiling face, and presented the
green dress to her mistress.
My dear Mary," said Amelia, I have received many
more valuable gifts than yours to-day, but not one which
has given me so much pleasure. The flowers on this
dress are not nearly so pretty as yours, but I hope that
you will wear them for my sake. Think of me when
you put on this dress; and, pray, present my compli-
ments and thanks to your father." .
Mary received the dress, thanked the young lady, and
took leave of her, as it was getting late, and Amelia must
begin to dress. Margaret was called to assist her, and it
was with difficulty that she suppressed the outward ex-
pression of the evil temper she was indulging. Not-
withstanding her efforts to conceal it, she could not
altogether succeed; and Amelia perceived, from the way
in which her hair was pulled, that her maid's temper was
What is the matter, Margaret ?" said she. Are
you angry because Mary has got the dress ?"
"It would be very foolish in me, my lady, to be angry
because your ladyship chooses to be generous," replied
That is a sensible speech," said the young lady;
" but I hope, Margaret, that you really feel what you
In the meantime Mary had reached the cottage, and
hastened to display her new dress to her father. But
this costly present did not please the wise old man. He
shook his head gravely, and said, I almost wish, my


dear Mary, that you had not taken the basket to the
castle. The dress is valuable, certainly, as a gift from
the young lady; but I fear it may cause us to be envied
by our neighbours; and, what would be still worse, I
have some fears lest it should make you vain. Be on
your guard, dear Mary. I hope you will never learn to
be fond of dress. Remember what the Scripture says
about the true ornaments of women."
Do you love gaudy dresses and useless ornaments,
young reader? Remember that it is an evidence of an
uncultivated taste and a vulgar and frivolous mind. If
a woman is overloaded with gaudy ornaments and un-
suitable dresses, they do not adorn her-she only bears
about upon her person the badge of her inward deformity.
Learn to understand the real beauty of simplicity. With
a taste refined by the study of nature, and a mind ab-
sorbed by nobler things, you will despise the vain orna-
ments that silly girls love. What innumerable evils have
been the consequence of a foolish fondness for dress! To
many it has been the cause of the first step in a wrong
direction-it has been the entrance to that downward
path which. led them to a course of sin, a prison, or an
early grave. Mothers, beware of the appearance of such
a taste in your children! Foster it not. Strive to check
it, as you would strive to check the first symptoms of a
fatal disease, the more insidious, because it appears slight
and harmless at first.




MMEDIATELY after Mary left the castle the
Countess missed a diamond ring, which she
remembered having put down on her work-
table, in the room where Mary was left alone
for a few minutes. As no one had been in that
room but Mary, suspicion naturally fell on her.
The young Countess was deeply grieved at this, and en-
treated her mother to conceal the loss for a time, and to
allow her to go herself to the cottage, and persuade Mary
to return the ring, if she had really been tempted to take
it, and so to save her from exposure and disgrace.
Mary had just folded up the new dress, and put it
away in her drawer, when she heard a hasty step in the
garden, and the young Countess appeared, quite out of
breath, with anxiety and distress pictured in her face.
0 Mary!" exclaimed she, my mother has lost a
diamond ring. No one was in the room when she left it
but you. They suspect you-they accuse you of having
taken it. Is it possible you can have done so ? If you
have been tempted to do it, dear Mary, give it back to


me. I will excuse you- to mamma. No one shall ever
know anything of it-only give me back the ring."
Mary, completely taken by surprise, could at first
scarcely comprehend Amelia's words. What can you
mean, my dear young lady ?" said she. I have no ring.
I saw no ring in the room where I was. I touched no-
thing. I never even moved from the place where I was
Mary, Mary," said Amelia, earnestly, I implore you
to tell me the truth. You do not know what a serious
matter this is. The stone in that ring alone cost more
than a thousand crowns. If you had known this, you
would not have touched it, I am sure. Perhaps you
thought it was only a trifle, of no consequence. 0 dear
Mary, if you have touched it, do confess it, and it will be
forgiven, as an act of childish thoughtlessness."
Mary at length comprehended the full horror of the
suspicion which had fallen upon her. Pale as death, and
trembling all over, her feelings were too deep for tears.
" Indeed, my lady," said she, I know nothing whatever
of your ring. I have never in my life even ventured to
touch what was not mine. How can you suppose that I
would take even a trifle ? My father early taught me
not to take even a pin that belonged to another."
At this moment James entered the room. He had
seen the Countess Amelia pass hastily through the garden
alone. This unusual visit, her look of agitation and
haste, had made him suspect that something was wrong.
He hastened to the cottage. What has happened?"
said he, as he entered.
At the answer to his question, the good old man be-



came so agitated that he was forced to lean against the
table for support. Mary, my dear child," said he,
" remember that the theft of a ring of this value is, by
the laws of this country, punishable with death. But
this is not the worst. Think of God's commandment,
'Thou shalt not steal.' A crime, such as theft, brings
upon the offender not only punishment by human laws,
but, what is much more dreadful, the anger of the Al-
mighty and Omniscient God, who sees the heart, and
cannot be deceived by lies or excuses of any kind. If
you have so far forgotten God, my poor child, as to be
guilty of the crime of which you are accused; if you
have suffered yourself to be tempted by the glitter of
gold and jewels, do not now increase your sin by denying
it. Confess your guilt, and restore the ring. This is
now the only means of averting a part at least of the
consequences of your crime. Alas! that I should ever
have to speak so to you."
These words redoubled Mary's agony. 0 my father,
my father," said she, can you believe me guilty? Need
I assure you that I have never seen the ring ? You surely
know that if I had even found a ring of this value on the
road, I could not have rested till I had restored it to its
owner. Indeed, indeed, I have not the ring."
I hope you are telling the truth, Mary," said James,
in a severe tone. This good young lady seems un-
willing to accuse you, but the evidence against you is
strong. She has kindly come here to try to save you
from disgrace. She deserves that you should be sincere
with her. 0 Mary, be candid; tell the whole truth."
0 my father," said Mary, you know that I never

stole a farthing in my life. I have never even gathered
an apple from a tree that was not yours, or pulled a
flower in a neighbour's garden without permission. I
have never even seen the ring. This is the simple truth.
Have I ever told you a lie in my life, my dear father ?
You know I have not. How can you doubt me now?"
James still persevered. He was anxious to try his
daughter to the uttermost. My child," said he, do
not bring my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. Spare
me the agony of seeing you persist in sin. I ask you
solemnly, as in the presence of God, who sees your heart,
before whom you must one day appear, tell me if you
have the ring. I implore you to consider well, and to
speak the truth."
Mary raised her eyes, now bathed in tears, and,
clasping her hands, she said solemnly, God is my
witness that I have not the ring. He sees my heart.
In his presence I say to you I am speaking the very
truth. I have not the ring. I have not even seen it."
Well," said her father, I do believe you, my child.
You have not stolen the ring. I know that if you had,
you could not deny it so solemnly. I feel that you are
speaking the truth. And since this is the case-since
you are innocent, dear Mary-I feel uneasy no longer.
Be calm, my dear, dear child; fear nothing. There is
only one evil to be feared in this world, and that is sin.
Prison and death are nothing compared to a guilty con-
science. If we are destined to suffer unjustly, if all the
world forsake us, God will not forsake us. In Him we
shall find a friend, a comforter; and sooner or later He
will make manifest our innocence."



The Countess Amelia's tears were flowing fast at these
words. She wiped them hastily away, and said, When
I hear your pious words, when I see Mary's look of
innocence, I believe you are speaking truth. I believe
that you have never seen this unfortunate ring. But
when I remember all the circumstances of the case, I
know not what to think. Where can it be? Mamma
remembers distinctly laying it on the work-table, near
the window, in the room where Mary was left alone.
No one else was there, except mamma, Mary, and me.
Mary herself will remember that I never went near the
side of the room where the table stood. There is no
entrance to that room without passing through mamma's,
which she had never left when she missed the ring.
Instead of ringing for her maid to look for it, mamma
herself searched every part of the room carefully, more
than once. She admitted no one, not even me, until she
was quite sure that the ring was not to be found in the
I cannot explain this," said Mary's father. It is a
mystery to me as well as to you. God has sent us a
severe trial, but it is well. His will be done." The
good old man raised his eyes to heaven, and said, 0
Lord, we are thine, do with us as thou wilt, only grant
us, we pray thee, grace and strength to bear the trials
that it may please thee to send."
Alas !" said Amelia, weeping bitterly, what can be
done ? How shall I go home without the ring ? I can
do nothing to help you. Mamma has not yet told any
one of the loss, but she cannot conceal it long. Papa
will be home before dinner. If mamma has not on that



ring, lie will observe it immediately. He gave it to her
at my birth, and she has always been accustomed to wear
it on my birth-day. He will miss it. He will insist on
knowing where it is. Mamma must tell all. I do
believe you innocent, dear Mary. I will assure them of
it; but how shall I make them believe me ?"
The amiable Amelia left the cottage with a sad heart
and tearful eyes. Mary scarcely moved to bid her fare-
well. She could not speak; she seemed frozen with
grief. James sat down by the table, and leaning his
head on his hands, was engaged in silent prayer. Long
they sat thus-how long they knew not. How terrible
is that silent, speechless sorrow!
At length Mary rose, and throwing herself at her
father's feet, she found relief in a flood of tears. "0
my dear father," said she, believe me truthful. I am
not to blame. Oh, speak to me! Let me hear you tell
me again that you believe me innocent."
Her father raised her fondly, and fixing his eyes on
her open, truthful face, he said, Yes, my child; I do
believe you innocent. It is impossible that crime could
assume that look of candour and truth."
"But, my dear father," said Mary, "what will be the
end of all this ? What will become of us ? Oh, if this
danger threatened me only, I could bear it better! But
I cannot bear that you should suffer on my account."
Trust in God, my dear Mary," said James, "and do
not fear. The very hairs of our heads are all numbered.
Nothing can happen to us without the permission of
God. Therefore nothing can happen that will not work
for our good, and what more can we desire? Do not

