Front Cover
 Half Title
 Title Page
 The way to be happy
 Back Cover

Title: The way to be happy, or, The story of Willie the gardener boy
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00026293/00001
 Material Information
Title: The way to be happy, or, The story of Willie the gardener boy
Alternate Title: Story of Willie the gardener boy
Physical Description: 63 p., 1 leaf of plates : ill., (some col.) ; 16 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Bell, Catherine D ( Catherine Douglas ), d. 1861
Thomas Nelson & Sons ( Publisher )
Publisher: T. Nelson and Sons
Place of Publication: London
New York
Publication Date: 1872
Copyright Date: 1872
Subject: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Happiness -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children with disabilities -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Poverty -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Child labor -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Gardeners -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1872
Genre: novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
Scotland -- Edinburgh
United States -- New York -- New York
General Note: Frontispiece printed in colors.
Statement of Responsibility: by Cousin Kate.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00026293
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 - AAB9085
notis - ALG2320
oclc - 58796357
alephbibnum - 002222086

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Half Title
        Page 1
        Page 1a
        Page 2
    Title Page
        Page 3
        Page 4
    The way to be happy
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
    Back Cover
        Page 65
        Page 66
Full Text





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S' papa, I have been wishing so
much that you would come,"
cried Charlie Colville, as his
father entered the breakfast-
room one morning. I want
you to look at that little boy at the
gate, and tell me if you know him."
Dr. Colville went to the window
where Charles was.
Oh," cried Charles, disappointed,
"how provoking! There he is run-
ning away across the field, over the
road, just when you have come. He
has been waiting here for ever so long,


walking up and down in front of the
gate, and stopping every now and then
to look in. I wonder who he can be,
or what he wants ? "
"Perhaps he may be ill, or have
been sent by a sick person to call me,"
Dr. Colville suggested; "and being
shy, may have preferred to wait out-
side until I come out. They often do.
But now it is breakfast-time, and I am
in haste. Let me wheel you to the
Charlie cast longing looks at the
window, as his chair was moved away
from it.
Not there, papa," he cried, petu-
lantly, when Dr. Colville was settling
him with his back to the light. Don't
you know that I like to face the win-
dow, that I may look out? And the
indulgent father, with only a smile at
the boy's pettedness, wheeled him to
the other side.


Dr. Colville's house and grounds
were large and pleasant, but had no
pretensions about them. A little grass
field lay between the house and the
high-road; and straight through it,
without a turn, was the short avenue,
so straight and broad that any one at
the gate could look directly up to the
windows, and be easily seen from them.
Poor Charlie Colville, a cripple from
his birth, was unable to walk, go to
school, or play like other boys, and
was therefore glad to find amusement
and interest for himself in things other
boys would have cared little about.
One of his favourite diversions was to
sit at the window, and watch every
one that passed along the road-to re-
cognize those he knew, and to guess
about the strangers. Even while eat-
ing his breakfast he kept constantly
looking out of the window; and so
soon as it was over, he called on his


mother to wheel him back to his old
Dr. Colville went into his own study
after breakfast; and when he looked
into the breakfast-room, before going
out, he found Charlie again very im-
patient for him.
"My boy has come back, papa," he
cried. Only it is so provoking, he
has sat down on one of the high stones
outside the gate, and you can see no
more of him than a naked foot."
Which can tell me little," Dr. Col-
ville said, smiling.
But are you going out now, papa ?"
"This very minute."
"And on foot ? "
"Yes; I am going to pay visits in
the village, and my gig is to follow me
in a little."
Oh, then," Charlie cried, well
pleased, I can watch and see if the
boy speaks to you. And if he does, I


can amuse myself making out stories
about what he wants, and all that,
until you come back to tell me."
But Charlie was again disappointed.
Dr. Colville's step upon the gravel
walk made the little watcher look in
through the gate; and when he saw
the gentleman coming down, he jumped
off his stone, and stood modestly back
to let him pass. Dr. Colville's mind
was very busy with a dangerous case
at that moment. He had forgotten all
about Charlie's boy before he reached
the gate, and passed on without see-
ing him. The boy allowed the doctor
to pass, and then followed him. Pres-
ently Dr. Colville heard a voice say,-
"Please, sir, you don't happen to
want a little boy to help work in the
garden, do you ? "
The voice was very pleasant and
cheery. Dr. Colville turned quickly
round, and saw a boy about twelve


years old, very poorly but cleanly
dressed, with a small, sharp face, and
a pair of clear, smiling eyes, which the
doctor greatly liked. He made a sign
to the boy to walk alongside of him,
and spoke to him as they went on.
And what if I do ? Do you think
that you'd suit me ? he asked.
Please, sir, I'd try. I'd engage to
do everything I was bid, and to work
as hard as I could," was the prompt
Dr. Colville looked, with a smile,
at the small, spare figure of the boy.
It did not promise any great amount
of hard work.
What is your name ? he asked.
"Willie Mason, please, sir."
"Where do you live ? "
"At the cottage behind the inn,
Mason I don't remember the
name. Have you lived there long? "


