The story of a child's companion


Material Information

The story of a child's companion
Physical Description:
96, 16 p., 1 leaf of plates : ill. (some col.) ; 15 cm.
Sargent, George E ( George Etell ), 1808 or 9-1883
Religious Tract Society (Great Britain) ( Publisher )
Gresham Press ( Printer )
Unwin Brothers (Firm) ( Printer )
Religious Tract Society
Place of Publication:
London ;
Manchester ;
Gresham Press ; Unwin Brothers
Publication Date:


Subjects / Keywords:
Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conscience -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Honesty -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Brothers and sisters -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Friendship -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children -- Death -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Family stories -- 1879   ( local )
Publishers' catalogues -- 1879   ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1879
Family stories.   ( local )
Publishers' catalogues   ( rbgenr )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London
England -- Manchester
England -- Brighton
England -- Chilworth


Statement of Responsibility:
by G.E. Sargent.
General Note:
Date of publication from inscription.
General Note:
Frontispiece printed in colors.
General Note:
Publisher's catalogue follows text.
Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management:
All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier:
aleph - 002237089
notis - ALH7570
oclc - 61514833
System ID:

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Full Text



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Author of The City Arab," "Story of a Pocket Biblt" etc

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CiNe PR RsImtL H AD Ls,


I. AN ACCIDENT ... ... ..... 5
II. THE FAULT CONFESSED ... ... ... 13
III. A TRIP ON THE LAKE ... ...... 20

IV. A GAME OF CROQUET ... ... ... 28

V. MUSIC ON THE WATER ... ... ... 35

VI. A CHAMBER SCENE ... ... ... ... 42

IX. AN EXPLANATION ... ... ... ... 64

XI. A GREAT SORROW ... ... ... ... 80o
XII. DEAR EMILY ............. 87




HAVE been her companion all
her life. As soon as ever
she was born, I also came into
being, and from that very moment I
was appointed to attend upon her.
Her name is Lucy; what mine is
does not signify at present.
Being so young when I became this
CHILD'S COMPANION, it may be sup-
posed-that I was very helpless-as
helpless as my young mistress. This,
-indeed, is.true; though I was not help-


less in the way that she was. I made
no noise, and was always out of sight,
so that no one would have guessed,
had it not been pretty generally known,
that Lucy had a companion of such a
tender age. I said, however, that I was
helpless; the truth is, I needed a great
deal of instruction in the duties I should
have to perform. Happily, there was
nothing for me to do for some little
time-perhaps a few months, or a year
or two; I am not certain on this point,
as I kept no reckoning-and mean-
while I was becoming qualified for my
What this office is will be seen as I
go on with my story; but before I come
to this I shall say something about my
dear little mistress.
Lucy has a pleasant home; kind
and indulgent, yet wise, parents and
teachers; also a brother and a little
sister, whom I shall have occasion to
mention by-and-by. She has, besides
these, many young friends and com-
panions of her own time of life. Alto-
gether, Lucy's circumstances have been,
and are, in many respects, favourable



both for herself and for me, who have
shared in her advantages.
She is not a dull child; indeed, she
has always been reckoned rather intel-
ligent for her age. I may say of her,
also, that she is generally obedient and
well-behaved. This is, no doubt, partly
from being under the influence of cer-
tain writings which we both of us have
Occasion very often to consult. In-
deed, if it had not been for these, I do
not know what I should have done, or
should do; for it is only when I carry
out in my own duties what I have
learned there, that I can be of much
use to my young mistress.
I have one thing more to say here:
If I were to write down everything that
has ever passed between Lucy and me,
I do not know when I should have
done. So I shall tell of but a few
passages which have passed between us
in one of the later years. Now, to
Lucy could not sleep one night; she
lay restless long after she had lain down
on her bed, and the light was put out.
, To tell the truth I kept her awake.



"Do let me go to sleep, please," said
she, in our usual quiet way of talking
to each other, so quiet that if any one
had been standing close by, a single
syllable would not have been heard.
"No," said I, "I shall not let you go
to sleep yet if I can help it." "Oh,
you are very unkind," she whispered,
and began to cry a little.
"You make a mistake, Lucy," I
replied; "but kind or unkind, I do not
mean to be silenced now, as you silenced
me in the morning." I have not done
anything to make you so vexed."
Do you remember the words you
use in your prayer every night, Lucy ?"
I wished to know. "Oh dear, how
teasing you are What words ?"
"Now, you will only make matters
worse by pretending not to know what
I mean," I argued. "The words are
these, 'I have done the things I ought
not to have done; and have left undone
those things which I ought to have
done.' Is not this true of you?" I
asked. Poor little Lucy sighed, and
said, "Ah, I understand your meaning;
but it is a mistake. I broke it quite by



accident; you know I did; and you
make as much fuss as if I had broken
it on purpose."
"Come, come, Miss Lucy," said I,
sharply, "that will not do. If you had
not been where you ought not to have
been, and had not meddled with what
you had no business to touch, that fine
vase would not have been broken. I
told you so at the time."
"Well," returned Lucy, a little pet-
tishly, "it was broken, and it is broken,
and it cannot be mended, so what is the
"Stop, stop!" I said. "You need
not turn round on your pillow as though
you were determined to go to sleep and
forget it, for I will not allow it. You
have done what you ought not to have
done: you ought to have confessed
your fault as soon as you had com-
mitted it. I told you so, but you
would not listen."
"I wish I had," said Lucy, and she
sighed again heavily. And then she
added, "There, does not that satisfy
you? No."
"Oh, you are so sharp and so strict."


"What does the law of love tell you?
'To do unto others as you would others
should do unto you.' Is not that it?"
"Yes," murmured the little girl.
"Well, if anyone had injured or des-
troyed anything belonging to you ?"
"It would not have done any good
for them to have told of themselves,"
said Lucy, quickly.
"Very well. But now wait a little,
and hear me," I went on. Then you
have left undone what you ought to
have done. But more is yet to come.
There's your little brother Harry."
"Darling Harry!" murmured Lucy.
"Yes, yes, it is all very pretty for
you to call him 'darling Harry,' when
you know- "Oh, do let me go
to sleep, please," cried Lucy, again,
"No, not yet," said I, very deter-
minately. "Your brother Harry has
been suspected of having done the mis-
chief; you know that very well."
Lucy heaved another deep sigh.
"Darling pet!" she whispered.
"Don't!" I exclaimed, giving Lucy
such a sharp twinge that she could not


help calling out. "A darling pet, in-
deed when you let suspicion fall on
him, because he is sometimes mis-
chievous. You were not suspected,
because you have such a character for
being correct."
"Oh, please, please, please !" cried
the child. But I did not please to leave
off, and I made her understand this by
giving her another twinge.
"If they had asked me if I had broken
the vase I would have told them so at
once," said Lucy.
"Do not be so sure of that, Miss, for
you would not listen to me," I said,
"and whether you would have con-
fessed or not, does not matter. You
covered your fault by being silent when
you ought to have spoken; and that
was almost as bad as a falsehood. And
now, see, there is another person be-
sides Harry suspected of having done
the mischief." "Who do you mean? "
Lucy asked.
Come, come, you know what your
papa said this evening: 'If I could be
sure that Susan did it, she should not
stay with us, because of her saying she


had not been in the drawing-room all
the day.'" "Oh, dear! how disagree-
able you are to put me in mind of such
things," and Lucy sobbed.
"So you have exposed an innocent
servant to be suspected of falsehood!"
Lucy could not answer this accusa-
tion, so she said nothing, and I left her
to her own thoughts for a moment or
two. At last she cried out so that I
could hear, "Oh, I wish I had told
mamma directly, as you advised me to
do That would have been best."
"Of course it would," I said, shortly;
"and the next best thing will be to
make confession of the accident and
your cowardice, the first thing to-
morrow." "How can I? Mammawill
be so angry because I did not tell her
at once."
"Ah! no doubt she will."
"And I shall never be trusted again.
Oh me, how very uncomfortable I
You will deserve never to be trusted
if you do not.confess the truth," said I.
We were silent then for another
minute, till I whispered very solemnly,

"If you do not follow my directions,
God will be angry with you; and this
is the last word you will have frcnm
me to-night. You may go to sleep


AFTER what I have written of myself in
the previous chapter I may perhaps be
looked upon as a rather disagreeable
CHILD'S COMPANION. This, however,
depends very much upon circumstances.
It will be seen, by-and-by, that I can
make myself pleasant. And of one
thing I am very sure: Lucy would be
very sorry to part with me, though she
has sometimes wished that I would nct
be so very officious and intrusive.
It is much more pleasant, I can. as-
sure you, to help Lucy in doing what is
right, or in commending her when she
deserves commendation. And now I
will go on with my story.
Now," said I, when Lucy woke the
next morning, what are you going to
do ?"

"What am I going to do?" she
repeated. "What are you thinking
about ? "About that broken vase,
"Oh dear, dear; that vase I had
forgotten it. How I wish I had not
touched it. Oh, I wish I had not gone
into the drawing-room at all."
"A great deal of trouble would have
been avoided if you had been where you
ought to have been at that time. I told
you so then, if you remember. But
you did go into the drawing-room,
and you did break the vase." Lucy
sighed. You know what I told you
last night, the last thing before you
went to sleep ?"
Presently, when she was dressed,
she knelt down as usual. This was my
What are you about ? I asked. I
have not said my morning prayers."
"How can you think of praying,
when you have not made up your mind
to do what is right ? God will not
regard such prayers; He hears them,
of course, but He is displeased with
them." -




"Then I had better not pray at all."
"A wrong way of getting over a diffi-
culty! I hinted.
Then what shall I do? Oh dear!
oh dear! she cried, despairingly.
"Ask God to help you, by His good
Spirit, to do what is right," I whispered.
"Come now," I added, "you know
what is right to be done, for I have
told you. But you want strength to
do it. That I cannot give you, but He
can; ask Him."
I am glad to say that this finished
our controversy. The next minute Lucy
was on her knees, asking, in her
childish, simple manner, for God's help;
and before she rose on her feet, that
help was given her.
I will make confession now," she
said, as we quickly ran downstairs to-
gether, as though she was afraid of her
courage failing.