then be terrified. However you may be questioned, tell
boldly the whole truth, and exactly the truth. What-
ever they may promise, however they may threaten you,
do not deviate a hairbreadth from the truth; keep your
conscience clear: a conscience at ease is a pillow on
which we may sleep soundly, even in a dungeon. They
will probably separate us, my child. Your father will
not be permitted to be with you in your sorrow. Cling,
therefore, all the closer to your Father who is in heaven,
from whom they cannot separate you. Remember that
no human power can separate us from the love of Christ."
James had scarcely finished speaking when the officers
of justice entered. Mary uttered a piercing cry, and
clung to her father.
"Separate them!" said the principal officer, in an
angry tone. Bind the girl's hands, and take her to
prison. The father must also be confined for the present
in some place whence he may be forthcoming when he
is wanted. Let a guard be placed on the house and
garden, and let no one enter without my permission.
All the premises must be strictly searched."
His orders were obeyed. Poor Mary was torn from
her father's arms, and her hands were tied. She fainted,
and they carried her off, unconscious of what they did,
while her father was led after, strictly guarded.
As they passed in this way through the streets of the
village, crowds gathered to look at them, and many were
the remarks that were made on all sides on their conduct.
Good and charitable as James and Mary had been, they
still had enemies who rejoiced in their fall. Mary,
though gentle and amiable to all, had never mingled




much with her neighbours in the village. Busy among
her flowers, with a taste refined by her father's instruc-
tions, she disliked the coarse and silly gossip of the
village women; who in their turn hated her for a superi-


ority to them which they could not help feeling, even
while they would not acknowledge it.
So this is the end of Miss Mary's pride and fine
airs !" said one of these evil speakers. Her father and
she always seemed to think themselves better than any
one else. I always wondered how he could afford to buy
all those fine flowers that she presented to the young
Countess. No one but the young Countess was good
enough for her, forsooth! But if this is the way they
could afford to buy those rare flower-roots, and make all
those fine presents, I do not see that they have much to
boast of."
All the inhabitants of Eichbourg, however, were not
of this spirit. Some there were who had truly esteemed
James, and who felt real pity for him and his daughter.
Yet they too were now disposed to believe them guilty,
so natural is it to the wicked human heart to believe
evil rather than good of others.
"Poor human nature !" said some of these people;
"Cwho can one be sure of? One would never have
thought James and Mary would be guilty of such a,
Who knows," said another, more disposed to think
the best, whether they have not been unjustly accused?
If so, may God make their innocence manifest. And if
they are guilty, may God grant them repentance, and
support them under what they have to suffer. May God
keep us from sin by his grace, for without his restraining
grace we too might have fallen in the same way."
The children of the village mourned truly. They all
loved Mary. Some of them were gathered in little


groups, weeping as she passed. It is wicked to put
good James and Mary into prison," said they. They
are good people; they cannot have done anything wicked.
Who will give us fruit and flowers now and talk to us so
pleasantly as Mary did?"
Many voices were raised to attest Mary's goodness;
many had received little kindnesses from her. The
children were all agreed on the subject. The officers
were bad, naughty men," they decided, who had no
right to take good James and Mary to prison."
And this was all. Kind and blameless as their lives
had been, not one honest voice was raised in remonstrance
against the injustice-not one bystander in all that crowd
was bold enough to step forward to say a friendly word
of encouragement and comfort.
Such is the way of the world--so little is human
approbation to be valued or depended on-so quickly
does even unjust suspicion blight the character. There
is but one Friend for the unfortunate who is unjustly
accused; and that is, "the Friend who sticketh closer
than a brother."



SARY was carried, still half unconscious, into
prison, and laid on the miserable straw which

by degrees, and as she awoke to the full sense
of her misery, to find herself alone in a
prison cell, she wept and sobbed as if her
heart would break, till, fairly exhausted by
the violence of her agony, she sobbed herself to sleep on
her wretched couch, and slept for some hours. When
she awoke it was quite dark. She did not at first
remember where she was. All that had passed seemed
like a frightful dream, till she was roused by feeling the
fetters on her wrists. She started up at the horrible
remembrance of her bonds, and kneeling on the floor of
her cell, she prayed earnestly to God. "0 my God!"
said she, to whom can I go ? From whom can I hope
for help but from thee ? Thou canst hear me from my
prison cell; thou canst see me when thus left alone by
all. 0 God of all goodness, have mercy on me! Have
mercy on my poor old father! 0 holy and merciful


Saviour, have compassion on me, and make my innocence
manifest to all. Comfort my poor father, 0 Lord; and
deliver him out of this trouble. Oh, have mercy on
him, and save him; and if one must suffer, let it be me
alone." At the thought of her father, poor Mary's tears
flowed afresh, sobs choked her voice, and she wept until
it seemed that she could weep no more. At length a
light appeared in the darkness of her prison cell. The
moon rose, and its soft rays shone through the little
grated window, and traced a shadow of the grating on
the floor of the cell. By this soft light Mary was able
to see the four walls of her narrow prison, the coarse
bricks of which it was built, the stone table in one
corner, the little earthen plate and pitcher of water placed
upon it, and the couch of straw on which she had been
lying. Sad as this sight was, the gleam of light had
comforted Mary, she had been so oppressed by the dark-
ness and solitude. The moon seemed like a well-known
friend, and she rejoiced to see its soft beams shining on
the floor of her lonely cell. She thought of the pleasant
evenings when she had lain awake in her own little room
in her dear cottage home, watching the same lovely light
as it played through the branches of the rose-tree that
hung round her window, and tracing their light foliage in
shadow on the white curtains of her little bed. How
gray the moonbeams seemed to her then, as they played
through the flowers gently waving in the wind! But
now, through that still grating, they looked cold and sad.
Still the light was pleasant, and as she gazed at it, she
wondered if her father was gazing at it too-if the same
beams were shining on them both.


While watching the moonlight, -Mary thought she


the perfume

of flowers in

her cell.

She found

it came

from a little nosegay which she had tied up and fastened
in her dress when she went to the castle in the morning.


These flowers still retained their sweetness, and perfumed

the air of the cell.
at them one by one



" when

She untied the flowers, and
in the light of the moon.

was so happy this


" Oh,"


gathering those rosebuds in my garden and these forget-
me-nots in the little brook, who could have believed
that in the evening I would be in prison? When I
wove the wreath of roses, and tied it round the basket,
who could have thought that fetters would be on my
hands before night? Nothing is certain-nothing
abiding in this world. No one knows how quickly his
fate may be changed, and no one can foretell that even
his innocent actions may not end in misery. How
needful it is, then, every day to implore the blessing of
God, who alone can preserve us from all the unseen
changes which we cannot avoid by any foresight of our
own, and who can strengthen and guard us through
them." Mary wept again as she thought on the sad
change that had come over her once happy life. Her
tears fell upon the flowers, and glittered like dew-drops
in the moonbeams. She thought of the refreshing dew,
and she said to herself, He who does not forget the
flowers, and who sends them refreshing rain when they
are thirsty, will not forget me. 0 my God, I pray thee,
send comfort into the heart of my poor father and into
mine, as thou sendest the dew-drops into the hearts of
the thirsty flowers. How well these flowers remind me
of my poor father's lessons," continued Mary to herself.
What a comfort to remember them now These rose-
buds have grown in the midst of thorns; thus do I hope
that for me joy will spring up in the midst of suffering.
If I had tried to open this rosebud, and to take it from
its green covering before its time, I should have spoiled
it. Slowly, one by one, the lovely leaves unfold, shed-
ding around their rich perfume. Thus may I hope that


God will remove my affliction in his own good time, and
make it produce blessings for me. I will try to
wait patiently for him. These forget-me-nots make me
think of him who made them so beautiful. 0 my God,
enable me always to remember thee; and do thou remem-
ber me! These little flowers are blue as the heavens
above : the hope of heaven will support and console me
in my troubles. Here are some delicate sweet-peas, with
their white and rose-coloured blossoms. The tender
stems of this lovely flower would fall to the ground, but
for the support to which they cling. Thus, 0 my God,
may I cling to thee; and do thou enable me to rise above
this earth and all its miseries But it is this sweet
mignonette which, more than all the others, is diffusing
the perfume in my prison. Gentle flower, thou refreshest
even her whose hand plucked thee from the garden, and
brought thee to this cold and dismal cell. I will try to
resemble thee. I will forgive and pray for those who
tore me from my happy home and cast me into prison.
Here is a fresh green sprig of periwinkle. It resists the
winter's frost, and through all the cold season preserves
its bright green colour-the emblem of hope. God, who
preserves this little flower green and fresh in the snow
and ice, will also preserve me through the storms of mis-
fortune. Here are some laurel leaves. They remind me
of the immortal crown prepared in heaven for those who
suffer patiently on earth-those who suffer with their
Master, to whom he has promised that they shall also
reign with him. I can imagine I see this splendid crown
of glory, this unfading wreath. Flowers of earth! you
are fading like its joys-you wither and die in an hour.

But after the fleeting troubles of this life are over, we
look for a glory and a happiness that can never fade
A dark cloud came over the moon. Mary could see
her flowers no longer. The cell became frightfully dark
for some time; but the cloud soon passed by, and the
moon appeared again in all its beauty. Thus," thought
Mary, may innocence be obscured for a moment, but
sooner or later it will shine forth again. The dark clouds
of suspicion have gathered thickly around me; but God
will yet dissipate them all, and make my innocence of
this crime clear as the noonday."
Mary knelt in her cell and prayed earnestly to God.
She then lay down on her couch of straw, and repeated
to herself some of the many passages of the Bible which
were engraven on her memory. Thus occupied, she
fell asleep as peacefully as if she were in her own little
room. As she slept she dreamed a pleasant dream.
She thought that she was walking by moonlight in a
garden she had never seen before. This garden was of
surpassing beauty, such as is only seen in dreams; and
it appeared to be planted in a lonely desert, and sur-
rounded by dark fir-trees. The moon seemed brighter
than it ever does in waking reality. All at once she saw
her father in this enchanting place. Hie was smiling and
happy. Mary rushed in fancy to meet him, threw herself
into his arms, and shed tears of joy, which still moistened
her cheek when she awoke. It was but a dream, yet
she felt comforted.