"No, sir, please. We lived a long
way from here-away down south.
We only came here this spring."
"How many make the 'we'? Have
you a father and mother ?"
Yes, sir, please; and two sisters,
and three little brothers."
Six of you That is pretty well,
I must say. And what brought you
from down south? "
Please, sir, father was a gardener
-not a gentleman's gardener, but went
out by the day, and did very well.
But he took a sore illness, after getting
cold one night, when he had helped to
put out a fire. And he had got sore
burned and bruised, too ; and all things
together made him very ill. And he
was long ill, so that all our money in
the bank was gone; and when he got
better, the power had gone out of his
legs, and he couldn't walk, nor even


And can't he walk yet ? Dr. Col-
ville asked.
No, sir, not a bit; and the fire had
done something to his eyes, so that he
can't see."
But what brought you here, after
all ?" Dr. Colville asked again, look-
ing keenly at the boy, as if to find out
whether he were speaking the truth
or not. Should not you have been
better off beside the people who had
known you all your life ?"
"Please, sir, mother had a brother
here; and from what he said we
thought there would, maybe, be more
work to be got here for the likes of
sister Kate and me. Down there it
seems to be all man's work somehow."
Again Dr. Colville looked at the
boy's slight figure, and felt sorry to
think that the work of such a mere
child should be of so much import-


Is your sister older than you ?"
he asked.
Oh no, sir; I'm the eldest of them
all," with a little pride in his import-
ance. So, you see, father and mother
look to me to do what I can."
Poor things the doctor said, half
aloud. "What is the name of your
mother's brother ?"
"Simon Gentle, please, sir."
But he's off to Australia this
Yes, sir. But we didn't know till
we came. A letter went to our old
place to tell us. But we didn't get it
till after we came here."
And have you found that there is
any work for the 'likes' of you here ?"
Oh yes, sir, thank God," he an-
swered cheerfully. Farmer Stone,
up on the hill there, kept me a good
long while to drive away the birds
from the newly-sown seed, and such


things. And the carpenter, down the
town, had me for a week or two when
his boy was ill; and I get many
errands to run for the people at the
You have been hanging about my
place all morning, I think. What
made you think that I was likely to
give you work ? "
Please, sir, I didn't know to think
that. But your gardener, Mr. Ferne,
comes to father for baskets; and father
and me thought that it would be the
grandest thing in the world if I could
get to work under him."
DF. Colville smiled.
Your father might think rightly
enough that Ferne could make you a
good gardener," he said; but I
doubt, my man, if you might like him
for a master."
"Please, sir, I know that he is
pretty cross at times," Willie said,


gravely; but then he's a real honest
man. Father says I'd be safe to learn
no harm from him."
How does your father know that
he is very honest? Dr. Colville
Why, sir, you see, he came to
father for baskets; and he says, says
he, I don't want to pay you less than
is right, only don't charge me too
much, for I have to pay for them my-
self.' "
Pay for them himself," repeated
Dr. Colville; nonsense, boy. What
did he mean by that ?"
Please, sir, father asked him; and
he said, says he, 'Master would pay
for them fast enough, I know, if I
asked him. But,' says he, 'master
gives me good wages, and has a right
to look that I should make my own
baskets, as another gardener would
do, and as I'd be glad to do. Only,'


says he, I'm stiff now, and can't get
through my work fast enough; so I
haven't time, and must get them done
for me.' So when he went away,
father said to me, 'That's a downright
faithful servant, that is. I'd like
grand if you could get to work for
Dr. Colville was pleased with the
little anecdote of his old servant, and
pleased with the admiration it had
excited. He asked him if this was
the only reason why he wished to get
work under Mr. Ferne.
"Not the only one; there was
another," the boy said, looking down,
and colouring. Dr. Colville pressed
for it.
"Please, sir, when I was up in
Farmer Stone's fields," Willie said, at
last, I used to look right down into
your shrubberies, and thought it all
extraordinary grand and pretty. And


I used to see Master Charles, please,
sir, and heard that he was lame, like
poor father. And I thought that I'd
like to be about, and able to do little
things for him. And I thought that
maybe I could do many a thing for
him better than another, because of
knowing like about father."
He had touched the tender point in
Dr. Colville's heart. Pity for his
boy, desire to serve him, were sure to
win the father's favour.
Well, well, my boy," he said,
" we'll see about it. I am going into
this house just now. But I'll try to
call and see your father in the course
of the day, and we'll see then what
can be done."
Before going to Mason's cottage,
he inquired about them from several
of the townspeople, and heard from
every one that, at least, they were
Simon Gentle's relations, and had


come without knowing of his depart-
ure, as the boy had said, and that they
appeared to be quiet, decent people.
The landlord of the inn gave Willie a
high character. He had, at different
times, sent him a good many errands,
and had a good deal to do with him
one way or other, and had always
found him as civil, obliging, well-
behaved a boy as one could find any-
The appearance of the cottage and
its inhabitants spoke the same tale
to" Dr. Colville's experienced eyes.
Everything was beautifully clean and
neat. A little maiden, not more than
five or six years old, sat on the door-
step knitting a stocking, and, with
quite a motherly air, looking after
two younger boys playing before the
door. The mother came in after Dr.
Colville, her baby in one arm, a heavy
can of water in the other hand, and


