Front Cover
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 The old and the new
 The lily and the thorn
 Hearing and doing
 The wandering lamb
 The conquest
 The disappointment
 Pleasing Christ
 The Christian’s motive
 What will it cost?
 Back Cover

Title: Christian principle in little things
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00003126/00001
 Material Information
Title: Christian principle in little things a book for girls
Physical Description: 163 p., <1> leaf of plates : ill. ; 17 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Thomas Nelson & Sons ( Publisher )
Publisher: T. Nelson and Sons
Place of Publication: London
New York
Publication Date: 1861
Copyright Date: 1861
Subject: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Girls -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Color printed cloth (Binding) -- 1861   ( local )
Bldn -- 1861
Genre: Color printed cloth (Binding)   ( local )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
United States -- New York -- New York
Scotland -- Edinburgh
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00003126
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 - AAA4111
notis - ALG4439
oclc - 48101308
alephbibnum - 002224178

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
        Frontispiece 1
        Frontispiece 2
    Title Page
        Title Page 1
        Title Page 2
    Table of Contents
        Table of Contents 1
        Table of Contents 2
    The old and the new
        Page 1
        Page 2
        Page 3
        Page 4
        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
    The lily and the thorn
        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
    Hearing and doing
        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
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
    The wandering lamb
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
    The conquest
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
    The disappointment
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
    Pleasing Christ
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
    The Christian’s motive
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
    What will it cost?
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
        Page 161
        Page 162
        Page 163
        Page 164
    Back Cover
        Page 165
        Page 166
        Page 167
Full Text

L kde Ix ga



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The Baldwin Library



44, 9CIUf~CLt

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I.-Don't you see I am busy, Grace?
Page 42.

II.-Do you want to buy any cherries ladies ?
Page 129.

-, ~~~s~ ~"~+ ~~p-~l~fi~
: ''~F1 *


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L~jlY.. I. _.....~~



3unnk far Udirls.

Teach me, my God and King,
In all things Thee to see;
And what I do in any thing,
To do it as for '7ee.
This is the famous stone
That turneth all to gold;
For that which God doth touch and own
Cannot for less be told."



Chapter. 'age.
I. TUI OLD AND TII. NE, ... ... ... ... 1

II. Tiu LILT AND TUE TUORU, ... ... ... ... 18

III. lEAlING AND DOING, ... .. ... ... 35

IV. SELF-WIL, ... ... ... ... ... 54

V. THE WANDERING LAMB, ... ... .. ... C9

VI. TIE CONQUEST, ... ... ... ... 89

VII. TiE DLISAPPOI"NrENT, ... ... .. .. 100

VIII. PLEASING CIIIST, ... ... ... ... 118

IX. TII CHRISTIAN'S MOTIVE, .... . ... 126

X WHAT WILL IT COST? .. ... ...


"EMMA, did you look into the geography
when you answered the question that Mary
Green missed ?"
An indignant blush spread over the face of
Emma Alston.
"What do you mean, Julia Summers?"
"Don't look at me so. I don't mean any
harm," said the young girl who was addressed
as Julia Summers. "I don't believe you
looked in the book; but some one said you
did, and I thought I would ask you."
"Who said I did ?"
"Mary Green."
"Did Mary Green say so 1"

"She said she was quite sure you stole a
look into the book before you answered."
Emma's face was again crimsoned with
indignation, and with anger too. "The mean,
contemptible girl!" she said. "Mary Green
knew I didn't look in the book. She knew
there was not a word of truth in what she
"Now, Emma, you are really a little too
severe," said Julia. "I don't think Mary
would say what she knew to be an un-
truth. I daresay she thought you looked in
the book. I suppose she was so vexed at
missing the question herself' that she could
not see very straight. I suspect she looked
through coloured glasses, as mother sometimes
tells me I do when things don't go right."
"It was very untruthful in her to say I
looked in the book."
"I am sorry I told you of it," said Julia.
" I would not if I had known it would make
you so angry. I would not mind it so much,
if I were you."
"Do you think you would like to be
accused of such a mean, contemptible thing?"
"I don't suppose I should like it. But then

it need not trouble you so very much. Not
one of the girls will believe it. They know
it is not like you. Whatever faults you may
have, they know very well that you are above
such little, mean deceptions. Even Mary
Green won't believe it herself to-morrow, when
she comes to reason; I am sure she won't."
"But she had no business to say such a
thing,-the hateful creature!" said Emma, her
passion steadily rising at the thought of the
wrong that had been done her, and of the
mean and ungenerous action of which she had
been accused. "I will never forget it as long
as I live."
Julia Summers looked surprised. After a
moment's silence she said seriously, "I should
not have thought you would have said that."
"Why not?"
You know why."
An expression flitted across Emma's face,
indicating a consciousness of the nature of the
"why" alluded to by her companion. She
replied, half'angrily, half apologetically, "But
it is so very provoking."
This conversation txok place while Emma
and Julia were returning from school. Having