Lucy's mother saw at once that her
little girl was troubled about something.
"My dear, what is it ? she asked in
Qh, mamma!" And then Lucy


acknowledged that it was she who had
broken the vase, and given so much
I did not mean to do it," said the
child; I only went into the drawing-
room for one little minute, and then I
saw the flowers, and I wanted to smell
them, so I reached up to the mantel-
piece, and then, just as I had the vase
in my hand, my foot tripped."
"And why did not my little girl tell
me all this before?" asked mamma.
" I was afraid," Lucy said.
"And why has she told me now? "
Then Lucy, hiding her face in her
mother's arm, told how I, her Com-
panion, had troubled her, and prevented
her from going to sleep for almost half
the night, she thought; and how I
had attacked her again as soon as she
was awake, also how I had told her
that God would be angry with her if
she would not follow my directions; so
that I had driven her to ask God's help
to do what was right, in confessing
what she had done.
Poor child!" said mamma; "what
a very unpleasant Companion you have


got! Do you not think so? Would
you not like to be rid of such a tor-
mentor, then ? Only see what trouble
has been brought on you. You were
not suspected of doing the mischief;
and if you had not spoken, we should
have laid the blame on another; but
"It was I who did it, and I ought
to have all the blame," said the child.
"Your Companion tells you so, I
suppose ? "
Yes," whispered Lucy.
"Also, that you deserve to be pun-
ished for your wrong silence yesterday?"
Yes, yes," repeated the child.
Then the good mother clasped Lucy
in her arms and kissed her, telling her
to be thankful for having such a Com-
panion; and advised her always to
listen to my voice. This may some-
times seem to bring you into trouble,"
she said, "but at the last you will have
What more passed at that time I
shall not stop to tell, and need only add
that my young mistress and I were
speedily reconciled-I commending her



for making her humble confession: and
she promising always to attend to my

And now for another chapter or
incident in my young mistress's short
It was a bright morning-so sunshiny
and warm-just the day, so Lucy
thought, for the long-looked-for plea-
sure party.
Lucy was in high spirits. She had
been invited to join a party of her young
friends for whom had been planned an
excursion on the water. They were to
embark in a large boat on a beautiful
river, which was to take them down the
stream to a green island, where they
were to picnic under the trees, and to
return before sunset. Lucy was thinking
so much of the enjoyments of this day of
pleasure that she almost forgot her
brother Harry, who had been several
days so unwell as to need constant
nursing and attention. She almost
forgot her mother also, who needed all
the best help that a handy little daugh-
ter and a kind-hearted sister could give.

Lucy went into Harry's room an hour
before the time of starting on this
pleasant excursion.
"Oh, Lucy, are you going away for
all the day long?" asked little Harry in a
weak and fretful tone. "For part of the
day, darling," said Lucy, kissing her
"Part of the day," said he, discon-
tentedly. "Why, you won't be home till
ever so late. You know that very well.
And who is to be with me all day?"
Oh, mamma will be at home."
But she cannot be here when she
has got so much to do besides," said
the child. Mamma was up with me
ever so long in the night, and she ought
to lie down to-day, and have some rest,"
added he, considerately.
"Susan will be at home," said my
little mistress.
Susan will have to look after Fanny.
Oh dear my head does ache, and so does
my back. I think it is very unkind for
you to be goingon the waterto enjoyyour-
self, leaving me here all alone, Lucy,"
"Your head and back would ache if I
were here, Harry," said Lucy, and I

__ -1

think it is very unkind of you to want
me to stop at home, because you are
not able to be in the party. It is selfish,
Oh, very well; then I don't want
you to stop if you are so disagreeable,"
rejoined the sick boy. "You had better
go and enjoy yourself. There, good-
bye And Harry turned himself
pettishly away, as if he did not wish to
say or to hear any more.
Harry was younger than his sister,
as I have before explained, and he was
suffering; yet he need not have been
so cross. And so Lucy thought; for she
left the room quite offended, after saying
"good-bye very carelessly.


" FOR shame Lucy," said I, when my
young mistress and I were by ourselves
in her own room. How could you be
so unkind to your 'darling Harry,' as you
call him, and accuse him of selfish-
ness ?"
"He was very selfish," replied Lucy,


" to want to deprive me of the holiday,
because he is too ill to go himself."
Then you think he is ill, do you ?"
said I.
"Why, of course I do. Poor little
Harry! "
There, there It is all very well to
"I was with him almost all day
yesterday-" "Stop stop !-think."
Well, I was in his room three hours,
I am sure, reading to him, and doing
all I could to make him happy; but it
did not."
Harry was in great pain part of the
time." He need not to have been so
cross if he was," was the sharp reply.
Little folks, and sometimes older
ones, are apt to be impatient when they
are suffering. I know a child who had
the tooth-ache one day."
Oh! that was dreadful," cried Lucy,
"who could help being cross then?
And I am sure you scolded me enough
for it afterwards." Your own ex-
perience, Lucy, should make you con-
siderate towards others."
"Darling Harry! I am sure I am


not inconsiderate about him; and it is
just like your unkindness to say I am,"
Lucy declared, quite in a pet with me.
"Very well," I replied, "if you will
think so you must. But I must do my
duty; and I recommend you to deny
yourself the gratification you expect.
and stay at home to please Harry."
I don't see that I ought," said Lucy.
"You can do as you like; only then
just ask yourself if all the selfishness is
on one side."
Oh dear cried Lucy, "how very
disagreeable you are this morning."
You would also assist your mother
by being at home, so poorly as you know
her to be."
Mamma's headache won't last all
day, I hope," replied the child; "and
besides, mamma does not wish me to
give up going with the party. She says
I may do as I please."
"Just so," said I. You see your
mamma is not selfish."
But it was of no avail. It was very
plain that my arguments would have
no effect, so I only repeated Lucy's last
words, You may do as you please, of


course." And when, presently, two or
three of Lucy's companions called to see
if she were ready to go with them, and
kindly proposed to wait for her while
she put on her bonnet and mantle, she
had almost forgotten, for the time,
everything I had said. Before she de-
parted, however, she looked in upon
Harry, as he lay in his bed, to wish him
good-bye again, and was very sorry to
see that he had been crying, which only
proved to her (so Lucy persuaded
herself) that her brother was very
humoursome. Then she ran into the
kitchen, where mamma was making a
basin of gruel, or something of that sort
for Harry, while Susan was nursing
little Fanny.
I am come to say 'good-bye' to you,
mamma dear," said Lucy, holding up
her face to be kissed.
Good-bye, Lucy; I hope you will
enjoy your holiday," said mamma,
kindly, though Lucy might have seen,
if she had not been so preoccupied in
her mind, that her mother was suffering
from an aching head, and from want of
rest. But Lucy was thinking more of


herself and of her own pleasure, than
of anything else just then, and in
another minute she was hastening
with her young friends to the water-
It was a pleasant party, there were
several little girls in the boat besides
Lucy, and they had two youths with
them-brothers of the girls. There
were also two boatmen, to do the row-
ing work and to take care of the boat.
And there were, besides, a grown-up
lady and gentleman-the parents of two
of the girls-who had contrived the
party. So they were rather crowded in
the boat, though it was a large one.
Crowded, as they were, however, per-
haps the young people did not enjoy
themselves the less on this account.
Indeed, they said it was all the better
fun to have to sit close together, under
the pretty green-and-white awning at
the stern.
There was one of the party, however,
who was not so cheerful as the rest,
and that was my young mistress. I
am afraid you are not quite well, Lucy,"
said the lady-giver of the picnic, kindly,

when she noticed how silent my mis-
tress was.
"Oh yes, ma'am, I am quite well,"
said Lucy.
I am sorry your brother could not
be with us," added the lady, who knew
all about little Harry's sickness. "Your
mamma is well I hope ? "
"Yes, ma'am, only she had a little
headache this morning."
"A little headache!-a little head-
ache I whispered, and gave Lucy a
light pinch, which brought a shade of
red to her cheeks.
I am sorry your mamma is not quite
well. I have no doubt she is rather
fatigued with nursing Harry?" said
the lady.
Yes, ma'am," said Lucy again; and
I contrived to give her another little
pinch, which made her eyes moisten
for a moment.
'Rather fatigued with nursing
Harry! Do you hear that, Lucy ?"
I asked, secretly; but she only said,
"Oh! don't; please don't! "
After this, much to my little mis-
tress's relief, the lady began to talk

to others of the party, leaving Lucy
alone. This was a favourable oppor-
tunity for me, and I took advantage
of it.
Lucy," said I, "do you know where
it is written, 'We that are strong ought
to bear the infirmities of the weak, and
not to please ourselves' ? "
Of course I do," said Lucy, with
no very comfortable expression of feel-
ing. And then she added, inwardly,
"As though I were one of the strong
ones, indeed!"
"You are stronger than Harry," said
I, and he is all the weaker because
he is ill."
Darling Harry cried Lucy.
"I would not say 'darling Harry' so
often if you don't mean the words,"
I remonstrated.
"But I do mean them, and I will
say them," cried Lucy, almost passion-
ately. And then she went on repeating,
" Darling Harry, darling Harry, darling
Harry so often that I was compelled
to reprove her more sharply.
"Deeds not words," said I. "You
should have proved that he is your