looking as tidy and scrupulously clean
as if master baby had been number
one, instead of number six. The
father sat, propped up in a chair,
making baskets. He was a handsome
man, tall and. strongly built. His
face was very good and intellectual;
and his dark-gray eyes, sightless as
they were, showed how singularly
fine they must have been when they
could express the thoughts and feel-
ings of the inner man.
"This is Dr. Colville, Richard,"
said Mrs. Mason, in answer to the
inquiring turn of the blind man's
head. He has come, you know, to
speak about our Willie."
And perhaps to be of some use to
you, too," Dr. Colville said kindly,
taking the seat the wife placed for
him. He asked particularly about
his past illness and present state; and
said that although he could not


promise to restore to him the sight
of his eyes, or the power of his limbs,
he believed he could give him what
might relieve the pain which he often
suffered, and which gave him restless
And that would be a great bless-
ing, sir. I would be most thankful
for it, if the Lord saw fit to grant it
to me," Richard said cheerfully.
Dr. Colville was not a religious
man. Such expressions as Richard
had used he generally set down as
cant or hypocrisy, or, at least, as a
mere fashion of speech which meant
nothing. He was in haste to turn the
conversation, and asked if Willie were
at home.
No, sir," said the mother apolo-
getically. I thought that maybe he
ought to stay at home to see you;
but it's market-day, and he mostly
earns a few pence in the market this


day, holding horses, or running mes-
sages, or such like. And, poor fellow,
he is so set upon helping us, that we
could not keep him at home."
Eight, quite right," Dr. Colville
said. Let him always do what he
can. I have thought of his wish to
be a helper to Ferne, my gardener.
I believe that the old man ought to
have some one of the kind; and I am
willing to engage Willie for a month
upon trial. I'll give him five shillings
a-week. But as you live so near, he
must come home to his meals; for I
cannot have Mrs. Colville annoyed
with a boy coming about the house,
and perhaps disagreeing with the
I'm sure, sir, we are very much
obliged," both parents said in a breath.
" It's more than a little morsel like
him could expect," the father added.
" I'm quite sure he will do what he


can to please; but I'm not sure that
he'll be able to content such a real
good gardener as Mr. Ferne seems to
be. He'll have plenty of good-will
to work; but he has not much know-
ledge or skill."
Oh, well," said Dr. Colville, as he
rose to go, Ferne may be cross, but
I believe he has too much sense to
expect to find a skilful gardener in a
boy twelve years old. If Willie be
steady, obedient, and civil, I've little
doubt they'll get on capitally."
As Dr. Colville went home that
afternoon he saw Charlie looking out
for him, and he was glad to be able
to satisfy his curiosity. He told him
all about Willie, and expected that
his interest in the boy would be in-
creased by hearing how Willie had
pitied him and desired to help him.
But it was not so. Charlie flushed
vith anger, and petulantly expressed


a wish that the impertinent little
monkey had kept his pity to himself.
He did not want either his pity or his
service, he said; and he wished that
his father had not engaged him.
The next day, however, when he
heard that Willie was come, his curi-
osity returned. And as soon as his
light forenoon lessons were over, he
desired to be wheeled in his chair into
the garden. He found Willie alone,
hard at work upon a patch of ground,
where there had been early spinach,
and which had to be dug up to be
ready for an autumn crop. Ferne had
set the boy this rather stiff job, in
order to see, as he said, if he was shy
of work. But Willie soon satisfied
his new master upon that score. He
set to his task manfully, and, resolved
to make thorough good work of it,
turned up the earth as well as many
a man could have done.


Charlie sat beside him for a little,
watching in silence his sturdy pressing
down and heaving up the spade. He
had at first been afraid of meeting
curious, pitying looks from the boy,
and the flush of a false shame had
risen to his cheeks once and again
from the expectation; but after the
first ready and respectful removal of
his jacket, which lay in the way of
Charlie's chair, Willie had worked on
without looking at him. He had a
native delicacy of feeling which kept
him from staring, or in any other way
showing his sense of poor Charlie's
infirmity. He felt that if he were in
any way different from other people,
he should not like to be much looked
at; and he was careful to obey God's
commandment, and to do as he would
that others should do to him. He
was a Christian boy, and Christian
boys are most generally polite and


gentle. They must be, indeed, so far
as they have regard to that law of
God. which cares for the happiness
and comfort of the least of God's
creatures. But to return to our two
Charlie felt shy about beginning to
converse with Willie, although he had
sent away the man-servant for that
very purpose. He might have been
able to begin in a free and easy way
had Willie been sitting by his side;
but it seemed too formidable to break
the silence in the loud voice which
would have been required to get above
the incessant click of Willie's spade.
Before he had got courage for the
effort, Ferne came up to look after
his little servant.
Well," he said growlingly, but not
unkindly, I daresay thou'lt do toler-
able by-and-by. Thou mayst stop
now a bit, and go home to dinner."