reached the gate of Mr. Alston's house, the
two girls separated.
Emma hastened to her own room, and there
sat down to think over in solitude what she
had just heard. Her anger was not softened
by these solitary meditations. On the con-
trary, for a time it rose higher and higher.
Emma was naturally high-spirited. She
scorned what she considered a mean action.
To be accused of an act which she regarded as
very mean was more than she could bear, and
a temper easily irritated was fully aroused.
She sat for some time nursing her resentment,
and fanning the flames she should have sup-
pressed, resolving that she would not speak to
Mary Green for a week, and that she would
never forget it.
While thus engaged she heard the voice of
her Aunt Fanny calling to her from the foot
the stairs.
"Emma Emma! are you not coming
down?" she said.
Her aunt's cheerful tones-for very cheer-
ful they were-chafed instead of soothing the
disturbed spirit of Emma, who was half angry
that any one should be cheerful when she was

so very wretched. Prompted by this feeling,
she made no reply to her aunt's call.
"Are you not coming down, Emma?" said
Miss Alston again, after waiting a moment
for an answer. We have some news for you.
Come,-hear what it is."
I don't want to hear any news," said
Emma, impatiently.
"What! not good news?"
"Not now. I only want to be let alone,"
said Emma, in the same tone.
Emma felt some wish to know what the
good news was; but she would not yield to it.
It might restore cheerfulness to her mind; and,
like many others in similar circumstances, she
was perversely determined not to be happy
then. Because another had wronged her and
made her unhappy, she would make herself
far more wretched, by yielding to a spirit of
bitter resentment.
Her aunt, seeing the mood she was in, left
her to herself, and the storm raged on. But,
like all storms, its fury was spent at last, and
then there was a calm. In the lull Emma
heard a still, small voice in her soul whisper-
ing, "Doest thou well to be angry ?" But


it is so provoking: replied the spirit of self-
justification. But the voice, unheeding the
extenuation, again demanded, "Doest thou
well to be angry ?"
Next the words of Julia Summers occurred
to Emma's mind,--" I should not have thought
you would have said that."
What did I say ?" Emma now asked her-
self. She had been thinking only of what
Mary Green had said of her. Now conscience
demanded that she should take a candid re-
view of what she had said of Mary Green.
She had keenly felt the injustice of Mary's
accusation; but was it not at least possible
that she had herself been equally unjust? She
had asserted that her school-fellow knew that
she did not look in the book,-that she knew
she was saying what was not true. This cer-
tainly was a very grave charge; and was she
sure it was just ? How would she like to be
accused of falsehood while making a statement
which she believed to be true ? If this accusa-
tion was unjust, was it not worse than that
which had produced such a tumult of anger
and indignation in her own breast ?
Again, had she not said that she would

never forget it? What was this but say-
ing that she would never forgive Mary
How then could she pray that night, "Forgive
me my debts, as I forgive my debtors?" The
tables were now fairly turned, and anger had
given way to self-reproach. In this state of
mina Emma took up her Bible, and the first
passage which met her eye was this: "There-
fore is the kingdom of heaven likened unto a
certain king, which would take account of his
servants. And when he had begun to reckon,
one was brought unto him which owed him
ten thousand talents: but, forasmuch as he
had not to pay, his lord commanded him to be
sold, and his wife and children, and all that he
had, and payment to be made. The servant
therefore fell down and worshipped him, say-
ing, Lord, have patience with me, and I will
pay thee all. Then the lord of that servant
was moved with compassion, and loosed him,
and forgave him the debt. But the same
servant went out, and found one of his fellow-
servants, which owed him an hundred pence;
and he laid hands on him, and took him by the
throat, saying, Pay me that thou owest. And
his fellow-servant fell down at his feet, and