'darling Harry' by staying at home
to help nurse him."
You are very ill-natured to try to
spoil my day's pleasure," said Lucy,
almost angrily.
No, I am not ill-natured; I am only
doing my duty, and I must go on with
my questions. Do you know who it
was that has left you an example, that
you should follow His steps?" "Yes,"
replied Lucy, timidly.
Very well, and it is written of Him
that He pleased not Himself." "I
know that."
"And you are told to let the same
mind be in you. "
"Oh, I wish I had stayed at home; "
and there our controversy ended for
that time.
And the while it was going on, the
boat was skimming along merrily, and
the other young people in it were quite
uproarious in their merriment. It was
partly the noise of this that put a stop
to our sober talk-Lucy's and mine;
and soon it became so catching, that
Lucy joined in the fun, which lasted
till the boat reached the island. And


then there was such a jumping out on
to the bank, and such a handing out of
baskets, and such laughter, that for a
time I was quite forgotten by my mis-
Amongst other things landed, was a
set of croquet mallets and balls and
arches, about which you shall soon


IT had taken two hours to get the party
to the green island; when they landed,
therefore, they were all ready for their
repast, under the shade of the beech-
trees, which grew down almost to the
water's edge. After this, they rambled
about the island for an hour or more,
and then, having found a suitable spot,
where the ground was level, and the
grass short and smooth, the young
people fixed their arches, and began
to play at croquet.
This was a game of which Lucy was
very fond. She was also tolerably skil-
ful. You are not to wonder, therefore,


that in proportion as she became in-
terested in the game, the thought of
her brother's sickness and her mother's
head-ache vanished from her mind.
The croquet players had three long
games, and Lucy, with her partners,
won them all, to her great satisfac-
I am sorry to say that there was one
little girl on the losing side who did not
bear the defeat very bravely, or cheer-
rully. ier vrow gradually became
overcast; when either of her party made
a bad stroke she showed very plainly
that she was angry. Every one could
see that Emily was out of humour; and
it did not improve her temper when her
young companions tried to laugh and
joke her into a happier state of mind.
At last, when the third game was
finished, she threw down her mallet in
a pet, declaring that she would not
play any more at that time.
"Well, I think we are all pretty
tired," said one of Emily's partners, "so
we can lay aside our mallets till after
tea; then we can start afresh."
All agreed to this, and presently the



short-lived vexation of little Emily
seemed to have passed away, as the
young people sat on the ground and
Very soon, too, they had to stir them-
selves in preparing tea for the whole
party. There was a cottage on the
island, in which lived an old woman,
who was accustomed to provide hot-
water, and teacups and saucers, and
cream for summer picnic parties. With
her help, the meal was soon spread on
a table in a pretty arbour, and very
soon they were all feasting on bread-
and-butter, with fresh-gathered water-
cress, and the remains of their dinner.
I dare say there had not been a
pleasanter or happier lot of young folks
on the island the whole summer than
these were, for the lady and gentleman
who had given them the treat did all in
their power to add to the enjoyment,
while they took care not to interfere
with or interrupt the freedom of their
young friends.
And it is so glorious to do what one
likes for a whole day together," said
one of the boys, who had been uncom-



only hard worked at school, as he
himself said, but who was now at home
for holidays. Isn't it nice ? he ask-
ed Lucy.
My young mistress quite agreed with
him. It was very pleasant," she said.
"I dare say you have lots to do at
school, haven't you ? said he.
Lucy laughed; then she told her
young friend that she had no complaints
to make about school. She had a good
governess, and agreeable school-fellows.
Then she added, "but I do not go to a
boarding-school as you do, and perhaps
that makes a difference."
Perhaps it does," said the boy;
" but if I had my way I would lock up
all schools, and banish all school-
masters and governesses." This he
said only in fun, however, adding more
seriously, "You like holidays, I dare
say, though you won't complain about
school ?"
Ah, is it not capital to be as idle
as the day is long all through the
holidays ? "
Lucy could not say whether or not it
was so. "There was always something


for her to do when she was at home,"
she answered.
"You don't mean that ?" saidthe boy.
"Yes, I do," said she; "I have
always plenty to do. I have to make
breakfast before papa goes to his office,
and then I have to help mamma when
he is away. And just lately," added
Lucy, with a sigh, I have had to stop
in doors and amuse my brother, who is
not well. There is always so much
about the house for girls to do."
But it can't be helped, I suppose,"
said he; "you can enjoy yourself to-
day, at any rate; and, I say, they are
calling us to have another game of
So they were, and before I could put
in a word, my young mistress was once
more handling her mallet. And then
began another game. Lucy and her
school-fellow, Emily, were on opposite
sides, as before. Lucy's was a red ball
-Emily's was green.
"There was a fine stroke Red gets
all the luck to-day," said the boarding-
school boy.
"Well done, green !" called out one


of the on-lookers, as Emily made a
capital hit.
Then brown, and black, and white,
and blue all came in for like encoirage-
ment. Another of the by-standers said
"that she had not seen a better game
played all the summer."
It was a very close game too, though,
as before, Lucy's side had a little the
best of it. As to Lucy herself, or red,
as she was called all through the game,
her ball had passed under all the arches,
and she was a rover. And her oppo-
nent, green, or Emily, was not far
behind; another moment and her ball
would be safe landed.
Just at that moment, and when the
green mallet was uplifted for the stroke,
a voice was suddenly and loudly raised
-so suddenly and loudly, and angrily
too, that every one looked at the speaker
in amazement. The speaker was Lucy;
and the words were-" Oh, you cheat!
-you cheat! "
What is the matter ? asked one
and another, while green let fall her
mallet by her side. I saw her move
the ball with her foot," exclaimed red-


or Lucy, to call her by her proper name;
"it was close against the arch, and now
see where it is."
Oh, you wicked story-teller," cried
"No, I am not," exclaimed Lucy.
"You did move the ball when your
dress was over it."
If Emily's dress was over the ball
how could you see that she moved it ?"
asked one of Emily's partners.
You shouldn't have said cheat,' "
said Emily's brother, coming up to
Lucy. That's a hard word, and I do
not believe that she did cheat either."
How came the ball to be moved
then ? Lucy wished to know. "Was
it not moved? she asked, appealing
to those around.
It was impossible to say. One of the
players (brown) thought it had been,
but she was on Lucy's side. Another
(blue) did not believe it had been moved
a, but she was on
Emily's side. When Emily could find
vent for words, she declared that she
would not play any more.
"And I think it will be best to drop




the game as it is, and none of us play
any more," said Emily's brother. "If
we cannot play without being accused
of cheating, I am sure it is time to
leave off," said he.
"Oh, but Lucy did not really mean
it," put in one of the three spectators,
who kindly wished to be a peace-maker.
"We had better give up the game."
Yes, I think so too," added Lucy;
" I am sure, if we cannot play fair, we
had better not play at all."
So they all threw down their mallets,
and pulled up the arches, which, with
the balls, were presently taken back to
the boat. And there was an end of the
croquet game.


IT wanted more than half-an-hour to
the time fixed on for leaving the green
island, and as the young people were
going rather sullenly from the croquet
ground towards-the harbour, which over-
looked the river, my mistress lagged
behind. Then, when her companions



were hidden from her by a steep bank,
she sat down at the foot of a tree, and
gave vent to a burst of tears. I wish
I had not come out with this party,"
said Lucy, to herself.
I wish so, too, for your sake and
mine," I said; adding, You have
made a nice ending to your holiday "
"It is not my fault," cried Lucy.
" Emily did cheat; I know she did. I
saw her."
You said that you knew she moved
the ball with her foot, when you really
did not see her foot," I reminded-her.
"But I saw that the ball was moved
from its place, and so she must have
moved it herself."
"Very likely; and if she did, was it
proper for you to cry out as you did-
'Oh, you cheat' ?"
"How could I help it?" Lucy wished
to know.
You could have helped it," said I,
"if you had given yourself time to think.
What does our best Teacher tell us ?-
'Be pitiful; be courteous; not rendering
railing for railing'-and you began the



She called me a story-teller," said
Lucy, looking, as she felt, quite warm.
Not till after you called her a cheat.
Lucy; and though this was not right
in her, it only proves that you were
wrong first. If you had only spoken
gently and kindly-"
"Oh dear! you are always finding
fault with me," said my mistress, quite
vexed. "You are a strange sort of
companion, I know."
"Would you like that I should go
away, then, and never speak to you
again ?" I asked.
"Oh no," said the little lassie, "I
only wish I minded you oftener. You
told me not to come out to-day, and I
wish I had not."
And I wish you had not, as I told
you before; how can you tell how much
you have been wanted at home to-day?
Your mamma's headache-"
Poor mamma! Lucy broke out.
"And your 'darling Harry,' as you call
him, suppose he should have been taken
Worse to-day "
Oh! I should not wonder if he
has," exclaimed Lucy.