Please, sir, I brought my dinner
with me," said Willie. Mother said
it would take many minutes for me to
step back and forward two or three
times a-day; and that, as I would not
be worth my wages till I got a bit
stronger and more into the way, it
would be a sin to waste the master's
This was a kind of reasoning to
please Ferne. He smiled gravely.
"Well, well, lad," he said, "sit
down and eat thy dinner, and don't
begin thy work again till I tell thee.
Thee'd soon wear thyself out, work-
ing all day without resting a bit, and
that would be no way to save tho
master's time."
Willie thanked him, and began
carefully to scrape his shoes upon the
spade before stepping on the gravel
Ferne turned back again.

"And mind, lad, to put on thy
jacket, and to sit out of the wind.
Thee is pretty warm like."
Here's a fine sheltered corner by
me," cried Charlie eagerly. Sit down
there, Willie; not a breath of wind
comes in."
Willie turned with his grateful
smile, and his "Thank you kindly,
sir," from the one adviser to the
other, and came over to where his
jacket lay.
"What are you looking for ? What
do you want ? Charlie asked, as he
saw Willie stretch his neck to look
over the bushes.
Please, sir, I saw a pump some-
where as I came along; I must wash
my face and hands. Mother says that
it's neither decent nor Christian-like
to sit down to meat all in a mess like,
and dirty as I am."
Oh, there's the pump, right over


by the walnut-tree," said Charlie.
" But how will you do for a towel ? "
I've the one my dinner is tied up
in," Willie said, untying his parcel.
Charlie watched him curiously.
The dinner consisted of a thick piece
of dry bread, and a very thin morsel
of cheese. There was an empty tin
can, which he took with him to the
pump, and brought back full of water.
He sat down in the corner Charlie
had pointed out, between the little
carriage and some shrubs. With his
bread and cheese on his knees, his can
of water by his side, he closed his eyes,
clasped his hands, and Charlie saw
that he was asking a blessing upon his
"Is that all you have for dinner ?"
he asked, looking compassionately
upon the very dry, hard bread, and
the tiny bit of cheese.
"And main good it is, sir, I can


tell you," Willie said, eating with
great satisfaction.
Do you never get anything bet-
ter ?"
"Not very often now. At home,
when father was able to work, and we
had plenty, we used to have nice warm
potatoes and milk, and often a drop of
broth, or a bit of bacon, to put strength
into the potatoes, as mother used to
But you don't get that now ?"
Well, not often the milk, or broth,
or bacon," Willie admitted; adding-
but more as if thinking aloud, than as
if speaking to Charlie-" but I some-
times think the dry bread is sweeter
than ever the potatoes and broth were.
We always looked for dinner then,
and didn't always remember that it
came from God. But now that we
have been sore pinched, and have had
to ask God for every morsel we get,

it seems somehow to come more
straight from his hand, and to be
sweeter than I can say."
Of course, Charlie understood the
words Willie used, but of the feeling
they expressed he understood but little.
He had never known what it was to
feel that one of his comforts or plea-
sures, great or small, came to him
straight from the hand of God. He
took no notice of what Willie had
said, but began to ask him how they
lived, and what they did in his home.
Willie was glad to tell his little story
to an interested listener. He told
how the father had been taken ill.
How in the very worst of his illness
baby had been born, and the father
and mother lay sick in one room with
no one to see to them, as Willie said,
except himself and little Kate. How
there was no money coming in, and a
great deal going out for medicine and


such things. How there was often
little to eat, and the kind brother and
sister gave the greater part of their
meals to the little ones, and sat with
their backs to their parents, and took
a long while to eat the little bit that
came to them, so that their being
stinted might not be suspected.
Willie did not tell this as if he
thought it meritorious, but very
simply, as recalling the satisfaction
they had felt in being able to keep
the little ones from hunger, and the
hearts of the parents, as far as possible,
from anxiety.
"And was it better when your
mother got about again ?" Charlie
Willie shook his head. It got
worse," he said. At first they only
lived sparingly, to save money for
what might be before them. But
soon there was no money to save.


From day to day," he said, they did
not know where food was to come from;
and often the older and stronger had
to go hungry for the sake of the sick
father and the very young children."
Is it very bad to feel hungry ?"
Charlie asked.
Willie smiled a little, and shook
his head again.
Bad enough," he said. One
feels so weak and weary, and there is
such a dragging, breaking through
kind of feeling, as if one had not
strength to keep up, or to keep to-
gether-as if one was going to fall
to bits somehow."
I know what it is to feel very
weak," Charlie said, and it is very
bad-worse than pain, I think. How
could you bear to go on that way,
going about seeking work with that
weak feeling, and never seeing how
things were to be better ?"