besought him, saying, Have patience with me,
and I will pay thee all. And he would not;
but went and cast him into prison, till he
should pay the debt. So when his fellow-
servants saw what was done, they were very
sorry, and came and told unto their lord all
that was done. Then his lord, after that he
had called him, said unto him, 0 thou wicked
servant, I forgave thee all that debt, because
thou desiredst me: shouldest not thou also have
had compassion on thy fellow-servant, even as
I had pity on thee ? And his lord was wroth,
and delivered him to the tormentors, till lie
should pay all that was due unto him. So
likewise shall my heavenly Father do also
unto you, if ye from your hearts forgive not
every one his brother their trespasses."
Emma's eyes were blinded by tears ere she
had completed the reading of this passage.
She saw in this parable, as in a mirror, her
own conduct and the guilt of an unforgiving
spirit. Very fresh in her mind was the re-
membrance of that time, not many months
ago, when she first felt the greatness of her
sins and her need of forgiveness. How much,
as she hoped, had been forgiven her! How

then could she say of a trifling-or even of
any-offence, "I cannot forgive or forget it?"
"How very wrong I have been!" was now
her silent confession. How could I be so re-
sentful and unforgiving? It was, after all, only
a trifle that I was called upon to forgive, while
I have had so much forgiven. No wonder
Julia said that she did not expect this from
me." In tears and prayers of humble peni-
tence, Emma sought the forgiveness of her
Saviour, feeling that she could now from the
heart forgive Mary Green.
Her feelings were only partially calmed
when the tea-bell rang. Emma knew that
her father always required punctuality at
meals, and she hastened down to take her
place at the table. Only her father and her
aunt were there. Her two younger sisters,
Mary and Grace, were spending the day with
their cousin Susie.
It seems you did not think the news I
brought worth coming down to hear?" said her
father, after they had been seated a short time.
Emma blushed. She did not know that her
father was in the house, and that he had heard
her impatient answer to her aunt's call.

"What news, father ?" she said.
"What news, eh ?" said her father, smiling.
"You would like to know, would you ? Well,
I came home half an hour before the usual time
for the pleasure of telling you, and then you
would not even come down to hear it."
"I didn't know you were in the house,
"But you did know that your aunt called
you to come down. I have half a mind not
to tell you what it is."
Had Emma felt as she did on her return
from school, she would probably have brought
forward some plea of ,self-justification. Such
might have been the case had only self-
reproach succeeded to this state of mind; for
self-reproach and penitence are very different
things. But Emma was now really penitent
and humbled, and, like all true penitents, was
ready to acknowledge the wrong she had done.
I own that I was sadly out of temper
then, dear father," she said. "I know I don't
deserve to hear the news; but I should very
much like to know what it is, if you are
willing to tell me."
"You shall know, my dear," said Mr. Alston,


kindly; for he was pleased to see his daughter
acknowledge her error so frankly. "Mr. D.
returned from N. this afternoon. He saw
Lewis, and learned from him that he intends
to come home next week to spend three
months with us."
"Coming home next week to stay three
months !" repeated Emma, slowly, as if she
could not at once realize all thatbie words
"Yes, my dear. What do you say to that ?"
"I am very, very glad," said Emma, a
bright smile lighting, up her face "but some-
how I think I don't more than half believe it.
It is too good to believe. Three long months!
Only think of it Why has he not told us
before? Why has he not written us about
He made up his mind o6lly the day before
he saw Mr. D. Some circumstances have oc-
curred leading him to change his plans. He
thinks he can pursue his studies to advantage
at home for the next three months. For my
own part, I am very well pleased that he has
come to this decision. He has not been at
home for more than a week at a time for



years; and I think this long visit may prove
of advantage in many ways."
Emma's face now assumed a grave-almost
troubled-expression; and as soon as tea was
over, she returned again to her own room.
"Three months! Three long months!" she
murmured, as she seated herself at the little
table, upon which her Bible still lay open at
the passage she had been reading. She cast
her eyes upon it and heaved a deep sigh.
"Dear brother Lewis !" she said. I am
sure I am glad-very glad; and yet I don't feel
glad, either. How much he will find out about
me in that long three months,-how many
things I could wish that he should never know!
What would he have thought had he been
here to-night? I am sorry that I ever wrote
that letter. I am sure he will not believe it,
after he has been here much less than three
months. He will expect so much and find so
To explain that letter, which was now the
occasion of so much regret, it will be necessary
to give the reader something of the history of
Emma Alston. Emma was motherless, as we
have said. She had two sisters, younger than



herself,-Mary and Grace. Her only brother,
Lewis, was her senior by a number of years.
The place of mother had been in some measure
supplied by her Aunt Fanny, her father's
Though Lewis was Emma's only brother,
she had in fact seen very little of him. An
uncle, after whom he was named, and who was
more abundantly supplied with this world's
wealth than his father, had, years before,
undertaken to educate Lewis. He had left
home to reside with his uncle when his eldest
sister was very young; and from that time
only brief visits were made to his paternal
home. During these visits he had always
treated his sisters very kindly, and done much
to make himself beloved by them. Emma
loved him dearly, and, besides, was very proud
of him; for she had not failed to discover
what every one else knew, that he was a
young man of great promise.
But his last visit, six months before, had
differed from any that had preceded it. He
had come home the same, yet not the same. A
new love had been enkindled in his heart,-a
love for Him who is altogether lovely. It was