LS scarcely awake, w

hen an officer came

-- c of

seat covered wi
a large old des]

conduct her before the tribunal. A
ld shudder came over her as she entered
e gloomy vaulted room, where the light
day could scarcely penetrate through
e small panes of the high Gothic win-
)ws. The judge was sitting on a raised
th scarlet; and the clerk was below, near
k blackened by time. The judge asked

Mary many questions. She answered them all truth-
fully; and she declared her innocence, even with tears.
But the judge said coldly, You cannot deceive me so
far as to persuade me of that which is impossible. No
one but you had been in the room; you must have the
ring; confess it at once." Mary answered, weeping, I
can say no more than I have already said. I have not
the ring. I have not even seen it." The ring hlas
been seen in your hand," continued the judge; "how
will you answer that ?" Mary said that that was impos-
sible; and the judge ordered Margaret to be summoned.



To account for her appearance, it is necessary to relate
what had passed at the castle in the meantime. On the
day that the ring was missed, Margaret, still angry at
the loss of the dress, to which she imagined herself en-
titled, and jealous of Mary, thought it a good oppor-
tunity to be avenged. She said openly to the servants
in the castle, This wretched flower-girl must have
taken the ring. I met her as she was leaving the castleo
and I saw a ring in her hand set with jewels; she was
looking at it, but when she saw me she hastily put it
out of sight. It looked suspicious, but I thought it best
to say nothing. She is such a favourite, I thought the
Countess might have given it to her, as she has given
her so many things before, and I determined not to speak
rashly. I am very glad I did not happen to go into the
Countess's room at the time. Such wicked hypocrites
as Mary may cause honest people to be suspected."
Margaret's words were repeated, and she was eonse-
quently summoned as a witness on the trial. When she
appeared before the tribunal, and the judge admonished
her to speak the truth, her heart beat violently, and her
knees trembled; but this wicked woman resisted the.
voice of conscience and the warning of the judge. If IL
confess that I have told a lie," thought she, "I shall be,
dismissed from the castle in disgrace." This fear har-.
dened her heart; and she even dared to say to Mary,
" You have the ring; I saw it in your hand."
Mary shuddered with horror when she heard this
calumny, but she bore it patiently; she only said, Yon.
know, Margaret, that this is not true; you did not see
the ring in my hand; how can you thus perjure yourself

in order to injure one who has never done you any
harm?" But Margaret, influenced both by the fear of
disgrace and the love of revenge, persisted in her false-
hood; and, after being cross-questioned in vain, was
Your guilt is now evident," said the judge to Mary;
every circumstance is against you. The Countess's
maid has seen the ring in your hand. Now, confess
where you have concealed it."
Mary persisted in saying that she had it not; and,
according to the barbarous custom of those times, he
ordered her to be whipped till the blood came, to com-
pel her to confess. Poor Mary screamed and wept;
but, steadfast to the truth, she continued to protest that
she was innocent. Pale, bleeding, and exhausted, she
was again thrust into her cell. She suffered cruelly
from her wounds, tossing on her uneasy bed. But she
remembered her father's parting words. He had said,
When I am separated from you, cling closer to that
Saviour from whom no human power can separate
you." She had recourse to prayer; and God, who hears
and answers prayer, sent her a sweet and refreshing
The next day, Mary was brought again before the
tribunal; and the judge, finding severity of no use, tried
to induce her to confess by gentleness and by promises.
" You have incurred the punishment of death," said he;
" but if you will only confess where the ring is, you
shall be set free. No further punishment shall be in-
flicted upon you." His promises had as little effect as
his threats. Mary repeated her former words. The

judge, observing her tender affection for her father,
tried to work upon this feeling. If you continue
obstinate," said he, your father also shall be punished.
Have pity on his gray hairs. Could you bear to see his
head fall under the executioner's axe. He must have
helped and encouraged you in crime; and he, too, must
die, unless you will yet save him by a full confession."
Mary's courage gave way when she heard these words:
she nearly fainted. Confess," said the judge, that
you have taken the ring; that one word Yes' may save
your father's life."
This was a severe trial to Mary. She was long silent.
She was tempted to say that she had taken the ring, and
that she had lost it on the road; but she resisted the
temptation. No," said she at length, as if speaking to
herself; it is better to die than to sin. I cannot save
my father's life, if it is only to be done by sinning
against God. I will still trust thee, 0 my God; thou
wilt yet save us." She then continued, in a loud and
firm tone, If I were to say that I took the ring, it
would be a lie; and I dare not tell a lie even to escape
death. But oh," she added, in an agonized voice, I
implore you to be satisfied with taking my life. I
would gladly die to save my father." The judge, not-
withstanding his severity, was deeply moved. He said
no more, and ordered Mary to be taken back to prison.



KU HE judge was much embarrassed. This is the
third day that we have tried to discover the
truth," said he to his clerk, and we have not
advanced a single step. If I could see it to be
possible that any one else could have taken the
ring, I would believe this young girl innocent.
Such obstinacy at her age is incredible. But the evi-
dence against her is too clear; she must have stolen it."'
The judge went again to see the Countess, and ques:-
tioned her closely. He examined Margaret again;: he'
spent the whole day in going over the minutes of the
trial, and in considering the evidence with the utmost
attention. At length, late in the evening, he ordered
James to be brought into his study.
James," said he, you know that I have been
thought severe, but you will do me the justice to say,
that, though strict, I am not cruel or unjust. You know
that I do not wish your daughter to suffer. Unfortu-
nately, the evidence against her is clear and indisputable,.
and by the law she deserves to die. The lady's-maid's



evidence cannot be got over. Nevertheless, if she would
confess, and restore the ring, she might receive a pardon
on account of her extreme youth; but if she continue
obstinate in her denial of the crime, there is no hope of
saving her. Go then, James, and advise her; persuade
her to restore the ring, and I pledge my word that no
harm shall happen to her. You are her father; you
have unbounded influence over her; if you do not make
her confess, what can we think but that you are the ac-
complice of her crime? If the ring is not found, it will
go hard with you."
I will gladly see her and speak with her," said James;
" but I know that she has not stolen the ring, and that,
consequently, she has nothing to confess. I will, how-
ever, converse with her; and if, innocent as she is, she
must die, it will at least be a great consolation to me to
see her once more."
The jailer conducted the old man to his daughter's
cell; and having set down a lamp on the stone table, he
withdrew, locking the door as he went out.
On the table, beside the lamp, stood a pitcher of water
and a morsel of coarse bread, intended for Mary's supper;
but it was untouched. She was lying with her face
turned to the wall, and appeared to have been sleeping.
The sound of footsteps and the glimmer of the lamp
roused her. She turned, and saw her father; and start-
ing up, she threw herself into his arms. They wept for
some time in silence. At last James told her the com-
mission he had received.
0 my dear father !" said Mary, surely you do not
doubt my word! Is it possible that there is no one,
(374) 4


not even my good father, who believes me innocent ? I
implore you to believe me! Indeed-indeed-I am not
a thief !"
Be calm, my dear child," said her father. I do


most firmly believe you. I did not doubt you for a
moment. I was merely telling you, as I promised to do,
the commission with which I was charged."
James saw, with extreme pain, the change that a few
days of suffering had made upon Mary. Her cheeks
were pale and hollow; her eyes red and swollen; and
her hair had fallen in heavy and disordered masses over
her face and neck.
My poor child," said he, "' God has sent you a severe
trial. You have suffered much already; and I fear-I
much fear-that the worst is yet to come. Innocent as
you are, they will not believe it. They may be permitted
to carry their cruelty still farther. You ought to be



prepared for this, my poor child. Do you know that
they have the power to take away your young life ?"

" My dearest father," said


" I have no fears for

save you.
ened you.

I could bear all they could inflict, if it would

But you-my dear father-the j
He told me they would kill you.



Oh, I can-

not bear even to think of it !"

" Compose


my dear Mary,"

said James.

" Have
try you.

no fear

for me; the judge

I am in no danger;

said this only to

but with you it is differ-

Oh !" interrupted Mary
is relieved of a heavy burden.

joyfully, then my heart
If you are safe, my dear

father, all is well.

I do not fear death.

I hope to go to

God my Saviour. I shall meet my dear mother in heaven.
What happiness this will be !"

These words pierced to the very heart of
man, and he wept like a child.

the poor old

God be praised," said he, as soon as he could speak.
" God be praised for the happy state of mind in which I

find you, my darling


But it is cruel-very cruel


an old


thus to lose his beloved


only comfort,

his last earthly treasure, the crown and

joy of his


old age!



But, 0 Lord,

a faltering


thy will

" Tho

sacrifice, but I give it cheerfully.

thee to take my daughter,

I am resigned

be done,"

u demandest
If it please
to thy will;

thou knowest what is


And oh,

dear Mary, better

lose you thus
what is right.

than see you

Better you should

spared and led astray from

die innocent-better

be early removed from this cold world to heaven, than




be spared for perhaps severer sufferings. May God
strengthen you, my child. May he enable you to feel
that his will is best."
A torrent of tears interrupted his words. After a
pause, he added,-
There is one thing more, dear Mary. Margaret has
witnessed falsely against you. If you are condemned,
it will be on her testimony-she will be the cause of
your death. But you pardon her, do you not, my child ?
You are free from any feeling of hatred to her? Ah!
you are happier than she is, though you are lying on
this straw in this gloomy cell, and she is living in com-
fort and luxury in the castle. It is better to die inno-
cent than to live with a guilty conscience. Forgive her,
my dear Mary, as your Saviour forgave his murderers.
You have done so-have you not ?"
Mary answered, Yes, my dear father, I forgive her,
and I pity her. She must feel very miserable when she
thinks of what she has done. May God give her re-
pentance, and change her heart !"
At that moment they heard the jailer's step in the
I must leave you, my beloved child," said James.
" I commend you to God and to your Saviour. Trust
in him, dear Mary; he- will strengthen you. And if I
am never permitted to see you again, my darling-if
this is the last time we are ever to meet on earth-we
shall soon meet in heaven, for I feel that I cannot long
survive you."
The jailer warned James that it was time to go; but
Mary still held him fast-she could not part with him.