The worst was to see the others
so bad," Willie said, and the poor
little bodies crying for food. It was
very sore to stand. I don't know how
we could have stood it, and the sorrow
of seeing father so ill, so very ill.
Father says we never could have
stood it, had it not been that we were
altogether at home, and that the Lord
was always beside us."
I don't know how that could help
you to bear hunger," Charlie said
bluntly. "If God had sent you plenty
of food, I could understand how that
helped you, but not when you were
left hungry."
"That must be because I don't say
it right," Willie said earnestly. I
mean that it was a great comfort and
help to know that the great God int
heaven, our good and loving Father,
was ever about our bed, and around
our path-knew, as he says, our down-


sitting and our uprising, and every
thought of our hearts. Don't you see
what a comfort it was to feel that
every minute-never to be out of his
sight for a moment, so full of love and
goodness as he is? Don't you see
that ?"
Charlie did not see, did not under-
stand. But before he could say so,
Ferne came up to tell Willie that the
dinner-hour was over. Charlie was
not pleased.
But I want him to wheel me into
the shrubbery," he said; I have not
seen my celestial rose-tree to-day. I
want him to take me there."
Ferne growled and grumbled, but
said that, of course, Master Charles
always took his own way; and the
boys set off together, Willie wheeling
the chair with great care and gentle-
ness. They did not, however, talk
much more; for after Willie had taken


Charlie where he had been told to
take him, he asked leave to go back
to his work. He would have liked
to have stayed in the beautiful shrub-
bery; and it was pleasant to wheel
about the poor lame boy. But he
knew that Mr. Ferne expected him
back, and that he had been hired to
help him, and not to wheel Charlie;
and, in spite of his young master's
petted remonstrances, he was firm,
though very respectful, in his deter-
mination to go to the house for an
attendant to Charlie, and to return to
his own hard work. Charlie-accus-
tomed as he was to rule-was obliged
to give way to his new friend, and he
did not see him again that day.
What had passed between them,
however, remained in Charlie's mind.
He thought a great deal about the
hardships Willie had described, and
he could not forget what the boy had


said about his comfort under them.
This happened to be one of Charlie's
restless, sleepless nights. When alone
in bed, Willie's words came back upon
him. He repeated them, half uncon-
sciously: "About my bed, and around
my path, knowing my downsitting
and uprising, and every thought of
my heart;" and a strange feeling of
awe came over him as he realized the
truth they contained. Was God now
about his bed ? Did God, even at
that moment, know every thought of
his heart ? Charlie felt that he had
many thoughts which he wished to
keep for ever from God's sight, which
he greatly dreaded the great and holv
God knowing anything about. And
if he could not hide them-if he could
never for a moment get out of God's
sight-if the Lord was about and
around him continually, whatever he
did, or thought, or felt-it was too


much, too fearful to think of; and he
tossed about on his bed, miserable,
fearful, unable to bear the thought,
and yet quite as unable to put it
As was always the case after a rest-
less niight, Charlie was weak and
feverish next day, and unable for any
exertion. The tutor, who came to
him for an hour or two every day,
was dismissed; and Charlie, at his
own request, was wheeled out into a
little summer-house, which had been
built expressly for his pleasure. It
was a pretty, pleasant room, with
windows on every side, most of which
commanded a fine view. All the
windows and the door had been open
through the whole morning, so that it
felt very cool and fresh for the fevered
child when he was wheeled into it.
He grew more comfortable here, and
soon fell asleep. His mother sat


beside him with her work. After
some time the sun went behind a
cloud; and Mrs. Colville, fancying
that there was a little chill in the air,
went to the house for a shawl to throw
over him. She was detained a little,
and while she was away Charlie
awoke. The first sound he heard,
when he awoke, was a talking under
one of the windows. It came from
Willie Mason and his sister Kate,
who were sitting under the shade and
shelter of the summer-house, while
Willie ate his dinner.
Kate had got a place, as she proudly
said. That is to say, she had been
hired to act as a little drudge to the
wife of one of the shopkeepers in the
town. She was to get no wages the
first half-year, except a bonnet and a
pair of shoes, that she might look
decent when she went out with Mrs.
Reed's children. Mrs. Ieed was a

selfish woman, who exacted far too
much work fi'om the child, and gave
her little praise or thanks for all she
did so well and cheerfully. Little
Kate had got a most unexpected
holiday. A sister-in-law, above herself
in the world, was coming to spend the
day with Mrs. Reed; and, unwilling
that the grand lady should know
that she had no better servant than
the poor little Kate, Mrs. Reed had
sent her home for the day, and hired
another woman to take her place.
After a long gossip about family news
with her father and mother, nursing
the baby, and petting the little ones
to her heart's content, to carry Willie's
dinner to him seemed the pleasantest
thing possible to Kate.
No dry bread to-day, Willie! but a
bowlful of potatoes, as smoking hot
as Kate could bring them, running all
the way, as she had done. Willie


had been well content with the dry
bread, but he enjoyed the nice pota-
toes very much, although his enjoy-
ment was a little checked by the
account his questions drew from Kate
of all she had to bear with in her
situation. They were talking of this
when Charlie awoke.
It is very hard, and that it is,"
Willie said indignantly. It must
be very hard never to know when
you are doing right or wrong, when
she will be pleased or not."
So it is," Kate acknowledged.
"Do you know, Willie, I was so put
out when she scolded me last night,
after all the pains I had taken, that I
could not help crying a long, long
time after I went to bed; but then, 0
Willie," with a sudden change of tone,
" there came to me, so fresh and bright,
that text that father says he always
goes to sleep upon. You know, Willie?'