"Ah! just what I told you this
morning, and you would not listen to
me; and see what has come of it. A
quarrel-a disgraceful quarrel."
She contested that point with me
almost fiercely, and we were having
quite a dispute about it, when we heard
her name called more than once.
Oh, here you are, Lucy," said the
caller, who was the boarding-school boy,
" We were all wondering what had be-
come of you; and we are getting ready
for returning home."
I do not like to see you in trouble,"
said the good-natured boy. How red
youreyes are!" Andwithoutwaitingfor
Lucy's reply, he ran some distance to
the river, and having dipped his hand-
kerchief in the water, he brought it back,
that the poor child might bathe her eyes
and face.
This act of kindness touched Lucy's
feelings. "It is very good of you,
Frank," said she, as she applied the
cool water to her hot face.
Oh, that's nothing," said the boy;
" but, I say, Lucy," added he, about
Emily, you know; hadn't you better



make it up ? It is downright foolish to
be making a fuss about such a trifle,
isn't it now ?"
"It is not a trifle," said Lucy. "How
am I to make it up? If Emily will say
that she was wrong--"
She won't do that," said Frank,
decidedly. "She is as angry as you
are, and she says she does not mind if
she never speaks to you again."
"And I don't mind, either," cried my
young mistress, flushing up afresh.
"Ah! but I should mind it if I were
you. Come now," said he, "let me tell
Emily you are sorry you called her a
"I am not sorry," said Lucy, very
Oh, then I cannot tell her so, of
course. Well, we must be going now.
Hark! they are calling us; and the
boat was nearly ready when I came
away, only I thought I could persuade
Lucy made no reply to this, but
walked quickly towards the boat, fol-
lowed by the would-be peacemaker. In
five minutes more the whole party had


embarked on the boat, and had pushed.
off into the stream.
They none of them appeared very
lively. The truth is, the croquet quar-
rel had cast a damp over the whole
party, so that the lady and gentleman,
to whom the young people were in-
debted for the excursion, and who had
been taking a quiet walk to the other
part of the island when the skirmish of
words took place, were distressed. They
had been made aware that something
had gone wrong, though they did not
think it necessary or desirable to listen
to the particulars. If they could do
something to calm the disturbed feelings
of their young friends, that would be
best, they thought.
So presently, when the boat was well
on the voyage, the lady proposed to
beguile the way by singing. This was
very readily agreed to, and after two or
three voices had joined in the Cana-
dian Boat Song," which, no doubt,
spread very musically over the quiet
river, the gentleman asked all the party
to sing a hymn, in which were the


Oh let Thy grace perform its part,
And let contentions cease ;
And shed abroad in every heart
Thine everlasting peace.
This hymn sounded very sweetly, but
there was something in it which jarred
with little Lucy's feelings at that time.
So much so that when it came to that
And let contentions cease,
she left off singing, and turned her head
aside. How could she ask that conten-
tions should cease, when her heart was
full of contention against her play-
fellow ?
And how glad she was when the boat
arrived at the landing-place! Glad, too,
when she found her father there waiting
for her, with his kind, loving smile.
More glad still when, in answer to her
question, How is darling Harry ? and
how is mamma's headache ?" he told
her that mamma had quite lost her
headache, and that Harry was getting
on nicely-so the doctor said.
It was with recovered spirits, there-
fore, that Lucy bade good-bye to her
friends, especially to Frank, who had


been so good-natured to her, and very
distantly to Emily. And so the picnic


" You made a mistake in your prayer
just now," I said to my young mistress,
who was sitting at her little dressing-
table, with an open book before her,
which, however, she was not reading.
I have mentioned before that Lucy
had kind and wise parents. They were
pious also, and their little girl had been
taught in early childhood to begin and
end the day with prayer to God, for
pardon, and protection, and help. She
was accustomed to close her prayer with
the words which the Lord Jesus Christ
thus taught His disciples-" After this
manner pray ye: Our Father, which
art in heaven," and that which fol-
Lucy was also advised by her parents
never to retire to rest, or to enter on
the duties of the day, without reading
a portion of the Holy Scriptures. And


Lucy had generally made a point of
doing this.
The parents were well aware that the
mere utterance of words of prayer, and
the formal reading of the Bible, would
not change Lucy's heart. But they
looked upon these practices as being
among the appointed means which the
Holy Spirit makes use of in bringing
even little children to know and love
our Lord Jesus Christ.
And all I have to say more about the
teachings of Lucy's parents, is that they
were of great use to me, her Companion,
as well as to herself, because I was thus
the better fitted for my duties.
You made a mistake in your prayer
just now," said I. Oh, what do you
mean ?" she asked, half crying, for she
was both tired and dissatisfied.
You said 'Forgive us our trespasses
as we forgive those who trespass against
us.'" "And those are the right words,"
said Lucy.
Oh, then you do not wish God to
forgive your trespasses: is that it?"
How can you put such things into
my mind ?" asked she, a little roused.



"Because they ought to be put into
your mind," said I. "What, for in-
stance, have we been told in the Book
before you? Please to look." "There is
no occasion to look," she answered, with
a sigh. "I know what you mean, now."
"Perhaps, but I must take the liber-
ty of repeating the words for fear of a
mistake." Then I whispered to her
inwardly, "'If ye forgive men their
trespasses, your heavenly Father will
also forgive you; but if ye forgive not
men their trespasses, neither will your
heavenly Father forgive your trespasses.'
So you made a mistake in your prayer,
as I told you. You said, 'Forgive us
our trespasses, as we forgive those who
trespass against us.' You should have
put in another little word to change the
sense of the prayer, supposing you wish
to be forgiven."
"What little word, and where ?"
Lucy asked me to tell her. I replied,
It should have been, 'Forgive us our
trespasses, as we forgive NOT those who
trespass against us.'"
What can you mean?" Lucy asked
of her Companion.



"You know what I mean," said I.
"You have not forgiven your playmate
Emily, for what you thought to be her
trick at croquet."
She did cheat! said my young mis-
Well, suppose she did. Is that a
reason why she should not be forgiven ?
Do you remember those words ?-
The wise will let their anger cool,
At least before 'tis night:
But in the bosom of a fool,
It burns till morning light."
Poor Lucy She sat with her head
resting on her crossed arms on the
table. At last she said, wearily, "Oh,
dear I am so tired."
Yes," said I, more tired than if
you had been at home, waiting on
Harry and your mother all day, no
doubt. And you have not looked into
your book yet."
"Where shall I read ?" she wished
to be told. At that part where there
is something said about-you know
what," I answered.
Lucy understood me; and she turned
over the leaves of her book till, on one



of the pages, she came to these words-
"Charity suffereth long, and is kind;
charity envieth not; charity vaunteth
not itself, is not puffed up, doth not
behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her
own, is not easily provoked, thinketh
no evil."
There," said I, what do you say
to that ? But go on;" and Lucy went
on reading -" Charity beareth all
things, believeth all things, hopeth all
things, endureth all things."
Lucy sat very sorrowfully, leaning
her head upon her hand. I could but
pity her, yet I was compelled to say
more. If you had more of that charity,
or love, which is not easily provoked,
which thinketh no evil, which beareth
all things, believeth all things, hopeth
all things, and endureth all things,
you would not have made that charge
against your playfellow to-day. You
would have said, 'I must be mistaken;
Emily could not have intended to cheat.'
You did not see her move the ball, you
But it was moved," said my mis-


"Yes, it was moved. Do you not
think now that Emily's dress might
have moved it as she passed over it
without even her knowing it ?"
This was putting the matter in quite
another light; and Lucy felt the force
of my argument. "I wish I had
thought of that, at the time," said she;
"then I should not have been so positive."
Perhaps not; but what will you do
now?" I asked. I will forgive her:
I do forgive her," cried Lucy, with quite
a start.
"Wait one moment," I said; do
you think -that is all you have to do ?
What have you to forgive ? She
called me a wicked story-teller," said
poor Lucy.
"So she did, but not till you had
called her an ugly name first. And so
you see how true your hymn is-
Hard names at first, and threatening words,
That are but noisy breath,
May grow to- "
"Oh don't, please don't!" cried
Lucy, quite in an agony of mind. If
was very wrong of me; but still, if I
was wrong, Emily was wrong too."


"Never mind about Emily. I am
your Companion, not hers; and what I
say is, that instead of talking about for-
giving her, you have to ask her to
forgive you."
"Oh dear! how can I do that?"
said Lucy, almost, but not quite sub-
dued. "I will tell you," said I, "if
you kneel down again."
Lucy knelt down, quite submissively.
Now say-from your heart, mind,
or else it will be of no use-' Lord
Jesus, help me !'"
She paused for a little while, then
she whispered, as well as her tears and
sobs would let her-" Lord Jesus, help
me-help me Have mercy upon me !
Lord help me!"

Lucy saw her playfellow next day.
I shall not repeat what passed; I shall
only say that from that time they were
very dear friends, until-
But this is for another chapter.