He gently disengaged himself from her arms, kissed her
for the last time, and turning quickly away, she fell
fainting back on her straw.
James was conducted again into the presence of the
judge. There he raised his hand to heaven, and in a
solemn voice he said, I believe my daughter innocent;
I am ready to confirm it upon oath."
I could almost believe it too," said the judge ; but,
unfortunately, my decision must be given, not according
to what you and your daughter say, but according to the
evidence in the case, and the strict letter of the law."



VERY one in the castle and in the village was
I exceedingly anxious to know what sentence
would be pronounced on Mary. They trem-
bled for her life; for in those times theft was
punished with excessive severity. Many had
suffered death for stealing articles of much
less value than the ring. The Count earnestly
desired that Mary's innocence could be proved. He
carefully re-examined all the evidence-he had many a
consultation with the judge; but they could discover no
means of acquitting her, for it seemed an utter impos-
sibility that any one else could have taken the ring.
The Countess and her daughter earnestly entreated for
Mary's pardon, and even implored it with tears. Poor
old James, unable to help her in any other way, spent
his time in almost incessant prayer for her. Every time
that Mary heard the jailer's step, she imagined that he
was coming to lead her to execution. The people in the
prison had, in truth, begun to prepare for it. One day,
as Margaret was passing, she saw some of those prepara-



tions, and she was struck with remorse. That evening
all the servants in the castle perceived that she was suf-
fering some concealed agony of mind. She passed a
wretched night. Mary's pale face haunted even her
dreams; yet this miserable creature had not the courage
to do what she could to atone for her crime, by confess-
ing it in time to save Mary.
The judge at length pronounced sentence. Although
Mary had incurred the punishment of death, it was
commuted into a sentence of perpetual banishment, in
consideration of her youth, and of her previous excellent
conduct. This sentence was extended to James also;
and everything they possessed. was confiscated, as it was
taken for granted that he was either the accomplice of
her crime, or that his bad example or neglect had helped
to lead her astray. Her punishment would have been
more severe had it not been for the earnest entreaty of
the Count and his family. James and Mary were ordered
to be conducted over the frontier by the police; and
their journey was to begin the very next day.
Early in the morning, as Mary and her father passed
before the castle-gate with the police-officer, Margaret
came out. She had recovered her usual spirits. She
did not wish that Mary should be put to death, but she
had no objection to her banishment. As soon as she
found that Mary's life was spared, her jealousy of her
revived in full vigour. She hated her still, and still
envied her the love that the young Countess had shown
her. A few days before, Amelia having seen on a side-
board the basket which Mary had given her, had said to
Margaret, Take this basket out of my sight; it recalls


so much that is painful, that I cannot bear to see it."
Margaret took the basket and kept it in her own room,
and now brought it out at this trying moment. Here,"
said she, take your fine present, Miss Mary; my lady
can receive no presents from such as you. You thought
yourself high in her favour; but all your fancied great-
ness has withered, like the flowers you brought, for which
you were so well paid. I have the greatest pleasure,
Miss Mary, in giving you back your fine basket." So
saying, she threw the basket at Mary's feet; and, with
a sneering laugh, she went back into the castle, shutting
the gate, as she passed, with a loud noise.
Mary, with tears in her eyes, silently picked up the
basket, and went on her melancholy way. Her poor
father had nothing, not even a stick to support his
tottering steps, and her basket was now her only pos-
With eyes blinded with tears, she passed each familiar
spot. She gazed on the cottage where she had spent so
many happy days; and turned to look again and again
at this dear home, till first the cottage, then the castle,
and last of all the spire of the village church, disappeared
from her sight behind a hill covered with trees.
When Mary and James reached the frontier, in the
middle of a deep forest, the police-officer left them.
Poor old James was by this time so worn out with grief
and fatigue that he could walk no farther, and sank
down exhausted on a stone covered with moss, under the
shade of an old oak-tree.
After resting for a few minutes, he called Mary to his
side. Come, my child," said he, making her kneel


down by him; before we leave our native country, let
us give thanks to God, who has saved you from death
-who has restored you, my darling, to me--and who
has given to us both freedom to go where we will, and
to enjoy the fresh air under the open sky, instead of
being immured in a close and gloomy prison." Then
raising his eyes to heaven, he prayed thus: Our Father
which art in heaven, the only hope of thy children upon
earth, the protector of the oppressed, we thank thee that
thou hast saved us from fetters, from prison, and from
death. We thank thee for all the blessings thou hast
given us during our past life. We thank thee for all the
blessings thou art still giving us, in sparing us to each
other, and in giving us freedom from bondage-in be-
stowing on us the support of thy word and thy promises
in this life, and the glorious hope of a blessed immor-
tality beyond death and the grave, through our Lord
Jesus Christ. We cannot leave our native land without
imploring thy merciful care and guidance in the foreign
land to which we are driven. Deign, 0 Lord, to look
down in pity on an afflicted old man and his suffering
child, and take us under thy merciful protection. Be our
guide and guard through the dangers to which we may
be exposed. Conduct our steps, we pray thee, among
those who are thy people, and incline their hearts to pity
us. Grant us, 0 Lord, in this thy world, a little corner,
where we may finish our pilgrimage in quiet, and die in
peace. We believe that thou hast already prepared for
us our destined habitation, though we know not where
it is. Enable us to go on our way in faith and trust in
thee, till thou shalt bring us to the place where thou



choosest us t(
our journey,
Christ's sake.




and grant us thy peace,

IS, w

e pray thee, for
our Lord Jesus

When they had thus prayed (for e
father's prayer was re-echoed in Mary's
from their knees refreshed and comfort

very word o
heart), they

ted, and

f her


to go on their way with courage, and even with joy.


wonderfully does prayer relieve and strengthen the soul.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;
Prayer the sublitmest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.

"0 thou, by whom we come to God !
The life, the truth, the way !
The path of prayer thyself hast trod-
Oh, teach us how to pray."



TTST at the moment that James had ended his
prayer, the sound of a footstep was heard
among the withered leaves, and Anthony, the
old forester, appeared, coming towards them
through the trees. He was an old and dear
friend, for he had been the chasseur of the
Count, and had travelled with him when James was also
of the party. Thus they had spent many pleasant days
together in foreign countries, and their friendship had
been uninterrupted since. Anthony was now the Count's
forester, and had been out early that morning at his
work in the woods.
God bless you, James," said he, I am thankful I
am in time to see you. I thought I heard your voice
through the trees. It is then true that they have had
the cruelty to banish you. It is a hard thing for a man
to be obliged to leave his fatherland and his home after
lie has come to our time of life."
As far as the blue arch of heaven extends, the land
belongs to my Father in heaven," said James, "so I may


find a fatherland anywhere. W
from his presence, or sent where
follow us; but our true home is in

3 cannot


be banished


will not



"And can it be possible," said Anthony indignantly,
"that they have actually robbed you of everything, and
sent you away without even the necessary clothing for
your journey ?"
"He who clothes the lilies of the field," replied James,
" will also clothe us."



"But have you no money with you at all ?" asked
"We have the treasure of a good conscience," said
James, which is greater riches than gold or silver."
Is this empty basket, then," said the forester, "lite-
rally all you have brought with you ? What may it be
worth ? A crown, perhaps," continued he, looking at it.
If it is worth that, we are rich," said James; if
God continues to me the use of my hands, and blesses
my labour, I can easily make a hundred of these baskets
in a year; and we can live well on a hundred crowns.
My father was a basket-maker, and he taught me his
trade, that I might have an occupation for my leisure
hours in winter. He could not bear to see me sitting
idle. I bless his memory for having taught me so early
habits of constant industry. It is better for me than if
he had left me a large legacy, and had, at the same time,
allowed me to learn idle habits. A good conscience,
health of body, and a respectable trade, are the best for-
tune any one need wish for on earth."
Well, I am glad to see you bear your misfortunes
so well," said Anthony. I must confess, too, that you
are right. Your knowledge of gardening will be also a
great help to you. But where are you going now to look
for work ? "
We are going far away," said James, to some place
where we are not known. God will guide our steps."
My friend," said the forester, I cannot do much to
help you, but will you take this thick knotted stick of
mine? I am glad I thought of bringing it to-day to help
me to climb the hill. You will need one for your weary


journey. And here," said he, drawing out a little leather
purse, here is some money which I received last night
in payment for some wood in the village down there,
where I slept last night."
I will be very glad to take the stick, and I thank
you very heartily for it," said James; but I cannot take
the money. If it is payment for wood, it belongs to the
My good honest friend," said the forester, "be easy
on that score; the money has been already paid to the
Count. I advanced it some time ago for a poor man
who had lost his cow, and had not ready money to pay
for the wood which he had bought. He has prospered
better since that time; and yesterday, when I did not at
all expect it, he repaid me the loan with thanks. It has
just come in time for you; take it as a gift which God
sends to you."
Well, I will take it, then, my kind, generous friend,"
said James, "and may God reward you! See, Mary,"
continued he, addressing his daughter, "how God is
already blessing us on our way. Before we have taken
a single step in a strange land, he has sent this good old
friend to meet us with money for our journey. Scarcely
had we risen from our knees when we began to receive
an answer to our prayers. It is, in truth, a fulfilment
of his own blessed promise, 'When they call, I will
answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear.'
Let us, then, trust and not be afraid. God will con-
tinue to watch over us."
The old forester took leave of them with tears in his
eyes. Good-bye, my honest friend James !-good-bye,

my good little Mary!" said he, shaking hands heartily
with them both. I know you are innocent. I have
always known you to be worthy people, and I continue
to believe it. Do not be cast down; you will see the
old proverb fulfilled, 'Truth will out at last.' God will
not forsake those who trust in
him as you do. May he bless you
and guide you." Saying these
words, the old forester turned
hastily away, and took the road
that led to Eichbourg. James
took his daughter by the hand,
and walked away in a contrary
direction, like Abraham, not THE JOURNEY FROM
knowing whither he went." EICHBOUG.
Reader, are you in sorrow-perhaps homeless, friend-
less, forsaken? Remember him who has said, "I will
never leave thee, nor forsake thee." .Trust in his pro-
mise, and you will yet be able to praise him. Say ivith
the psalmist, Why art thou cast down, 0 my soul? and
why art thou disquieted within me ? Hope thou in God :
for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my coun-
tenance, and my God."