"Ay," Willie answered; "'His
left hand is under my head, his right
hand doth embrace me.' It's grand,
Oh, it's beautiful!" she cried
vehemently. You can't think how
happy it made me, all in a minute, to
know that the blessed Lord Jesus had
taken me in his arms-'the everlasting
arms underneath thee,' you know,
And to think that he goes with
us through all the day, through all
our way," Willie responded. "Not a
bit here, and a bit there, but all the
way-every step of it."
Mrs. Colville here came back to the
Charlie," she said, when she saw
he was awake, the Smiths have
called. I must leave you for a little.
Shall I send Jane to sit beside you ?"
No," he answered promptly.


" Send in little Willie Mason. You'll
find him under the windows. And
tell that old growler, Ferne, that you
have sent him, and that he is not to
take him away."
Mrs. Colville did as he desired, and
in another minute Willie stood in the
summer-house. The children's talk
had brought back to Charlie all he
had been thinking and feeling through
the night; and even while his mother
was speaking, he suddenly resolved
to get Willie in, and ask him why the
same thought should make them feel
so differently. But now that Willie
was beside him he felt shy, and did
not know how to begin ; while Willie,
too, felt very awkward in there beside
the young gentleman, and with
nothing to do. A minute or two
passed in shy, uncomfortable silence,
and then Charlie said,-
"Your poor little sister does not


seem to have a good place. I heard
you talking just now."
No, poor little woman," Willie
said pityingly. But father says we
must learn to take the rough of life
with the smooth."
Rough enough life is to him, I
think," Charlie said again. It must
be terrible dull work to sit still all
day, and in the dark too."
You'd not say so, if you knew
father," Willie cried eagerly. He is
always so bright and hearty. When
we come in and find him alone, he is
always singing psalms to himself.
And in the morning, after his bad
nights, when I ask him how he is, he
says, Brave and hearty, lad, as a
king.' He had a terrible night of
pain two or three nights ago, and in
the morning he told us it had been
the shortest night of the year to him;
that the Lord had been telling him so


much of himself, and that he had had
so much to say to the Lord in turn."
Oh," cried Charlie, breaking
through his shyness with a mighty
effort, "that is what I want to ask
you, Willie. I thought a great deal
about what you said about the Lord's
being around our bed and about our
path; but it is no comfort to me to
know that. It's a pain, and a sorrow,
and a dread to me. God bids us do
so many things I cannot bear to do,
and forbids us to do so many things I
like best to do, that I never want to
know that he is near me. I'd like to
know that God was far away, and
knew nothing about me. And that
is the truth, and there it is for you."
He spoke with great vehemence; and
when Willie only looked sadly at him,
he cried, almost fiercely, Speak!
Tell me, won't you, why I feel so !"
I think," Willie said, gently, "it


must be because you do not know
"What do you know about God ?"
Charlie asked.
I know," Willie said, slowly and
reverently, "that God so loved the
world, that he gave his only begotten
Son, that whosoever believeth in him
should not perish, but have everlast-
ing life.' That God commendeth
his love toward us, in that, while we
were yet sinners, Christ died for us.'
I know-oh, don't I know !-that he
is full of loving-kindness and tender
mercy." He clasped his hands as he
spoke, and the water rose to his eyes.
Charlie was silent for a little. He
did feel that if he could once know such
a God of love, he too might like to live
in his presence, to walk in his way.
How does one come to know God
so well ?" he asked, more gently, al-
most humbly.


By what he tells us in his Word
about himself."
"What part of the Word ?"
"Oh, the whole," Willie said ear-
nestly. In some parts the Lord tells
us about himself, and what he is, in
words. In other parts there are his-
tories of what he has done, to tell us
a great deal about what God is. And
in the Gospels there are stories of all
the goodness of the blessed Lord
Jesus Christ, when he went about
doing good. And, you know, he was
God manifest in the flesh, and in him
we see how gloriously good God is."
Was it by reading these things
that you came to know God?" Charlie
"Yes; and by what the Lord him-
self told me in my heart. Oh, often
and often the Holy Spirit comes into
my heart, and tells me all those
things in such a new way that they


are greater and better than ever I
knew before, and fill me with such
a joy as I can hardly bear."
Charlie looked wistfully on the
little boy's glowing face. He longed,
with a great longing, to get that
knowledge, that joy. Mrs. Colville
came back, and Willie went to his
The next day, Saturday, was wet.
Charlie did not go out, and did not
see Willie. On the Sabbath, when
he was left alone, he thought a great
deal of all he had heard. For the
first time in his life he read the Bible
with great eagerness, more particularly
the Gospels. His heart was touched
at the story of all Christ's goodness
and love; and he tried to work him-
self up to love him in return-tried
hard to make himself rejoice in God's
presence, as Willie did. Sometimes
he fancied that he had succeeded.


Sometimes he felt tears of tenderness
rise to his eyes, and was glad to feel
them. But in the next minute all the
glow was gone, and his heart felt as
dead and cold about God as ever.
This made him very unhappy. He
wished to love God, and he could not;
and he felt as if angry even with God,
because he could not love him. So
the Sabbath passed away.
On the Monday he was impatient
to see Willie. His shyness and pride
were now broken down by unhappi-
ness. He felt so unhappy-such a
restless craving to know God and
rejoice in him as Willie did, that he
thought of little else; and as soon as
he could, he desired to be taken to
the summer-house, and that Willie
should be sent to him. Willie came.
Charlie received him warmly, and
began at once upon the subject most
in his thoughts.