I HAVE given the history of two little
affairs, in which I was obliged to reprove
Lucy for faults committed, and for im-
proper feelings. I shall now show a
brighter side of her character, and give
a pleasanter specimen of the duties of
my office.
I am glad to say that Lucy's brother
Harry recovered from his illness, though
he continued weak for some time, so
that it was thought desirable he should
go into the country for a change of
It so happened that Lucy and Harry
had a distant relative whom they gener-
ally called Aunt Mary, though in truth
she was not really the sister of either of
their parents. Aunt Mary (as I shall
also call her) lived in a pretty cottage
several miles off; and it was thought
that she would not object to receive
little Harry for a few weeks, so that he
might have plenty of fresh air.
But Harry could not go alone; and
his mother had duties at home which


prevented her from going with him. It
was agreed, therefore, that Lucy should
be his companion and nurse. And no
arrangement could have better pleased
the brother and sister, for, as I have
said, they were very fond of each other.
Accordingly, their boxes and bags were
packed up, and one fine morning their
father drove them over to Crabtree
Aunt Mary promised their father that
she would take care of her young guests.
For two or three weeks Lucy and Harry
were happy at Crabtree Cottage. Al-
though Aunt Mary was a particular
lady, and not very fond of children, she
behaved towards her young visitors with
a certain sort of kindness. Besides this,
the weather was charmingly fine, and
there were many pleasant walks in the
valley; so that for several hours every
day the brother and sister were able to
ramble at their will.
It would have done you good to see
how attentive and self-denying all this
time the little maiden was, always think-
ing of what would please her brother,
but without at all consulting her own


fancies; and never once giving way to
impatience when he was any way un-
reasonable in his wishes, and this some-
times did happen, as it sometimes does
with older persons when they are re-
covering from severe illness, which has
made them peevish.
I have said that for the first week
or two of the visit both Lucy and her
brother were kindly treated. At the end
of that time, however, Lucy could not
help feeling that Aunt Mary's manner
towards her was undergoing a change.
She became, at times, quite sharp and
almost angry with little Lucy; and, at
other times, she seemed to aim at
making her jealous by petting her
brother, and treating her with neglect.
But if this were Aunt Mary's intention,
she did not succeed in it, for Lucy was
too glad of any indulgence shown to
Harry to leave room for envy or jealousy
in her heart.
She could not help, however, feeling
a little hurt when, in spite of all her
efforts to please, she found that Aunt
Mary became more and more crossewith
her every day. And one afternoon in
D 2


particular, when we were by ourselves,
walking up and down a sunny path in
Aunt Mary's garden, she very closely
questioned me whether I could tell her
the reason of it.
No, Lucy. I am almost sure you
have given Aunt Mary no just cause to
be vexed with you," I said.
If I could think of anything I could
do to please her, I am almost certain
I would do it," said she. "Perhaps
Aunt Mary thinks I do not pay enough
attention to darling Harry," she said,
"I do not see how she can think so,
for you have been a dear and loving
sister to him ever since you have been
It is a great comfort to me to be
told so by you," said the little maiden,
with tears in her eyes; "but if there
were anything else I could do-"
You would do it, I truly believe.
But I do not know that there is. If
there should be, and I should find it out,
be sure I will remind you of it."
Oh, what a dear, precious Com-
panion you are!" exclaimed the child;


"and I am sorry I have so often given
you occasion to reprove me."
I think that Aunt Mary does not
like me much," said Lucy, after a few
minutes' pondering.
I .believe you are right," said I;
" but try to overcome her dislike, if you
"She said to-day that she likes boys
so much better than girls. Was that
said to tease me, I wonder? Was not
that unkind ?" she wished to know.
"It would have been unkind and wrong
in you if you had told her, in reply, that
you liked uncles better than aunts; so
take care. You half thought of saying
so," said I.
Oh dear! you know everything
about me. Didn't I try to keep that
naughty thought away?" Lucy then
You really did, and I commend you
for it. But it was a sudden temptation,
and you resisted it. Young people,
as well as others, are told to give honour
where honour is due. Honour means
respect, you know, and respect is due
from children to grown-up people. I


am pleased, therefore, that you do not
forget this."
"It is rather hard, though," con-
tinued Lucy, "to be so often found
fault with without reason."
Answering sharply would only make
matters worse," I replied; "it is a soft
answer that turns away wrath, you
know. Besides, you must exercise
charity. Perhaps Aunt Mary is in some
bodily pain, which makes her impatient
when she speaks angrily to you. In-
stead of being provoked, you should find
out some way in which you can be of
service to her."
Lucy shook her head, as though that
were out of the question.
You cannot do any great thing, of
course, at least it is not very likely you
can. But there are many little things
even a child can do to show kindness.
What are you looking at on the wall,
Lucy ?" I asked this all on a sudden,
because my young mistress that minute
stopped short in her walk, and fixed her
eyes on a peach-tree which grew against
the wall.
Now, I should explain that this peach-




tree was a great care to Aunt Mary.
She was very watchful over it, and had
given strict orders to Lucy and Harry
that they were never to meddle with
the fruit upon it ; and being well-taught,
and not at all greedy children, there was
no danger of their transgressing the
command. But Aunt Mary did not
know this, and perhaps would not have
believed it had she been told; for her
opinion was (never having had any of
her own) that all children are naturally
sly, and not to be trusted.
"What are you looking at on the
wall?" I asked Lucy. You are not
coveting one of those peaches, are
No," said Lucy, and she smiled to
herself, "but something else is; see
those two great slugs on one of the
peaches. Won't aunt be vexed when
she finds a peach eaten by slugs "
"Why should she find it eaten by
slugs? Come now," I said, coaxingly,
" here is a way in which you can do Aunt
Mary a little service. Save her peach."
There was a little struggle but, I con-
quered. Stepping lightly on the border,


Lucy removed the slugs and threw them
over the wall.
"Shall I tell aunt about it?" she
wished to know.
No, no," I replied, that would spoil
it all. You are to do good, hoping for
nothing in return."
"Oh !" said Lucy.


THAT evening, after Lucy had rescued
the peach from the slugs, Aunt Mary
was more unpleasant than ever, so that
my young mistress was glad when bed-
time came. And when we were by our-
selves, Lucy could not help shedding a
few tears, as she said-
Oh dear! I shall be glad to get to
my own happy home again."
Remember that you are not here
for your own pleasure, but for darling
Harry's benefit. Think how much better
and stronger he is now than when you
first came to Crabtree Cottage."
"So he is," said Lucy, wiping her
eyes; "and it is selfish in me to think


so much about my own comfort. But
it is not wrong in me to feel unkindness,
is it ? I cannot help that, can I, now?"
"No, you cannot," I replied; but
there is one thing you can do."
"What is it ?" Lucy asked, eagerly;
and then she added, You are a
great comfort to me, and a help
Well, take my advice then. Cast
your cares upon God in prayer. Tell
Him your trouble. To be sure, He sees
it and knows it; but He loves to hear
children when they tell Him what their
troubles are, and He is able to comfort
and help you better than I can-I by
myself, I mean."
Lucy took my advice, and we both
slept soundly that night.
But a greater trial was in store for
Lucy. And, perhaps, when I have told
about it, it will be said that I was partly
the cause of it. However, I am pretty
sure that my young mistress was never
really the worse for taking my advice,
though she has sometimes had occasion
to regret not having taken it.
The next morning, Lucy was called


into a room with Aunt Mary, who seemed
very cross indeed.
So, miss," said the lady, all the
return I get for my taking care of you
and your brother, is that you cannot
keep your hands off what does not
belong to you !"
Lucy was very much astonished, but
she said, quietly, If you please, aunt,
I do not know what you mean."
"You have stolen my peaches,-
there! don't attempt to deny it, miss, for
that will be only making the fault worse."
But I must-"
"Speak gently," I whispered to the
dear child; and there was need, for her
face had a crimson flush upon it, and
her bosom heaved sadly.
"Yes, I will try," she whispered to
me, but it is really very hard." Then
she said again to Aunt Mary, Indeed,
aunt, you are mistaken. I have not
touched one of your peaches."
"Oh, you hardened child !" cried the
angry lady.
Lucy had never before been called
such a name as this, and her temper
rose, so I had to interpose again.


"Do not answer," I said to her.
" Remember who it was who, when He
was accused, answered nothing, but
committed himself to Him who judgeth
My young mistress hearkened to me,
and said nothing.
I saw you take the fruit," she said.
" I was looking out of my window yes-
terday afternoon, and I saw you stepping
ontheborderunderthe peach-tree. You
cannot dare to deny that, I should think."
"No, aunt, I do not deny it," said
Lucy, as quietly as she could; "I did
step on to the border."
Oh, you acknowledge that, do you?
It would be of no use if you did deny
it, for I went afterwards and saw
the marks of your feet on the soft
ground. And I dare say that was not
the first you have taken," said Aunt
Mary; I have missed peaches before
Indeed I have not gathered a single
peach," was all Lucy could say.
"Don't contradict me, miss!" ex-
claimed the lady, more angry than before.
" If you did not go to the peach-tree to



rob it, what did you go for, I should
like to know? And did I not see that
you threw a peach-stone over the wall ?
Ah, you did not think that my eyes were
on you all the while." I know that
God's eye is always upon me, aunt,"
replied Lucy, meekly.
"Oh, you bold child!" cried Aunt
Mary. How can you dare mention
such a thing ?" Because I know it
is true," said my young mistress, who
was now more composed than at first,
partly because I was on her side, as she
very well knew.
"And you are not afraid that God
will punish you for story-telling ?" said
Aunt Mary. Yes, aunt, and I am not
afraid of being punished, because God
did see me, and He knows all about it.
When I went to the tree it was to pick
two slugs off one of the peaches, and
they were what you saw me throw over
the wall, and not a peach-stone."
So you have made up that story,
have you, miss?" said Aunt Mary.
"No, aunt, I have not made up a
story," said poor Lucy. "I am only
telling you the truth."