ARYt and her father wandered on for many
days without finding either work or a place
"Pl where they could settle. They had travelled
more than twenty miles; the money An-
^ thony had given them was nearly spent,
although they had lived as frugally as they
could. The very thought of asking charity
was painful to them, yet at last they were compelled to
do it, and painful indeed they found it. More than one
door was rudely closed against them ; sometimes a little
morsel of broken bread was given with a careless or surly
word of reproach, which they bore with meekness, and
were contented with the dry bread, and water from the
nearest brook. Sometimes people, more charitably dis-
posed, invited them into their cottages, and gave them a
little soup or vegetables, or even such morsels of meat as
were left from their own repasts. Often for many days
together the poor wanderers had not one warm meal, and
they were thankful to be allowed to spend the night in
a barn. One day their journey had been longer and


more fatiguing than usual.
and hilly path, and for a lo
house where they could ask

They had


a rugged

ng time they had seen no


Worn out

with fatigue and hunger, the poor old man was taken

suddenly ill, and sank

heap of



down pale and
Mary was in an

speechless on a
agony of terror.


She sought
found near.


in vain

for water-not a

She called aloud

She hastily


looked eagerly round to
sight where she could ho
length she saw, in the ir
site side of the hill, a

for help, bu
the nearest


was to be

it no voice re-


see if there were any cottage
)pe to procure assistance; and

of the wood on the



solitary farm-house, surrounded

with beautiful meadows and fields of ripe corn.

She ran




down the hill as fast as she could, and reached the farm-
house quite breathless. With tears in her eyes and a
faltering voice, she implored help for her father. The
farmer and his wife, both elderly people, were charitable
and kind-hearted. They were touched by the tears and
entreaties, the paleness and the terror of the poor girl.
The farmer's wife said to her husband, "Harness a horse
into the cart as soon as you can; we must bring this poor
old man here."
The farmer hastened to get ready a cart. His wife
threw into it cushions and blankets, and filled a little
pitcher with water, and a small bottle with vinegar.
Mary having heard that the cart-road, which led round
the foot of the hill, was much longer than the way by
which she had come right across it, took the pitcher of
water and the vinegar, and hastened to return by the
way which she came, that she might be sooner with her
father. By the time that she reached him, he had re-
covered a little; he had raised himself up, and was look-
ing eagerly round for Mary. His joy was great when
she appeared, bringing the water. The cart came soon
after, and he was taken to the farm. Behind the farm-
house there was a small cottage attached to it, intended
for the farm-labourers. It happened then to be unoccu-
pied, and here James was conveyed. The kind farmer's
wife had prepared a good bed for him, into which he was
put. She spared no pains to get everything comfortably
arranged for Mary, and brought her everything she could
think of to do the old man good. His illness was the
effect of fatigue and want of food, and all he required
was rest and nourishment. The good woman brought



him plenty of milk, butter, eggs, and meal; she
sacrificed some of her favourite fowls to make



nourishing soup; and the young pigeons, which she had
been keeping to carry to market, were roasted for him
when he was able to eat them. The farmer and his wife
had been accustomed to go once a year to a large fair in
the neighbourhood, which they considered a kind of
festival. They resolved this year to remain at home, and
to spend the money which they had laid aside for some
little luxuries at the fair, in buying some wine and
medicine to restore strength to the invalid. Mary could
not find words to thank them; but when every day she



gave thanks and praise to God, who had raised up these
kind friends for them in their utmost need, she prayed
most earnestly, at the same time, that God would bless
and reward their benefactors, and restore to them a
thousandfold all they were bestowing so freely.
Mary never left her father's side, yet she was-not idle.
Every moment she could spare from attending to his
wants, she spent in sewing and knitting for the farmer's
wife; her busy fingers never rested, and never seemed to
tire. The farmer's wife was delighted with her activity
and usefulness, her gentle and obliging disposition. As
soon as James's strength was a little restored by good
food and rest, he too was anxious to be busy. His first
work was a beautiful basket for the farmer's wife. He
had guessed her taste exactly. The basket was large and
strong, but at the same time very pretty. He had dyed
some willows red, and woven with them, on the cover of
the basket, the initials of her name, and the date when
it was worked. Upon the sides he had contrived to
weave with willows, of various colours, a neat little
picture of a cottage, with a few pine-trees round it.
This gave great pleasure to the farmer's wife, who was
flattered and pleased by the allusion to the name of the
farm, which was called Pine Farm.
When James had quite recovered his strength, he said one
day to the farmer and his wife, I have been long enough
a burden to you; I must now go and try to find work."
The farmer, taking him kindly by the hand, said:
What whim is this, my dear James ? I hope we have not
offended you in any way. Why do you wish to leave us ?
It is not what I expected from a sensible man like you."


A tear came into the eye of the farmer's wife at the
thought of losing them, for Mary was like a daughter to
her. Stay with us, my dear friends," said she; "the
season is far advanced, the leaves are yellow already,
they will soon fall, winter is at hand. Do you really
wish to make yourselves ill again ? "
James assured them that his only reason for wishing
to go was the fear of being troublesome and a burden to
Troublesome to us replied the farmer; how can
that be ? You have your own little cottage there, which
was empty before you came; you are not at all in our
way, and you work for more than we give you."
Oh yes," said his wife, Mary's knitting and sewing
alone is far more than all you have cost us. And if you
are able to get on with your basket-making, James, you
will make money. The last time I went to the mill in
the village, I took your beautiful basket with me.
Everybody coveted it, everybody wished to have one
like it. I can get you as many orders as you please.
You may sell as many as you can make; so if work is
all that you want, just consent to remain with us."
James and Mary gladly agreed to stay, to the great
delight of the farmer and his wife.
Reader, examine yourself. If you were left alone
among strangers, do you possess any useful qualities, or
talents, which would make them wish to keep you with
them ? Can you be of any use? Are you leading a
useful life; or are you so wholly selfish and useless, that
if you went away, no one would regret you ; if you died,
no one would miss you?



AMES and Mary now considered themselves at
home in their little cottage, and settled them-
selves there to work busily. They got it
made comfortable, with a few indispensable
articles of furniture, and they refused any
longer to receive from the good farmer and his
wife anything except what they really earned and paid
for. Mary was delighted to have once more the feeling
of home, and tried to make their small dwelling as like
their dear old home as possible. While James worked
at his baskets she was busy with her needle, and their
time passed pleasantly. They often spent their evenings
with the good farmer and his wife, who were always
glad to see them. In the long winter evenings, all the
people employed on the farm sometimes collected round
the farmer's pleasant fireside, and listened with eager
delight tb James's amusing stories and improving con-
versation. Those winter evenings were long remembered
with pleasure by many of the party.
Near the farm there was a large garden and orchard,

which had been much neglected. The good farmer and
his wife did not understand these matters, they were too
busy with the necessary labour in their fields. James
undertook the care of them. In autumn he prepared
the ground, and in the first days of spring, as soon as
the snow disappeared, he and Mary were busy from
morning till night. He laid out the garden anew, the
walks were once more bordered with box, and the beds
were divided in regular order, and separated by well
gravelled walks. From the neighboring town they
managed to procure seeds and roots, such as they had
had in the dear old garden at Eichbourg. The garden
soon bloomed with a magnificence and profusion of
flowers, such as had never been seen before in this wild
and secluded place-and it gave a bright and smiling
aspect to the whole valley-while the orchard, pruned
by James's skilful hand, blossomed so beautifully as to
promise a crop such as had never been seen in it before.
The blessing of God was upon all that good old James
undertook. As Pharaoh's household prospered under
Joseph's care, so all seemed to prosper when this child
of God was the labourer. He rejoiced in seeing all
thriving round him, and he seemed to feel that the old
times had come back again. He was as busy as before
in teaching his daughter the lessons inscribed on the
flowers; not the same as before, for something new
seemed to be sent to him with every new spring. There
is no sameness in the voices of nature-they are ever
varying, and ever new.
In the early spring, Mary wished to bring him her
usual offering of early violets. She carefully searched

the woods and hedges, and brought him her first bunch
with a face beaming with joy.
Well," said her father, he who seeks finds; but,"
added he, it is worthy of notice, that the sweet violet
is often to be found among thorns. Under thorn-hedges
you may often seek for it, and find it. There is a great
teaching in this. There is no situation in life so thorny
and so miserable, that we may not find blessings under
the thorns, if we look carefully for them. Who could
have believed that, after all our wanderings, we should
find such rest and peace in this solitary cottage, in the
middle of this lonely wood ? Trust in God, dear Mary,
and in every situation, however desolate it. may seem at
first, he will send you blessings hid among the thorns."
The wife of -one of the neighboring villagers came
one day to buy flax at the farm, and brought her little
boy with her. While she was choosing the flax, and
settling the price of it with the farmer's wife, the child
escaped through the open door into the garden. For-
getful of the protecting thorns, he flew eagerly to seize
the roses that were growing near the entrance. In his
rude and eager grasp, the delicate flowers were torn and
crushed, and his hands and arms were cruelly scratched
by the thorns. His cries brought his mother and the
farmer's wife to the garden, where they were soon fol-
lowed by James and Mary, all alarmed by the unusual
outcry. They found the child standing, with bleeding
hands, near the rose-bush, trampling on the scattered
rose-leaves at his feet, and wishing that he had strength
to destroy the bush which had hurt him so much.
It, is often so with children of larger growth," said