"0 Willie," he cried, despairingly,
"knowing about God does not help
me. I have read all about his good-
ness and love, and I can't love him,
or be glad to have him near me."
Father says," Willie replied,
thoughtfully, "that it is not enough
to know about God. That we must
know himself as our precious, loving
Friend and Father."
"Oh, it's all the same," Charlie
cried, impatiently; about or not.
It's only a word."
"No," Willie said decidedly; "it
is more than a word. Father says
that we may know about a good and
great man far away from us, whom
we can never see, and we may know
about his goodness and greatness, so
as to love him for it in a way; but
that is quite a different love from what
we feel for the dear Friend who is ever
beside us, and whose goodness we


know, because it is given to ourselves,
into our very hearts. We can be con-
tent to be always far away from the
one, and never see him; but, oh, it
breaks our hearts when the other goes
away for a day or an hour !"
Charlie cast down his eyes, and lay
for some minutes in deep thought.
Willie stood beside him, and watched
him. He saw tears rise in his eyes,
and run slowly down his cheeks, and
Charlie made no effort to hide them.
At last he said, in a low, sad voice,-
Willie, I feel as if I could never
love God in that way-as if he could
never be my Friend in that way.
There is nothing in me that he should
love. And if he is not, I can never
be glad in him as you are. It must
always be a terrible fear to me to
know that he is near me, and never a
joy, as it is to you."
To be sure," Willie cried eagerly,


"there isn't the ]east bit of anything
in me to make God my friend. There
is everything to make him my enemy.
I am a sinner, and God is the enemy
of sinners. But don't you know, 0
Master Charles-don't you know,"
his voice trembling, and a sob of deep
feeling interrupting him-" don't you
know that when we were enemies
God reconciled us to himself by the
death of his Son ? Don't you know
that the Lord Jesus Christ, even God
himself, as he was, loved us while we
were dead in trespasses and sins, and
died for us that he might reconcile us
to God ? It is for his sake, and be-
cause God looks upon us now as a
part of Christ, that he loves us so
tenderly, and that we can love him."
Still Charlie looked dissatisfied and
"I don't know," he said, wearily.
"I suppose it is as you say. I know


they always say that we are only
saved through Christ; only, Willie, I
am sure that there is something more,
something better in you than there is
in me-something to make Christ care
for you and wish to save you."
Not a bit, not a bit," Willie broke
in eagerly. You don't know me "-
Charlie interrupted him.
"And you don't know me," he said
passionately. You don't know how
I have never thought of or cared for
God all my life-how I have done all
kind of things I knew he had for-
bidden. Twenty times a day I have
done them; and, never, never even
tried to do the things he bid me do.
And how, 0 Willie, even now, I don't
wish to have anything to do with
God. I can't bear to think that he is
near me; and if I could, I'd take my-
self away from him as far as ever I
could, and never wish to see or know


him. Indeed, indeed I know I am
far worse than you."
"Well, well," Willie said quickly,
" let it be so. Let you be worse than
me-a worse sinner than any one.
Don't you know that it was for sin-
ners Christ died ? Don't you know
it was his enemies he came to save ?
If you've nothing else to say for your-
self why Christ should save you, at
least you can say you are a sinner,
and that Christ came to save sinners."
"Yes, indeed, I can say that,"
Charlie said, his face brightening a
little; "for, 0 Willie, I am a great
sinner !"
Had Willie known more of the
working of God's Spirit in the heart,
he might have told Charlie that this
knowledge of his sinfulness was from
God, and was a sign that the Holy
Ghost was at work in him. But he
did not understand that quite clearly,


and only said earnestly, "Keep that,
M;i t< r Charles, keep that : you are
a sinner, and Christ came to save
And Charlie said again, "To be
sure, I can say that, any way."
There is mamma," he added. I
want to say many things more, Willie;
but I'll be here again to-morrow, and
will send for you then."
But Charlie was not out on the
morrow, nor on many morrows. He
had a return of pain and fever, and
was, for about ten days, confined to
bed. Perhaps the anxiety of his
mind increased the illness of his body.
He could get no peace, no rest. Now
and then, for a little time, his heart
would trust in what Willie had told
him, that Christ came to save sinners
-to save his enemies; but always the
peace and trust passed away again,
and he grew as anxious and restless


as ever. He wanted to feel some
good thing in himself, however small
it might be. He set hard to work to
make himself love God, to make him-
self delight in him; and when he
found that he could not, that still the
old feeling of dislike and dread was too
strong for him, he got into despair, and
was very anxious, very wretched. As
the anxiety and misery increased day
by day in his heart, the fever burned
in his veins, and he grew so weak and
thin that his father and mother be-
came alarmed.
In the meantime, Willie was going
on hard at work, and growing in favour
with Mr. Ferne, and with his master
and mistress. Dr. Colville had taken
a great liking to all the family. He
had asked his wife to visit them, and
she too was much attracted by their
cheerful contentment, their constant
industry, and the order and cleanli-