Aunt Mary walked out of the room
in a very stately manner, leaving me
and my young mistress together.
"Oh! what shall I do?" she ex-
claimed, for her fortitude for a moment
had failed her. "What did I recom-
mend you to do last night?" I asked.
Lucy understood me in a moment.
" How foolish of me to forget it!" said
she; and then she went into her own
little chamber, and prayed to Him who
seeth in secret and rewards openly.
In her simple, child-like way, how-
ever, she told her Heavenly Father that
she had been falsely accused, and she
begged of Him to help her to bear with
meekness the unjust accusation, and to
behave with proper respect towards her
accuser. She also prayed Him to make
it appear that she was not guilty of the
fault with which she had been charged.
Then she told God that she knew she
had often done things which she ought
not to have done, though not this thing;
she therefore prayed Him to have mercy
on her for all her transgressions of
thought, word, or deed, and she asked
this for Jesus Christ's sake, who had

suffered for sins not His own, and who
is now at God's right hand, pleading
for sinners. She prayed also that God
would bless all her friends and enemies,
if she had enemies, and especially any-
one who had made a mistake about her,
and that He would give His Holy Spirit
to all, and to herself in particular, so
that she might grow up to be a holy
child, by faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.
I can scarcely tell you how much
Lucy was comforted before she rose
from her knees, but I may say that she
was strengthened in her soul as well as
comforted; and she behaved so quietly
and gently all the rest of the day, that
it was quite plain Aunt Mary did not
know what to think of her.
Lucy and I had a long talk with each
other before she went to bed that night.
She was very anxious to know whether
she had acted rightly towards her ac-
cuser. Yes," I told her; you have
avoided giving offence either to God,
who is the first to be considered, or to
your fellow-creatures."
Poor Aunt Mary!" said Lucy, pity-
ingly : "I think she must have some


pains which make her seem cross some-
times; and I daresay she has missed some
of her peaches, for there are others who
pass by her peach-tree every day in coming
to the house. There is the baker's boy-"
Stop, stop, stop I cried out.
" Don't you accuse any one falsely, even
in your thoughts." "Oh, I am so sorry!"
saidLucy. "I did not mean that,only-"
Only you wished to account for the
disappearance of Aunt Mary's peaches,
and that there is no occasion for you to
do so. But now, one little hint that I
must give. You remember the croquet
party on the green island ?"
Dear Lucy blushed. She remembered
it quite well. Oh," she said, I do
remember my fault this day."
You were very certain you know."
"Ah, I will never be certain again
when I think harm of any one-never,"
said Lucy.
Never, God helping you," said I.
And here our talk ended; only Lucy
thought the more for what I had said.
There was a happy surprise for Lucy
the next day. Her kind father came un-
expectedly to take her and Harry home.


And how glad Lucy was! There was
nothing said about the peach trouble,
which, in the pleasure of meeting,
my young mistress almost forgot; and
Aunt Mary civilly said good-bye" to
her and her brother.


BOTH Lucy and Harry were glad to
see their own home again after so many
weeks' absence; for, after all, as Harry
said, there's no place like home."
And though Harry had been kindly
enough treated, and even indulged, at
Crabtree Cottage, he had seen, without
being told, that Lucy had often been
made uncomfortable, and this had made
him uncomfortable also.
I hope you have both of you enjoyed
your nice holiday?" said mamma.
Now, I have .said that Lucy was
naturally good-natured, and she was
unwilling either to give pain to her
parents, or to say anything against
Aunt Mary. Yet, how could she
say that she had enjoyed a holiday


which had been attended with so much
discomfort, and had ended so unplea-
santly? Besides, as a truthful child,
and one who had been taught, partly by
my companionship, to avoid conceal-
ment, which is often another word for
deceit, she had determined, under my
instructions, to speak to her parents
respecting Aunt Mary's unjust accusa-
tion. She did not wish to do this in
the hearing of her brother, however.
So, from these various causes, my young
mistress was in some difficulty about
answering her mother's simple question.
But Harry had no such scruples, and
he saved his sister the trouble of reply-
ing, by saying, bluntly, I don't think
Lucy could have enjoyed it much,
mamma. I know I shouldn't if I had
been in her place."
Oh, Harry, Harry! "said Lucy, quite
in a little distress; and-
I mearn ,;hat I say," said out-spoken
Harry; and Lucy knows it, but I dare
sayshe won't complain to you, mamma."
And then, Harry nodded his.head as
much as to say, I could tell if I would."
But," said the mother, rather con-



cerned, "I should like to know what
you mean, Harry."
"Oh, it isn't much, only Aunt Mary
was always so cross with Lucy, and
treated her sometimes as if she was-
as if she was-" said Harry, rising in
his indignation, but stopping short,
perhaps, for want of an appropriate
comparison; perhaps, also, because he
saw a look of distress on Lucy's coun-
"How is this, Lucy?" the mother
asked, with some concern.
Now," said I, whispering quietly to
my young mistress, remember where
it is said, 'Forbearing one another in
love.' Tell the truth, Lucy, but tell it
in a spirit of charity."
Lucy heard me, and she did not scorn
my counsel. Mamma," she said, "I
think the truth is, that Aunt Mary did
not like me. I dare say I did not please
her in some things, though, indeed, I
tried to so. And so, at last, she got to
be rather unkind to me-I mean, in her
way of speaking."
"I think she did!" broke in little



I am sorry to hear all this," said
the mother, sorrowfully; "and I would
not ask any more, only, as your mother,
Lucy, it is right I should be told of
your troubles. Perhaps you gave Aunt
Mary some just cause to be angry with
you ? "I am sure Lucy did not," said
her little champion, quite boldly.
And what does Lucy say?" asked
mamma. "I don'tthink I did," said Lucy;
" only she thought I did just at last-"
"'Only just at last,'" her mother
repeated; "and what was there 'just
at last,' Lucy?"
Lucy was a little embarrassed, as
even an older person might have been.
And yet she seemed to be compelled to
What shall I say ?" she asked me.
And then, in a moment, her way was
cleared. She turned to her mother and
whispered quietly to her, I will tell
you when we are quite by ourselves,
mamma;" and her mother, being wise,
was satisfied.
"Well, then," she said, "we had
better talk about something else," which
they did.



It was the next day, when they were
" quite by themselves," that Lucy told
her mother all that had passed between
herself and Aunt Mary. How that she
(the little lass), walking by herself in
the garden, saw two slugs fastening on
one of the highly-valued peaches,-how
that, at first, she felt inclined to leave
them to their feast, because Aunt had
been so cross to her; but that some one
(that some one being me) told her it
would be wrong and spiteful to permit
the mischief to go on, and that, there-
fore, she stepped on the border, and
removed the slugs, throwing them over
the wall.
Then Lucy went on to say that Aunt
Mary watched her from a window, and
had made sure that she had gathered a
peach and eaten it. Next, Lucy told
how, the following day, she had been
accused of the theft, and how Aunt
Mary did not seem to believe the ex-
planation she gave. This was Lucy's
simple story; and I must say for her
that she softened as much as she could
her account of Aunt Mary's language
towards her, and the names she had



been called-such as a hardened
child," a little thief," and "a story-
teller." This was, by my advice, given
at the time for I reminded my young
mistress that in the multitude of
words there wanteth not sin."
Lucy's mother listened very atten-
tively and gravely to her daughter; then
she asked, calling me by my proper
name, "What does your Companion
say to this 'accusation,' Lucy ?"
My Companion is quite satisfied that
I have done nothing wrong," said Lucy.
You mean, then, that you did not
touch the fruit?"
"Yes, mamma; only, you know, I
may just have touched it with the tip
of my finger, perhaps, when I took off
the slugs."
But when Aunt Mary accused you-
perhaps you answered rudely or angrily?"
I don't think I did; my Companion
tells me I did not," said Lucy.
Then I do not think you did, either,"
said Lucy's mother; and I am per-
fectly satisfied that Aunt Mary made a
And then mamma kissed her little


Lucy, and wiped away a tear or two
that had started to her eyes; and there
the matter, for that time, ended.
Now, Lucy's mother was not foolishly
fond, and did not trust her little girl
without reason. She knew a great deal
more of Lucy than Aunt Mary did, and
she was able to feel, and was right in
thinking, that Lucy was too honest to
take what was not her own, and too
truthful to deny having committed a
fault with which she was charged, if she
had committed it. To be sure, there
was that incident of the broken vase,
which the mother had not forgotten;
but Lucy had so ingenuously confessed
the silence of which she had been guilty
on that occasion, and was so sorry for
not having acknowledged the accident
at once, that it had properly increased,
instead of weakened her confidence in her.
Now I shall tell of something else
that followed. About week after Lucy's
and Harry's return from Crabtree Cot-
tage, a morning visitor called on their
mother. This visitor was Aunt Mary,
who had not left when Lucy returned
from school at twelve o'dock.

How do you do, Lucy?" said Aunt;
"I have been waiting to see you."
"Have you, Aunt ?" said Lucy, who
could not help feeling-at least, she did
feel, though I told her not to do so-a
little shade of resentment against her
false accuser.
Yes," said Aunt Mary; "though I
do not know that there was any great
occasion for it, for I have told your
mamma what I have to say; but she
said it would be better for me to tell
you. You need not be alarmed; there
is nothing for you to be afraid of. I
have found out who took my peaches,
now; it was not you, after all," said
Aunt Mary, with a strong effort.
I always knew that, Aunt," said
"Ah, but I did not, and that was the
principal thing," said Aunt Mary; "and
I am glad I found out who it was; so
we may as well be friends again."
Now this was very ungracious, and
Lucy felt it to be so, and if I had not
been by, she would probably have refused
to take the offered hand; but I persuaded
her to do this.

Have you nothing else to say to
Lucy? said Lucy's mother. "You do
not ask her to forgive you for your unjust
Oh dear no What ask pardon of
a child?"
"Then I will ask Lucy's pardon for
you," said her mamma.