instruction at home and in the Sunday school,
and the voice of conscience and the whispers
of the Spirit had often been heard in her
heart. But after this last visit from her
brother her thoughts dwelt more frequently
on these themes. Words which he had dropped
occasionally were often recalled, together with
the tone and manner which had given them
their impressiveness.
Emma now read the Bible a great deal, and
often prayed to be led by the Spirit and
taught how to become a child of God. We
will not follow her mind through all its
struggles at this period, but will simply state
that after a time the hope dawned upon her
soul that she had become a lamb of the Saviour's
About four weeks previous to this evening,
she had written to her brother; and that letter
Shad contained an intimation of this hope.
This was the letter which Emma now wished
had never been written. A few further par-
ticulars of Emma's history will explain this
Emma's mother died when she was quite
young. From that time she and her sisters



had been under the care of her Aunt Fanny.
This aunt was very fond of her brother's
children and assiduous in her attentions to
their many wants. But she was often unduly
indulgent, and destitute of the firmness and
decision necessary to secure the obedience and
subdue the will of her little charge.
Under this inefficient discipline, the natural
faults of Emma's disposition rapidly developed.
She was often selfish, self-willed, and irritable.
At this period many of the acts proceeding
from this disposition had become fixed habits
of sturdy growth. When Emma first indulged
the hope that she had become a Christian, she
flattered herself that she should at once be-
come changed in all these respects. But she
soon learned her error. Fixed habits were
not to be so easily uprooted and overcome.
Of this she had that night had one sad proof.
Many similar proofs she had had of the weak-
ness of her best resolutions and the power of
sin in her soul.
Had Emma the night previous been in-
formed of her brother's expected visit, pro-
bably no sad thoughts would have mingled
with her joyful anticipations; but now her



mind was oppressed with sorrow and dis-
couragement. Before she left the tea-table
the question suggested itself, Could Lewis
believe that I am a Christian, had he seen me
tonight and known how I felt on my return
from school ?"
It was under the influence of this feeling
that Emma wished the letter had not been
written which made her brother acquainted
with the new hope that had sprung up in her
heart. She felt sure that in this long visit he
would see much that was wrong in her dis-
position and conduct; and what would he think
of her ? In answer she had received a kind,
brotherly letter, which she had cherished as a
precious treasure, and had read over and over
many times.
Another week passed, and the appointed
day brought Lewis Alston to his home. Emma
received him with unmingled pleasure; for
the feelings of that night had passed away.




FoR a week all went on very smoothly.
Emma had ever been desirous of securing
her brother's good opinion and approbation.
During his very brief visits at home, she had
been accustomed to put a double guard upon
herself, that he might not see anything to
disapprove. She had usually been pretty suc-
cessful. He had never remained long enough
for the novelty aud the restraint of his pre-
sence to wear away. To this, probably, her
success was mainly owing. She was not less
eager to secure his good opinion at the present
time; but the length of his stay made the task
more difficult. The passions which could be
kept under strong restraint for a week might
rebel were the term of this restraint lengthened.
And so, indeed, it proved.
"Where is my dress, Bridget ?" said Emma,
as she entered the laundry one morning, ten
days after her brother's arrival.
"In the basket," said Bridget, shortly.
"In the basket!" repeated Emma, her


cheeks reddening. I told you to iron it
"I didn't know you were my mistress,"
was the impertinent reply.
The flush of anger deepened on Emma's
"How provoking !" she said. "I want
that dress to put on this minute. Why didn't
you iron it yesterday ?"
"I could only do half the ironing yesterday."
But you might have ironed that. I told
you to do it."
"I know you did. Maybe if you had
asked me it would have been done."
"You lazy creature !" said Emma, losing all
temper. "If I were Aunt Fanny, you should
not stay in the house another day."
"That's true enough; for then I wouldn't
stay in the house another day," said Bridget,
Hold your tongue !" said Emma, who was
now so angry that she hardly knew what she
At this moment she heard a step behind
her. Turning, she saw her brother, who was
passing the door on his way to the garden.