ness of everything about them. She
changed the arrangement that Dr.
Colville had made that Willie should
have his meals from home, and desired
him to come in every day to dine with
the servants; when he got good meat
and broth, to give him back, poor
fellow, the strength and substance he
had lost during the time of sore pinch-
ing want through which they had all
passed. So that, while Charlie was
getting weaker and paler every day,
Willie was getting strong and rosy,
and was, as he said, twice the boy he
had been.
After Charlie had been in the house
about a fortnight, one day, when he felt
a little better, he expressed a strong
desire to get into the fi-esh air. The
day was very fine, and his father con-
sented to let him try. He was so weak
that he could not bear even the easy
motion of his little carriage, but his


father carried him in his arms, and laid
him on a couch on the lawn, under the
drawing-room windows.
"Now," cried Charlie impatiently,
almost before he was laid down, I
want Willie Mason, and I want to
have him all alone. I want every one
to go away except Willie Mason."
His mother wished to stay beside
him, but her request that he would
allow her to do so irritated and excited
him so much that she was obliged to
yield and leave him. Willie came.
He was greatly shocked to see Charlie
look so very pale, and so very unhappy.
There was something touchingly pite-
ous in the expression of his face, in
the tone of his voice, as he slowly
turned his eyes upon Willie, and said,
"0 Willie, I don't know what
you will think of me. I know I think
myself horribly bad. Even after all,


even though I know that Christ
gave himself to die for sinners, for his
enemies, I cannot love him, I cannot.
It is not in my heart to do it. It can-
not love him, and I cannot make it."
"No, you can't. No, it can't. It
isn't in your heart, in any of our hearts
to love him, cold, dead, and bad as
they are," Willie cried. "But, 0
Master Charles, don't you know that
God has promised to give us new
hearts ? He says, A new heart will
I give you'-' I will take away the
stony heart out of your flesh, and will
give you a heart of flesh.' "
A light seemed to break in on poor
Charles's dark, anxious mind.
"A new heart !" he cried. "To be
sure, that is what I want. To take
away the heart of stone Oh, indeed,
that is what I want. My heart is
stone, so cold, so heavy, nothing moves
it, nothing makes it feel. To be sure,


to be sure, that is what I want."
And, clasping his hands tight together,
he cried out, with exceeding great
desire :-
0 Lord, give me the new heart.
Lord, thou hast promised. 0 Lord,
do it for me."
And Willie, with the tears running
down his cheeks, repeated the words :
"0 Lord, do it; for Christ's sake
give it."
Charlie's vehemence of feeling had
quite exhausted him. He sunk back
upon his pillow, faint and weary, and
closed his eyes. Willie stood quite
still, hoping that Charlie was going
to sleep; but he looked up again at
Willie, and smiled.
0 Willie," he said, I do think
God is going to give me a new heart.
At least, I know that he has made
me put it over into his hands, and
leave him to make me love him."


After he had said this, he closed
his eyes again, and this time he really
slept-slept peacefully and quietly for
more than half an hour. He awoke
refreshed and comfortable, and found
his faithful friend Willie still standing
beside him. He smiled.
0 Willie," he said, I do think it
is all coming right. I do think that
God is going to give me the new heart.
Already I seem to feel glad that he is
near me. And I am not sorry or
afraid that he should know all my
thoughts, because he has to put them
all right, and it is better he should
know all their wrongness."
He had no time to say. more. Mrs.
Colville had been watching him anxi-
ously from the window. She had seen
that he was sleeping-had seen by
Willie's bending over him that he was
awake-and she came out to know
how he was. He received her with a


happy smile, and, almost for the first
time in his life giving up his own wishes
to hers, consented that she should sit
beside him; while Willie went back
to his work, praying earnestly in his
heart that God would hear Charlie's
prayer, and make him love himself.
God had heard. God had answered.
From that day Charlie's trust in God
and joy in him grew steadily and
surely. And as his heart got quiet-
ness and rest in God, his body grew
stronger and stronger. From that day
he began to learn to be contented and
happy under everything that God sent
him. He learned to take patiently
the troubles, the pain, the weariness,
the helplessness which God appointed
for him, and to enjoy most heartily
every pleasure with which God blessed
him. By slow degrees, perhaps, but
still steadily and surely, he got the
better of his old spirit of discontent


and fretfulness; and the improvement
to his health which the removal of
that spirit brought about was greater
than his parents could understand.
They rejoiced greatly in the new hap-
piness of this their only son, their dar-
ling child. And in after years, when
they came more fully to understand
from whence it came, I think they were
stirred up to seek such a happiness for
I need not tell how father, mother,
and son cared for the little gardener
boy who was Charlie's dearest friend.
How he came in time to take the place
of Mr. Ferne, and was able to keep his
dear father and mother in perfect com-
fort, and to get a good education for
the little ones. Or how little Kate
was taken from her hard mistress, and
put to the school, and taught to work,
and finally became a faithful, attached
servant to Mrs. Colville. All this


happiness, and much more, which came
to Willie Mason and his family, I am
very sure my little friends can make
out for themselves. And I have only
to say, let them fancy Willie as happy
as they please, they cannot fancy him
happier than he was; for his rejoicing
was in the Lord his God, and the joy
of the Lord was his strength.

". .- -,
KS .*^ *.

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