James. They grasp at forbidden pleasures, which fall
to pieces and vanish in their hands, leaving sharp thorns
and a cruel sting behind. Even lawful pleasures, if
seized too eagerly, perish in our grasp; and we are then
ready to blame anything, rather than our own too great
impetuosity. God teaches us to be 'temperate in all
things; to use the world as not abusing it,' because
the fashion of this world passeth away; remembering
that there is no unmingled happiness here. Almost
every pleasure has its attendant thorn. Only in the
garden above shall we find the thornless rose."
One beautiful summer morning Mary called her father
to look at her lilies in full blow. The flowers were very
beautiful, but as the garden had been long neglected,
all Mary's care had not been able to subdue the weeds.
The bad seed had been so long allowed to fall into the
ground, that the thorns and thistles sprung up much
faster than she was able to pluck them up. Her beauti-
ful lilies were indeed lilies among thorns.
Do you remember, my dear Mary," said James,
"4 that the Church is compared, in the Bible, to a lily
among thorns'? (Canticles ii. 2.) Christ himself is
likened to a lily, because of his purity, as the lily is of
a spotless white; and because of his humility, as the
lily is often found growing in lowly and humble places.
His Church is like him, as it is made up of true believers,
and they all, in humble measure, are made like their
glorious Master. By Adam's fall, man lost the image
of God in which he was originally made ; 'but in Christ,
the second Adam, men are 'renewed in knowledge after
the image of him that created them' (Col. iii. 10). And


having the image of God once more created in them in
the new birth, they become, in humble degree, like
Christ. IHe is like a lily among thorns: so are his
Church and people, in some measure, pure in an ungodly
world; rising upright like the straight stem of the lily
through the crooked and twisted and disordered mass
around them; tending ever upwards, and reflecting the
rays of the Sun of Righteousness, as the flowers of the
lily reflect the sun on their pure white blossoms. The
bright lily has no kindred with the thorns. It is evi-
dently a plant of a different kind altogether; and one
day God will transplant his lily to bloom in the garden
where thorns are unknown.
"All fine plants," continued James, have a natural
tendency to rise upwards, and to turn to the light. In
this respect we should learn a lesson from them. The
soul of man, formed to soar upwards, should not grovel
on the earth, and should ever turn to the light, shed
abundantly from the Sun of Righteousness, the light of
life (John i. 4), life giving, and life preserving" (John
viii. 12).
One day James was transplanting young plants into a
bed prepared for them, while Mary, a little farther on,
was preparing for him by clearing the ground from
"This double work," said James, "is an emblem of
that which ought to be the daily work of our lives;
striving to uproot from our minds the evil habits which
are natural to them, and to implant the graces which are
not natural. And as now our work would not prosper
unless God sent the gracious influences of the sun. and



the rain, and the dew, to make the young plants flourish;
so neither can heavenly graces flourish in the soul unless
watered by the dew of God's grace, and cherished by the
gracious influences of his Spirit."

James was digging
been long neglected.
unfit for sowing seed
of earth." He dug it

a part of

the garden which


It was hard, and trodden down, and
s, because there was no deepness
t deep, broke the clods, and turned

them up to the surface to be crumbled by the hard frost.

in this way," said

he to Mary,

" does

work upon






and by

be exposed to the frosts






be deeply

of sin;

of adversity,

and to prepare


to soften

the soil


receive the



If the seed is sown without

this preparation, on the hardened soil, it has no deepness
in it, and it soon withers; but after this deep digging,
this severe exposure, it is no longer hard, the good seed
takes root, and, blessed by God, bears abundant fruit."

The orchard

had been as much neglected as the

garden, and


the trees required a great deal

had all gone to leaf,

very freely.

of pruning.

and James had to use the

He cut off all



branches which never

blossomed, and

left only

shoots likely to be fruit-bearing.

" See,"

said he to Mary,

" here

is the illustration of

the verse (John xv. 2),

eth not


'Every branch

he taketh away;

in me that bear-

and every branch


beareth fruit, he purgeth it, that it may bring forth
more fruit.' When there are the green leafy branches

of profession and abundance of leaves, but no fruit,





" Just


God uses the pruning-knife. He cuts away
down, if need be, almost to the ground; and
pruning, the soul, chastened and improved,
bring forth acceptable fruit."
James and Mary spent three years very lb

and cuts
after this
begins to



the Pine Farm. In the autumn of the third year,
James's strength began visibly to decline. As the
season advanced, his weakness and illness increased.
By the time that the summer flowers had almost dis-
appeared, and the white, yellow, and purple chrysanthe-
rnums were almost the last ornament of the garden,
James was feeling seriously ill. He struggled on, how-
ever, and strove to work as long as he could; but he felt
his strength daily diminishing, and he tried to prepare
poor Mary for the affliction that he saw she must have
to endure. His remarks on the flowers now often led
to the idea of death, and the season helped to give his
lessons more and more this cast of thought. His words

made Mary

feel sad, she scarcely knew why.

One day she was attempting to gather her last autumn-
rose, but though she touched it very gently, it fell to
pieces in her hand.
Such is man," said James: "in spring, bright and
vigorous; in autumn, frail and weak. Yet, in God's
people, this is only true of their bodies, and that only in
this world: they will one day be raised up to unfading
youth and beauty in heaven."
About this time, James was one day busy in pulling
the best apples from a tree which was bending to the
ground with its load of beautiful fruit, although the
leaves were withering. James said sadly, The autumn




wind is whistling through the withered leaves of the tree,
as it is playing through the scanty locks of my gray hair.
I am in the autumn of life, dear Mary; and if you are
spared, you will also be so at a future time. Strive, and
labour, and pray, that when your autumn comes, you may
be found bearing fruit as abundantly as this tree, fruit
which may be acceptable to the great Husbandman."
When Mary was sowing seeds for the following spring,
James said to her, Thus will our bodies be one day
sown in the earth: sown in corruption, to be raised in
glory; sown in weakness, raised in power; sown a
natural body, raised a spiritual body; sown alone, a poor
miserable grain, planted to die, yet springing again to
life, renewed in beauty, a thousandfold brighter and
better than before. The day may not be far distant, my
child, when you shall see my body thus laid in earth;
but grieve not, my dear Mary, weep not, death is but the
gateway to heaven, the passage to endless life, the prepa-
ration for immortality. The Saviour has conquered death
and the grave, and we may gladly unite in the trium-
phant words of the apostle, 0 Death, where is thy sting?
0 Grave, where is thy victory? Thanks be to God,
which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus
Christ'" (1 Cor. xv. 55-57).
While Mary listened to her father, her heart was too
full for words. A sad foreboding seized her mind. She
felt that James was trying to prepare her for his own
death-a glorious change for him, but an unspeakable
loss to her--a loss that seemed too great to be realized :
she dared not suffer her mind to dwell upon it, for it
would have unfitted her for her daily duties.



{:INTER set in with uncommon severity; the
ground was early covered with deep snow.
James became seriously ill. Mary wished
to send for the doctor from the nearest
village, and the kind farmer went in a
sledge on the top of the snow to fetch him.
When the doctor had seen James, and prescribed for
him, Mary followed him to the door, and anxiously in-
quired if he thought her father in danger. The doctor
said that he did not think there was any immediate
danger, but there was a great risk that the attack might
end in consumption, and that in this case, at her father's
age, there would be no hope of his recovery. Poor Mary
was sadly overcome on hearing this; but remembering
that her tears would grieve her father, she exerted all her
self-command to restrain them, that she might not hurt
him, and she re-entered his room with a composed and
serene face. It requires more true and deep feeling to
act in this way than to give way to useless tears and
lamentations, which are often the mere outpouring of


selfishness. Mary's love for her father was real, and
overcame her love of self. Her affection was shown, not
by useless tears, but by active exertions for his comfort.
His food was carefully and regularly prepared, nicely
cooked, and served to him in the most inviting way.
His pillows were skilfully arranged to give him ease;
she watched his every look, that she might anticipate his
wishes. She often passed the night watching by his
pillow; and many a weary hour her busy fingers worked,
to gain enough money to procure for him the little com-
forts that he needed. When she did lie down to rest,
her sleep was often disturbed. If he coughed, or if he
moved, she glided gently in to see if anything was want-
ing. When he was able to hear her, she read aloud to
him; but, above all, her prayers were constant for him.
Often when he was sleeping she was praying by his side,
and weeping silently when he could not see her tears.
She found relief in pouring out the distress of her soul
before God. "0 Lord, spare my father; spare him to
me, I pray thee, even a little longer," was often her
agonized cry; yet still she added, as she had been ever
taught to do, Thy will be done."
The old man recovered a little, but it was evident that
the amendment was only temporary. He himself felt
that death was approaching. He was calm and resigned.
He spoke of it to Mary with the greatest composure.
He wished to prepare her for the blow. Poor Mary
could scarcely bear this. Notwithstanding her strongest
efforts to control herself, her composure nearly gave way.
Oh, my dear father," said she, do not speak to me
of losing you. The very thought is agony. I cannot

bear it. What would become of me ? I have no other
friend on earth. I should be desolate indeed."
Do not grieve so, my dear child," said her father;
Christians must not sorrow as those that have no hope.
For me, death is a glorious change; and as to you, my
darling, I can trust you with Him who has promised to
be a Father to the fatherless. He has said, 'Leave thy
fatherless children, and I will preserve them alive.' If
your earthly father is taken away, dear Mary, you have
your Father in heaven still. I have no anxiety about
your worldly provision. He who feedeth the young
ravens when they cry will provide your food. He who
clothes the grass of the field will much more clothe you.
He has said, The young lions do lack, and suffer hunger;
but they that seek the Lord shall not want any good
thing' (Ps. xxxiv. 10). He has also said, 'Take no
thought, saying, What shall we eat ? or, What shall we
drink ? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed ? for your
heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these
things. But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his
righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto
you' (Matt. vi. 31-33). But remember, dear Mary, this
exhortation, Seek ye first.' Let it be your daily prayer,
your daily endeavour, to seek first, above all things, that
righteousness which is the one thing needful. Keep close
to Christ, and then you will have nothing to fear. If
you are walking with Christ, seeking him daily in prayer,
leaning on his arm, trusting in his strength, feeding on
his word, you will be kept safe even in the midst of
enemies. You have been brought up in great retirement,
my child; you have hitherto been shielded from many of