WHERE is it that we read about the
heart being deceitful above all things ?
Even those hearts- which have been
made soft by the Holy Spirit, through
faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, have
so much imperfection and evil in them,
that they need continual watchfulness
and prayer, lest the evil should over-
come the good.
It was so with my young mistress. If
she was a disciple of theSaviour, she was
a young disciple, and had much to learn.
Now, Lucy's feelings were excited by
what had passed with Aunt Mary, and
she thought she did well to be angry.
" If she had only said she was sorry for


having falsely accused me," she thought
within herself, I should not have
minded ; I would have been good friends
with her again. But I don't care any-
thing about her now."
Lucy said all this to herself the very
same day on which Aunt Mary had
called at her home.
Fie, fie!" said I, "this is not what
the Good Book teaches."
You are very disagreeable," she said,
and then pride, and self-importance,
and self-love lifted their heads, and
talked so loud and long that I am sorry
to say my voice was lost in the din they
"`Well," thought I, if this is how
I am to be treated, I had better hold
my tongue, and see what comes of that."
So I kept quiet.
And then you should have seen what
havoc and confusion those evil passions I
have mentioned made among the better
feelings in Lucy's heart For a time
these good principles, such as forbear
ance and forgiveness and charity, were
almost overpowered. The worst of it
was that when she prayed to God night,



and morning, she only made a noise
with her lips and tongue. Her heart
did not go up with what she said. It
seems strange, perhaps, that she could
ask to have her trespasses forgiven, as
she forgave them that had trespassed
against her, and all the while her anger
was hot against Aunt Mary!
I ventured to reprove her for this,
and reminded her of the charge she had
brought against Emily for cheating; but
this only gave Lucy an advantage over
me, as she thought. "And did I not
confess to her afterwards that I had
been hasty, and asked her to forgive
me? And what has that to do with
this? Besides," added she, "Aunt Mary
is old enough to know better, while I
am only a young girl."
"And being only a child, it is not
proper in you to think disrespectfully of
the aged." But Lucy had her answer
ready for me-" And the aged should
not behave unjustly towards the young,"
said she.
Lucy did not keep her grievance
against Aunt Mary to herself. Her
friend Emily, and her other friend Frank,



had the whole story told over to them.
And this time I am sorry to say that
Lucy was not at all careful to soften it;
she did not abate a word or a look.
Her young friends were very indignant
against Aunt Mary. Frank, especially,
like a warm-hearted and affectionate boy
as he was, took Lucy's part. He
thought that Crabtree Cottage was a
very proper name for Aunt Mary's home;
for she must be as hard and sour as any
crab-apple. He hoped, too, that her
next crop of peaches might all be eaten
by slugs, or wasps, or birds, or stolen
by the gipsies-every one of them !
Now all this was very hurtful to poor
Lucy, for it fostered in her a spirit of
revenge and malice. Yet my voice
was so feeble at that time, that I could
scarcely make myself heard. If any
one could have looked into my young
friend's heart, it would have been seen
how much like a "nest of unclean birds"
it was becoming. And without seeing
this unpleasant sight, it was plain to all
around her that she was getting to be
unlike her former self.
Lucy herself did not know this, how-



ever, nor perceive it. On the contrary,
she really began to fancy that she was
better than everybody else around her.
She thought that there was so much
merit in being falsely accused, that any
failings she might have had were covered
over by it. The truth is, my young
mistress was suddenly uplifted with
pride, so that she would not listen to a
word I had to say.
It was by God's grace that Lucy was
brought again to her right mind. I will
tell you how this came about.
You may be sure that Lucy's parents,
being anxious that their children should
grow up in the knowledge and fear of
God, did not neglect his public worship.
Among the hymns which my young
mistress had committed to memory,
was one containing these two verses-

I have been there, and still would go,
'Tis like a little heaven below;
Not all my pleasures and my play
Shall tempt me to forget this day.
Oh, write upon my memory, Lord,
The texts and doctrines of Thy Word,
That I may break Thy laws no more,
But love Thee better than before.



Lucy had repeated these words to
herself one Sunday morning, without
very much thinking of their meaning;
and, presently afterwards, was seated
in her customary place in the house of
God. Her thoughts, however, were
not there half so much as at Crabtree
Cottage, and with Aunt Mary; so much
so that she almost forgot where she
Presently the service began, and very
readily Lucy's eyes found the place, and
her lips were employed in joining in
the humble confession-" We have
erred and strayed from Thy ways like
lost sheep; we have followed too much
the devices of our own hearts; we have
offended against Thy holy laws."
Lucy's lips said this and more; but her
heart said,-" That's for Aunt Mary
and others like her."
Presently a portion of Scripture was
read. ft was about two men who went
up to the Temple to pray: one was a
publican, and the other a Pharisee.
Lucy knew all about this little history;
she had, with me by her side, read it
many a time in her chamber, and had



wished and prayed to be like the publican.
But now she was not thinking of herself;
and when she heard the Pharisee's
words repeated, God, I thank thee
that I am not as other men," she even
smiled a little, and I heard her say-
" That's just like Aunt Mary."
Presently, the minister in the pulpit
opened the Bible for his text. Now, the
minister who preached that day was a
favourite of my young mistress. She
knew him very well, for he often called
at her own home, and was very pleasant
and kind towards her. So when he
began to speak, Lucy, on this occasion,
set herself to listen.
His text was, "The Pharisee stood and
prayed thus with himself, God, I thank
thee that I am not as other men are."
This is strange thought Lucy to
herself. I wonder what made the
minister choose that text? "
Very strange, is it not ? But never
mind whether it is strange or not, all
you have got to do is to listen."
"Very well," said Lucy, giving her-
self a little shrug, as much as to say,
" Don't you be troubling me now."



The minister said some strange things
too, at least Lucy thought so. For
after he had spoken first about the
Pharisee and his boasting speech, which
he thought was a prayer, and then about
the publican's real prayer, he suddenly
said, "I should not wonder if there
should prove to be a Pharisee here this
morning." Then again he said that un-
less people felt themselves to be sinners,
as the publican felt himself to be, why
did they come up to the Temple, or to
the House of God? The Gospel they
preached there was for sinners; the
Saviour who was preached about there
was the Saviour of sinners; the prayers
offered there were for the pardon of sin.
" Then," said he, "if you are not sinners,
this is not the place for you. You should
find a place, if you can, where there are
none but righteous persons who have
never sinned. But if this will not do
for you, you must and will come here.
I pray you, in Christ's stead, to come
as the poor publican went up to the
Temple, and, without thinking of any
one else, put away from you your pride
and self-love, and cry out from your



heart of hearts, 'God be merciful to me
a sinner "
"There," said I, when the sermon
was over, what do you think of that,
Lucy ? "
There was no need for me to ask. A
mightier one than I had been striving
with her while the minister was speak-
ing; and when he had done, the cry
went up from Lucy's heart (I heard it),
"God be merciful to me a sinner !"


"Now, let us have a little talk to-
gether," I said to my dear mistress,
when we were by ourselves in her little
Oh yes, but let me pray first," said
she, in great trouble, and then she
knelt down almost hastily. But all she
could utter at that time, was the poor
publican's prayer, "God be merciful
to me a sinner "
Then she arose, and opened her own
book, and read (as well as her eyes
dimmed with tears would let her) the


whole history; with which, indeed, she
was quite familiar; but this did not
satisfy her. So she read, again, about
the Pharisee and his proud speech to
Oh," cried Lucy, "how like that is
to me "
"Very like indeed," I agreed.
Then she came to the publican's
prayer; and here she paused a little
minute, bowing down so that her face
rested on her outspread hands, over the
open book, and once more her lips
moved. I could hear what the words
were, though, indeed, she spoke very
low-very low indeed-
God be merciful to me a sinner! "
There was One other heard her be-
sides me, though she did speak so low,
and who saw'the tears which trickled
between her fingers, and fell on the
open book, though she did wipe them
so hastily away.
Then my poor Lucy read on a little
further-" I tell you, this man went
down to his house justified rather than
the other;" and she remembered that
her good friend, the minister, had said

in his sermon, that to be justified was
to be pardoned and considered inno-
cent, and that when sinners are said
to be justified, it means even more than
this,-that they are considered innocent
by God, not on their own account, but
because of the righteousness of the
Lord Jesus Christ, in whom they be-
lieve. And then Lucy once more lifted
up her heart to God in prayer.
After this, Lucy was ready to hear
what I had to say to her, and not a
word from pride, or self love, was to be
But what could I say then? Was
it my duty to persecute one whom God's
good Spirit had smitten, or to talk to
the grief of one whom He had wounded?
Had I any right to condemn one whom
my Great Master had justified? No,
So when she sat herself down so
meekly to listen to me, I was once
more her sympathising friend. I did,
indeed, faithfully remind her of her
It is good of you to tell me of my
faults," said Lucy, quite subdued. And


then she added, "Oh, how glad I am
that you have not left me, as I de-
served you should."
Do not be afraid of my leaving you
so long as you desire my companionship,
and listen to what I say," I replied.
" It would be different if you were quite
to determine to have no more to do with
me, or were to try to make me stupid, or
to keep me ignorant, or to give me any-
thing to make me ill, or to put out my
sight, or make me deaf. Then, indeed,
I cannot tell what might happen. It is
too shocking to think of."
Yes, that would be very shocking,"
cried Lucy, with quite a shudder. "But
is there any danger of any of these
things ?" she asked.
Not while you keep near that Book
which has taught us both so much," I
told her; "nor while you pray to God to
help us both."
She was very quiet all the rest of that
day, seeking to be with me only; and I
was able to help her find in her good
Book many comfortable texts, and
whole psalms, indeed.
That was a happy ending to a day


which had begun so unpromisingly; and
I am glad to tell that Lucy's good
resolutions and desires were not like
"the early dew and morning cloud,"
which soon pass away. One proof of
her improvement is that she never, after
that, spake, or even thought, unkindly
of Aunt Mary.