the temptations to which those are exposed who come
more in contact with the world; but when I am taken
away you may be thrown more among others, you may
be exposed to conflict with various enemies, both within
and without. You know, dear Mary, that these enemies
are threefold-Satan, the world, and our own evil na-
tures. I know you will shrink from wicked people when
you know them to be such; but Satan can sometimes
appear even as an angel of light; and if you trust to your
own wisdom and discernment, my poor girl, you will be
often deceived. Trust in the Lord with all thine heart,
and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy
ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths '
(Prov. iii. 5, 6). Look ever unto Jesus. It is by the
daily walk with him, the daily seeking from him wisdom
and strength, that we can alone hope to be preserved
from the snares of the wicked. Then, besides outward
enemies, we have a whole host of treacherous enemies in
our own hearts, ever threatening to betray us, and to
turn us away from seeking Christ daily. Indolence and
Sloth will whisper to you, perhaps, that if you are busy
or tired, there is no great harm in omitting your daily
prayer; and Presumption will add, that you are in no
particular peril at that moment. Procrastination will
say, that another time will do as well as your stated
morning hour; and Self-Indulgence will plead for a little
less strictness. Evil tempers, murmuring and wandering
thoughts, will try to distract your attention during prayer,
if you cannot be quite hindered from it. When you feel
the risings of these evil things within, my child, flee to
Jesus; tell him of your difficulties-of your temptations;
(374) a


ask for strength to fight the good fight-the incessant
warfare with inward as well as outward temptations.
You know the weapons of this warfare, dear Mary, that
they are not carnal, but spiritual. I have often spoken
to you about the armour of the Christian soldier (Eph.
vi. 10-18). Clothed with the armour, and looking ever
to Jesus for strength, you may go safely on your pilgrim-
age, fearing no enemies, and all things will work to-
gether for your good. Even seeming evils are overruled
by God for the good of his people.
I can now look back on my past life, and on all the
way by which the Lord my God has led me, and bless
him for his goodness to me. Yes, I can praise him for
much that was painful to me at the time. When our
eyes are opened by God's grace, and we see things no
longer as the dark world sees them, but when God, who
commanded the light to shine out of darkness, hath
shined in our hearts, to give the light of the knowledge
of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ,' we begin
to set a different value. on all things. We see that pros-
perity is sometimes a curse, and adversity a blessing.
We understand better what constitutes true happiness.
You know, my child, that I speak from experience. I
at one time tasted largely of what the world calls plea-
sure. When I travelled with the Count, I was allowed
to share in a very large degree in all the amusements
that the world covets. I enjoyed all the luxuries that
worldly people desire. I know the worthlessness of all
to give happiness. I have enjoyed much more real
happiness in an hour of meditation and communion with
God in our dear old garden. Believe me, my child, there


is no true blessedness but in God. Oh, my dear Mary,
pray and strive to obtain that pearl of great price, which
is the only treasure worth seeking.
You know, my child, that I have not been without
trials, vet I can thank God now for them, and feel that
they were sent in mercy and in great love; for whom the
Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom
he receiveth. When your mother died, I suffered very
deeply. My soul seemed dried up within me. It was.
broken up and furrowed, as you have seen the earth in
a time of drought : yet, after a time, God sent the
abundant and refreshing dew of his consolations, and
revived my thirsty soul, and I felt the benefit of the
affliction; for by this trial he weaned me more from
earthly things, and helped me to set my affections on
things above.
God ever does this, dear Mary. If we trace the
workings of his providence, we shall always find that he
brings good out of evil. Do you remember the miserable
day when, faint with fatigue and hunger, I fell down by
the wayside? From that day's suffering, many of the!
comforts of the last three years have sprung. It brought
us acquainted with these kind people, who received and
sheltered us.
Our greatest grief was when you were accused of
theft and thrust into prison. Yet even in that severe
trial, dear Mary, I think I can already see God's pur-
poses of mercy to you. The young Countess had dis-
tinguished you by her favour, and wished to have you
much with her. She had even begun to excite and foster
vanity in you by her gifts. Had this friendship con-


tinued, you would have been exposed to many tempta-
tions; and, young as you were, you might have been led
astray from what was right. Depend upon it, dear Mary,
that in this case the path of adversity, though painful,
was the safest. God used these means to deepen and
elevate your character, to purge and to strengthen your
soul, and to teach you more simple reliance on his faith-
fulness. It is another example of the truth of the words
of Scripture, that though 'no chastening for the present
seemeth to be joyous, but grievous; nevertheless after-
ward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto
them which are exercised thereby' (Heb. xii. 11).
At some future time, when the affliction has done
its full work, and when you may be safely trusted to
withstand temptation, it may perhaps be the good plea-
sure of God to remove this affliction altogether, to make
your innocence clear in the sight of all, and to restore
you to the favour and friendship of the Countess. But
if it should not be so, my child- if, on the contrary, even
severer trials are awaiting you, do not be afraid. If the
wounds inflicted on you are deep, remember that the
knife is in the hand of a loving Father. Our Lord Jesus
Christ is a wise and skilful Physician, who will not give
one unnecessary pang, who wounds only to cure. In the
darkest and most trying days, trust him-hope on-faint
not. Remember the experience and exhortation of the
psalmist, 'I had fainted, unless I had believed to see
the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait
on the Lord: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen
thine heart: wait, I say, on the Lord' (Psalm xxvii.
13, 14).

"Yes, dear Mary, even my death, the affliction you
dread so much, which it pains you so much to think of,
will be overruled for good to you, though you cannot see
this at present. Try, my dear child, to reconcile your-
self to the thought; try to hear me speak of it with
resignation. There is nothing terrible in death to a
Christian. It is only the removal from the garden
below to the garden above. Let us go back once more
to some of the lessons of our old garden at Eichbourg.
Do you remember our seed-beds, where the young shoots,
that were one day to be magnificent trees, came up weak
and crowded together in a narrow bed? How miserable
they looked then, without a vestige of the beauty which
they were afterwards to have. When they were left long
in the seed-bed, do you remember how feeble and sickly
they looked, from want of air and room ? You used to
urge me to transplant them. You would not be satisfied
till you had seen them removed to a bed prepared for
them, where, with fresh air, and light, and sunshine, they
soon shot up into luxuriance and beauty. Here, my
child, we are like those feeble and miserable plants, with
scarcely the appearance of life, and no beauty; but when
God transplants us into his glorious garden above, he
will clothe us with a beauty of which we have no con-
ception here. Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither
have entered into the heart of man, the things which God
hath prepared for them that love him' (1 Cor. ii. 9).
But one thing we know, that when he shall appear, we
shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is' (1 John
iii. 2); that when Christ, who is our life, shall appear,
we also shall appear with him in glory. And is not this


the sum of all happiness? Oh, my dear Mary, do not
grieve that the time is drawing near when I shall be
removed, to be made perfectly blessed. I am going to
my Saviour, do not wish to keep me here. Only keep
close to him now, that we may meet again above. If
you are truly united to Christ, if you are made one with
him, then you will have a- community of interests with
him; a community of suffering, in bearing patiently the
cross that he sends, as he patiently bore a far heavier
cross for you; a community of work, in labouring in the
service of God; and a community of glory, in being made
a partaker of his heavenly inheritance. Oh, dear Mary,
if we are really Christ's, the sufferings of this present
time are not worthy to be compared to the glory which
shall be revealed in us. Our light afflictions, which are
but for a moment, shall work out a far more exceeding
and eternal weight of glory."
Such were the conversations of James and his daughter;
such the advice and instruction which he gave her from
time to time as he was able to speak. Every word sank
deep into the heart of Mary, and was watered by her
tears. It fell into a soil prepared to receive it, for it had
been deeply ploughed by sorrow.
When James spoke of his death, she was sometimes
wholly unable to command herself. I have given you
much pain, my child," said James, yet I cannot part
from you without giving you advice and warning. What
is sown in tears, often produces a harvest of joy."
Watcher, who wakest by the bed of pain,
While the stars sweep on with their midnight train,
Stifling the tear for thy loved one's sake,
Holding thy breath lest his sleep should break,


In the loneliest hour there's a helper nigh---
'Jesus of Nazareth passeth by.'

"Fading one, with the hectic streak
In thy vein of fire and thy wasted cheek,
Fearest thou the shade of the darkened vale?
Look to the Guide, who can never fail:
He hath trod it himself, he will hear thy sigh -
'Jesus of Nazareth passeth by.'"



9S soon as James's illness had appeared dan-
gerous, Mary had gone to Erlenbriinnen, to
ask the minister of that place to come and
see her father, as the Pine Farm was in that
parish. The minister, a pious and worthy
man, had paid several visits to the invalid.
They had hbad many pleasant conversations
together; and his visits and his prayers were a great
consolation to Mary.
One afternoon, when he came, he found James much
weaker. He remained a long time alone with him; and
after he went away, James said to his daughter, My
dear Mary, I do not think I shall ever be able to be out
at church again; and to-morrow I hope to receive the
sacrament here, from the hands of our good minister."
Mary felt this deeply. It seemed as if her father had
given up all hope of recovery; but she strove to com-
mand her feelings for his sake. James spoke little during
the day, and seemed much engaged in silent prayer.
Next day the good minister came, and a little congrega-


tion was formed in James's room.

The farmer,

his wife,

and several

of the work-people

were present.

seemed all much moved and solemnized

by the


and Mary felt comforted and strengthened by it.

Notwithstanding all Mary's

tinued to
wife, who

care, the old man con-

get weaker every day. The farmer ai
loved him much, did all they could for


and they often went to his room to inquire how he

d his

or to help poor Mary in her anxious hours

of watching.

Mary often asked them, with a mixture of fear and hope,
" Oh, do you not think it is possible that he may yet

recover ?"

At I

and they as often evaded answering her ques-
length, thinking it cruel to deceive her, the


wife said,

in answer to her

oft-repeated, ques-

tion, My dear Mary,


there is life


is hope;

but I do not think that your father

will ever see the

trees in leaf again, or the summer flowers in blossom."

of spring

that moment poor Mary dreaded the approach

Till then she had welcomed it with




had watched the first opening bud, the first green shoot

appearing through the ground.

But this year she dreaded

to see it.

The bright green hue

beginning to steal over

the dry brown branches, as the tiny buds

pand; the snow-drop


of the birds,

began to ex-

raising its snowy head; the joyous
[led her soul with sadness. These

signs of spring now seemed like the announcement of her
father's approaching death.

One day she opened

her window to breathe

the fresh

air for a moment.

It was one of those


mornings when all nature seems to rejoice.
first time, these voices were at painful var

For the

iance with




Mary's feelings. Must all things rise to new life,"
:said she, except my poor father? He is fading away
when everything is reviving and rejoicing. All things
-speak of life, and hope, and joy, and is there no hope for
him ?"
But even while she was speaking, Mary's conscience
-smote her for her forgetfulness of her father's lessons.
She breathed a fervent prayer to God for strength to
bear whatever it might be his will to send, and calm and
peace returned to her soul. My father, too, will rise
to new life, thought she, though not in this world.
He is now only laying aside an old worn-out garment, to
be clothed in immortal robes. His hope is fixed as an
-anchor within the veil, sure and steadfast.' He is going
to fall asleep in Jesus, to rise to new life and glory. His
true life is just going to begin."
The old man delighted in hearing Mary read aloud.
She read with feeling, and her voice was very sweet and
clear. How necessary a qualification this is for the
watcher by a sick-bed, and how few really possess it!
How few read with that softly modulated voice, those
distinct, clear, but gentle tones, which soothe the weary
*ear, and charm away the sense of pain! This is an ac-
complishment which no woman should be without, for
.all must have to watch one day at the bed of sickness
-and death.
One night, Mary was sitting silently beside her father.
She had put out her rushlight, for the moon was shining
brightly into the room, and she loved to watch its beams.
Her father, who had had a short sleep, awoke, and
called her to him. My child," said the dying man,


" read to me once more our Lord's


last prayer

for his

Mary lighted a candle, and read to him the seventeenth
chapter of John's Gospel.

Now, raise me a little, dear Mary," said James;
bring me the Bible."


Mary put the Bible
candle nearer her.

into his hand,

and brought the

Listen, my child," he said,
for you." With a trembling

" to the last prayer I offer
voice, and marking the

passage in

the Bible

with his finger as he spoke, he

prayed thus: 0

my Lord and Saviour, thou art calling

me to leave this world, and I must leave my child alone

in it.

But let her not be


thou with

May I go to thee, to be with thee where thou art, 0 my
Saviour! and do thou preserve my child. I do not ask

thee to take her out of this world till thou

seest it best;

but oh, I beseech thee,
that is in the world.




Sanctify her, I pray thee,
ath. Thou gavest her, 0

to my care in this world; and
could, to devote her to thee.
grant that we may meet again

I have

tried, as fa



by thy
r as I

thy throne, to be

with thee for ever and ever, and to behold

for the sake of our Lord Jesus Christ.



a throbbing heart and a faltering voice,


whispered, Amen."
Yes, my child," continued James, I trust that we

shall meet again above, and see our Lord Jesus

in his


In the mansions above, which

he has pre-

pared for his people, there will be no more grief, no more


thou keep her from the

is tru

If we must part now, oh,

thy glory :


sorrow, no more painful separations. God will wipe
away all tears from every eye. There shall be no more
death, nor sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any
more pain. There shall be no night there; for the glory
of God shall lighten it, and the Lamb shall be the light
He fell back on his pillow exhausted. He could speak
no more for some time, and Mary stood by his side in
silence. The Bible was still grasped in his hand. It
was one which he had bought with his first savings after
he had come to the Pine Farm, and it had been his con-
stant companion and his great comfort in his illness.
After he had rested a few minutes, he revived a little,
and said, I thank you once more, my darling child, for
all your care and kindness to me in my long illness.
You have been truly a dutiful child, and God will bless
you. I leave you to his care. Trust in him, dear Mary,
and he will provide for you, though I have nothing to
leave you but my blessing and this book. I know you
will value both, my dear Mary, more than any worldly
thing. This Bible only cost a few pence, and yet it is
a richer treasure than gold or silver. It is a better
legacy than gold or jewels, for it is the Word of God, and
by it we learn to know that heavenly wisdom which is
better than rubies (Prov. iii. 13-18). Take this Bible,
my beloved child, as your father's last gift. Keep it as
a remembrance of me. Read in it every day. However
busy you may be, do not let any morning pass without
reading at least a small portion of it. Try to fix a verse
in your memory, to think of and meditate on through
the day, when your hands are busy. If you do not


understand any passage, I
Holy Spirit to enlighten
only, can open your eyes,

?ray to


to grant

God himself,

you his
and he

and make you see wonderful

things out of his law; and if you pray to him, he will
do this, and will give you day by day more knowledge of


Each verse, meditated on with prayer,

a fresh treasure of

heavenly wisdom.

learned more from


few words, Consider the lilies

of the

field,' than

I learned

in my youth from many


These simple words have been the origin of my

purest enjoyments; and in many an affliction, when I

was ready to faint under the weight

of the trial, they

have revived my courage, strengthened my faith,

restored peace to my soul."
Again James was forced to cease speaking, from
haustion, and he lay quiet till about three o'clock in

Mary; I

He then



" Open

the window,

feel very ill."

She hastened to open the window.

It was

a clear


the stars were shining

revived the old man.

" How


The fresh


the stars are!"

said he.

" What are the fading

compared with the
there I am going.
come quickly "

unfading glories
Oh, what joy !

flowers of


of the sky !

It is

Come, Lord Jesus;

Saying these words, his head sunk back on the pillow,
and he slept away so quietly that Mary did not know it
was death. She thought he had fainted. But when she
drew nearer, to try to revive him, she was seized with

sudden fear.

She had never seen that look before-that

indescribable look, when once seen, never to be forgotten






-of the mortal frame when the soul has just left it.
She hastened to awaken the people of the house, and
they told her her father was dead. The farmer's wife
gently closed his eyes. Poor Mary could scarcely be
persuaded to leave the bedside. She kissed his pale
face; she implored them to leave her alone with him;
she refused, almost franticly, to allow him to be moved
or touched. At last she fainted, and while she was un-
conscious the kind farmer's wife carried her into her
room, and laid her on her own bed, where she sat by
her, gently soothing her, and weeping with her, while
the other women quietly arranged her father's room.
But thither Mary soon insisted on returning. She
seemed unable to remain away from all that was now
left to her of the father she had loved so much. The
kind neighbours often persuaded her to come away for a
little; but when they left her alone, she slipped quietly
back to that cold, lonely room. She had been for months
so accustomed to watch her father's slightest movements,
that her straining ear, often deceived, imagined still to
hear the well-known voice. Ever and again she would
start, fancying she heard her father calling, her father
moving, scarcely even now able to believe that she would
never hear that much-loved voice again. Oh, who can
describe the unspeakable anguish of the first days after
a sore bereavement, when all is over; when the hope
against hope, that sustained to the last, through all the
long weary hours of watching, is gone; and, deprived at
one stroke of all that has been the constant thought and
care of every moment, the mourner is left bereaved and
desolate indeed!


Mary's only comfort was in reading her father's Bible.
With this well-worn book in her hand, she could almost
fancy that he was still speaking to her. On the day
that the coffin was going to be closed, Mary strewed in
it some fresh spring-flowers-the first snow-drops and
primroses, with some sprigs of rosemary. Her father
had loved flowers so much that she wished to put them
near him, even at this last moment. These early flowers.
of spring were associated in her mind with all he had so
often said to her of the resurrection of the body to a new
and fresh life; and the rosemary, ever green and ever
fragrant, she put in as an emblem of the unfading and
pleasant remembrance which she would ever cherish of
her kind and much-loved parent.
The funeral-day was a sad trial to Mary, but she re-
solved to do her duty to the last. Dressed in deep.
mourning, she followed her father to the grave, calm and
composed, but pale as death. Every one who saw her
pitied the poor orphan, now left alone in the world. As.
James was a stranger at Erlenbriinnen, his grave was.
dug in a corner of the churchyard near the wall. Two
large fir-trees overshadowed the place. The minister
addressed the people from these words: Except a corn
of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone;
but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit (John xii. 24).
He spoke first of the beauty and depth of meaning in
this verse, as applied by our Saviour to his own death,
He then considered it as applied to the death unto sin
which must take place in each individual believer. Every
soul united to Christ must die to self and sin before it
can rise to new life in him. As the apostle explains it:



" We are buried with him by baptism into death; that
like as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory
of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of
life. For if we have been planted together in the like-
ness of his death, we shall be also in the likeness of his
resurrection" (Rom. vi. 4, 5). He spoke also of the
twofold effect of this spiritual resurrection in this life.
1. That the power of sin is destroyed in believers.

" Knowing this, that our old man is crucified with him,
that the body of sin might be destroyed, that henceforth
we should not serve sin. For he that is dead is freed
from sin" (Rom. vi. 6, 7). 2. That after this, being
thus made free from sin, believers live to the glory of
God. They have their fruit unto holiness (Rom. vi.
18-22). They are no longer unprofitable; they bring
forth much fruit. He then explained that it is only if
we have been made partakers of this spiritual resurrection
in this world, that we can have any sure hope of a resur-
rection unto life in the world to come. As the life is
never actually out of the seed-for though for a time it
appears to decay and die, the principle of life remains
hid, and this is quickened into new life and fresh vigour
when it springs anew-so when the believer dies, and his
body is laid in the grave, his life is hid with Christ in
God; and when Christ, who is his life, shall appear, then
shall he also appear with him in glory.
The minister concluded his address by speaking of the
sure hope they might have of the resurrection unto life
of the good old man who was that day laid in the grave,
because he had been a true believer-one of those really
united to Christ, as had been evident to all by his holy
and consistent walk and conversation, and by his inces-
sant labours for the spiritual good of others. He re-
minded those who had profited by his good counsels, to
show their gratitude by their kindness to his daughter.
He spoke of the peculiar duty laid upon all who profess
to be Christians, to visit especially the fatherless and
widows in their affliction (James i. 27).
Mary often visited her father's grave, to think of him,
(374) 7

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