And now I have to write about a great
sorrow which came to my young mistress,
and to many others besides her.
Dear little Emily, Lucy's friend, was
very ill. She had always been a weakly,
delicate child, but her parents had hoped
she would get stronger and more healthy
as she grew older. All through that
autumn she had been getting weaker;
then she caught a sad cold which, as the
doctor said, settled on her chest. At
last she became so sadly ill as to be
obliged to be nearly all day on a sofa.
One day my dear mistress came home
from school in great distress, so much
so that her mother saw it at once by her
countenance, and asked the cause.
Oh, I have such bad news, mamma,"
said the child. "It is talked about at


school, that the doctor says that Emily
cannot get better. Do you think this
is true ?"
"There is no doubt that dear little
Emily is very ill, Lucy," said her
"Yes, but-that she will die soon,
this is what I have heard. Do you think
that is true, dear mamma?"
"Indeed, I cannot tell you, Lucy.
Do you not know that life and death are
in God's hand ? It is He who gives us
life, and it is He only who knows how
long or how short our lives are to be."
"Yes, mamma, I know that, but is
Emily so ill as to make it likely that
she cannot live long? Lucy laid her
hand on her mother's, and looked so
anxiously in her face, that the mother
thought it wisest not to put off answer-
ing the question, but to say plainly-
I have been told by Emily's mother
pretty much what you have heard,
Lucy; and I am sorry to say that your
little schoolfellow is seriously ill, and it
is not thought likely she will recover."
Lucy burst into a flood of tears, and
her mother spoke comforting words to



her, telling her that though sickness and
death are solemn events to all, yet to
those who are prepared for eternity,
even death itself is a messenger of love.
'Tis but the voice that Jesus sends
To call us to His arms;
that is, if we trust in Him as our Saviour
and Friend.
Yet Lucy could not help feeling that
it was shocking for one so young as her
dear Emily to have to die.
The day after this conversation with
her mamma, Lucy received a message
from Emily's mother, saying that her
little girl had asked several times why
Lucy did not call to see her, and that
if Lucy's mamma would permit her to
go, both Emily and her mother would be
very much pleased.
Lucy's mother made no objection to
this, and accordingly, that same day,
Lucy proceeded on this errand of love.



I SHALL not attempt to describe the
very tender meeting which took place
between my young mistress and her
sick friend. I may say, however, that
at first, when Lucy saw Emily as
she lay on a couch, she was much dis-
tressed to see the alteration disease
had made in one so young. But after
a short time she became more com-
posed, and was able to have a little
quiet talk with Emily on a variety
of subjects, but principally about her
school, and how she was getting on
When she was leaving, the little
invalid asked Lucy to see her again
as often as she could.
It will not be for long, you know,"
said the little sufferer, in such a quiet
tone that Lucy could scarcely help
crying. However, she promised that
she would repeat her visits as often as
her mother could spare her.
After this Lucy's mother was very
good in permitting her daughter to call


every day to inquire about Emily.
Sometimes she found her quite in high
spirits, feeling so very much better,
as she said, that she hoped to return
to school. At other times the poor child
was languid and faint, feeling, as she
then said, that she should never get
any better.
On one of these occasions, and when
the two friends were for a little while by
themselves, Emily beckoned to Lucy to
come nearer to her, so that they could
take one another by the hand; which
Lucy did.
It would have raised your pity to see
those thin, white little fingers, when they
lay in the plump, strong, healthy hand of
my young mistress. It raised her pity,
so that she could not resist stooping
down and kissing, first the hand, and
then the pale forehead of her dear
Lucy, dear," whispered Emily, "I
am getting weaker every day; and I
should not mind-I should not mind so
much-if I could feel quite sure of-of
being fit to die." The dear child said
this very solemnly.

Oh, Emily!" was all my young
mistress could say.
"I have done so many things-
so many, many things I ought not to
have done,"-Emily went on,--"so
many things to make God angry with
I think everybody has," said Lucy,
hesitatingly, and not knowing at that
minute what else to say better.
But the little invalid went on without
heeding this poor attempt at consola-
"And the Bible says that God is
angry with sinners, and I am a sinner,"
sobbed the child, while the tears trickled
down her wan cheeks. Then she was
And then a thought came into my
dear young mistress's mind, as though
it were put there by God; and who will
say it was not?
"The Bible! the Bible! Oh, why
did I not think of this at first! Then
she said eagerly, Wait a little minute,
my dear, and I will tell you something
the Bible says." Then she went to a
table on which she had often seen a little

pocket Bible; this she brought to Emily's
side, and eagerlyopened it at the beautiful
story which had done so much for her.
"Listen, darling," she said; and then,
in her child-voice, Lucy read, as dis-
tinctly as she could, about the Pharisee
and the publican who went up to the
Temple to pray.
And Emily," said my young mistress
when she had finished reading the parable
-and she bent down very close to her
friend's ear, so as to speak very low-
" I have been just like that Pharisee-
so proud and haughty; but God showed
me that I was a sinner, and my Com-
panion" (she mentioned me by name)
"told me so too. And then I prayed
the publican's prayer, God be merciful
to me a sinner!' and I am sure He
did have mercy on me, because it
would not have been like Him else,
would it? And then, you know,
Emily dear, continued the little evan-
gelist,-as Lucy was then, though she
did not know it,-" and then, Jesus
Christ came into the world to save
sinners-the Bible tells us so, does it
not ? "


Many more such simple, yet wise,
words did my young mistress speak
then, till her friend's countenance lost
its look of sadness.
Thank you, Lucy," she said; and
then she added, "You do not know
how much good you have done me."
Lucy went away that day sorrowful
in thinking of Emily's state, yet glad
to believe that God would be mer-
ciful to her, for the Lord Jesus Christ's
And now my story has almost come to
an end; yet I have a little more to tell
about Emily.
The dear little sufferer lingered many
weeks, gradually getting weaker, till
she could no longer be moved from her
bed to the sofa downstairs. But as she
approached nearer to the last hour of her
life, her fear of death and the grave
departed from her, because she knew
that God, for Christ's sake, had visited
her in love.
One day, when Lucy was by her
bed-side, she whispered, with a sweet
smile on her countenance, Lucy, dear,
do you remember the green island,


and that croquet game we never fin-
ished ? "
With a deep blush on her cheeks, my
young mistress said, "Yes, she did; oh
I did not move the ball, dear-not
on purpose. I dare say I did move it by
accident, but I did not know it. Kiss
me, Lucy, please "
There," said I to my darling, when
we were by ourselves in Lucy's own
little room at home, and she was weeping
very bitterly at the remembrance of
her past bad temper and hasty accu-
sation of her dear playfellow-" There!
what do you think of yourself
now ? "
She did not now answer me a word,
but she knelt down by her bedside,
and cried out so earnestly-oh, so
earnestly-" God be merciful to me a
sinner! "

Some months have passed since then,
and the grass is growing green on dear
little Emily's grave, where Lucy often
goes to think of the past. But I am
glad to have to say still of my dear


young mistress that her resolutions and
desires have not passed away like "the
morning cloud and early dew," and she
knows that she is not too-young to seek
the mercy of God and the great gift of
His love shed abroad in her heart.
Still Lucy is not perfect, by any means,
and she has constant need of God's
most gracious help in curbing her tem-
per and in resisting temptation, and
in doing those things which she knows,
from me, that she ought to do, but
which she would otherwise neglect.
It is by this help, given every day
in answer to prayer, that my young
mistress is generally obedient, affec-
tionate, and useful, as far as she can
be, to all around her, and is careful
not to do anything wilfully to offend
her Heavenly Father and loving
And still (and increasingly also) does
my dear young mistress feel how very far
short she comes of what she ought to be
in the sight of God, who sees the hearts
and weighs the actions of all; and with
ardent, child-like faith does she daily
make her humble confession, and offer


up her earnest prayer-" I have done
the things I ought not to have done,
and have left undone those things I
ought to have done. Forgive my
trespasses as I forgive all who tres-
pass against me. God be merciful to
me a sinner! "
One word or two more about my dear
mistress and myself. As she gets wiser,
I grow in wisdom and helpfulness too,
and she consults me oftener than ever
she did. And if it happens, as it some-
times does, that I am at a loss what to
advise, then we go together to those
" lively oracles," of which I spoke in
the beginning of my story, and
which are able to make wise unto
Dear young readers, you have also a
Companion,-just such an one as I
am to my little Lucy,-a Com-
panion that bears witness against
you when you do wrong; approves
of what you do when it is right;
warns you and tries to put you in
the right way when in danger of going
How do you treat your Companion ?


Do you listen to, or disregard her
teachings? Pray to God that your
Companion may-be made wise to guide
you, and that you may wisely follow
her counsel.
Is there any need for me now to tell
you my name? Listen-

When a foolish thought within
Tries to take us in a snare,
CONSCIENCE tells us, It is sin,"
And entreats us to beware.

If in something we transgress,
And are tempted to deny,
CONSCIENCE says, "Your faults confess,
Do not dare to tell a lie."

In the morning, when we rise,
And would fain omit to pray,
Child consider," CONSCIENCE cries,
Should not God be sought to-day ?"

When within His holy walls,
Far abroad our thoughts we send,
CONSCIENCE often loudly calls,
And entreats us to attend.

When our angry passions rise,
Tempting to revenge and ill,
Now subdue it," CONSCIENCE cries
Do command your temper still."

Thus, without our will or choice,
This good monitor within,
With a secret, gentle voice,
"Warns us to beware of sin.

But if we should disregard,
While this friendly voice would call,
CONSCIENCE soon would grow so hard,
That it will not speak at all.

May all my young readers know
what it is to have consciences "void
of offence toward God, and toward
men! "



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