"What is the matter, Emma ?" he asked,
She was too angry then to feel any mortifi-
cation; and she began, in an excited manner,
to tell him how impertinently she had been
treated by Bridget.
"I can't wait to hear all the story now," he
said, after listening a moment. I have a
letter to write before the mail goes out. You
will find me in the arbour in the garden just
an hour from this time," he added, taking out
his watch. "Suppose we make an appoint-
ment to meet there; and then I will hear all
you have to say about this affair which has
disturbed you so much. Will you comeV)"
"Yes," said Emma, now partially quieted
by the calmness of her brother's manner.
As the dress was not to be had, Emma went
up to her room, without saying anything more
to Bridget. At fh-st she felt very angry; but
soon feelings of anger were exchanged for
those of self-reproach by a process similar to
that which took place when she was so angry
with Mary Green. Calm reflection showed
her that she had herself been much to blame.
In the first place, she had aroused Bridget's



natural obstinacy by imperiously ordering her
to iron the dress; and then she had become
very angry at the fruit of her own folly.
Viewing the matter in this light, she began to
feel exceedingly mortified that her brother had
overheard (as she supposed) her violent lan-
guage to Bridget. Then she began to dread
the meeting in the arbour. What would he
think of her? What would he say to her?
At last she determined not to go there at all,
though she was not quite clear that this was
exactly right.
She did not see Lewis again till dinner-
time; and then she carefully avoided meeting
his eye.
"Stop a moment, Emma," he said to her,
as she was passing him in the hall after dinner.
" You didn't meet me in the arbour this
"No," said Emma, colouring.
Why not ? Didn't you promise me you
would ?"
I know it, but-but-"
"But what ?"
Emma blushed still more deeply.
I didn't feel inclined to do it, and I sup-



posed there was no obligation to do so," she
said, hesitatingly.
"Is not one under obligation to do what
one agrees to do ?"
"To tell the truth, Lewis, I was ashamed
to go," replied Emma, feeling that something
must be said in explanation of her conduct.
"I think one ought to do what one agrees
to do, even if it does not happen to be quite
agreeable," said her brother gravely.
"I am sorry I didn't keep my word with
you. Please excuse me this time, won't
you ?"
But are you sorry ?"
"To be sure I am."
"Then prove it, will you, by meeting me
there at three o'clock. I have something I
wish to say to you."
Emma would gladly have excused herself
from this appointment, but she did not see how
she could; so she agreed to do as her brother
wished. She felt very unhappy till the
arrival of the appointed hour. Lewis had
something to say to her. What was it ?
Would he reprove her? He had never done
so; but then she had never given him such


occasion-had never so laid herself open to
reproof. Again she thought of that letter,
and wished she had not written it. She felt
sure her brother must think she was greatly
self-deceived. She was very unhappy-at
that moment wretched and unhappy rather
than truly penitent; for she thought more of
her brother's opinion of her than of the judg-
ment of her Lord and Saviour.
At three o'clock she repaired to the arbour.
Lewis was not there; but a moment after she
heard him open the garden-gate. He paused
by a bed of lilies and gathered some.
"You are true to your engagement this
time," he said, as he approached.
He sat down by Emma's side, and placed
the lilies in her hand.
"They are delicate and beautiful, are they
not ?" he said.
The kind, gentle tone in which this question
was asked reassured Emma. It did not seem
at all like an introduction to a reproof. She
looked up into .his face, and, smiling faintly,
"Yes, very."
Her brother smiled too.


Do you know who has said, 'I am the rose
of Sharon and the lily of the valley?"' he
asked, after a moment's silence.
The question was put in that deep, musical
voice which had so much of soul in it, and
which always vibrated along the chords of
Emma's heart.
"Yes," said Emma softly, it is Jesus."
"This is what he says of himself. Do you
know what he says of his people ?" he asked,
in the same tone. "This is what he says-
' As the lily among thorns, so is my love
among the daughters.' The lily has no
thorns, you know. It may be pricked and
torn, but it cannot tear and prick in return.
So it was with the Lily of the Valley:
'Though he was reviled, he reviled not again,
though he suffered, he threatened not.' So it
is with all his lilies in proportion as they are
like him. Christ's lilies should have no
thorns with which to prick and wound. They
may be among thorns, but they should not be
thorns themselves. Does my dear sister wish
to be one of Christ's lilies ? "
Emma had hid her face in her hands, and
now she sobbed aloud.



"I knew it would be so," she said at last,
restraining her tears.
"Knew it would be how ?"
Emma hesitated, and then resolved to free
her mind.
I knew when you came I should be sorry
I had written you that letter."
"What letter?"
"The last letter I wrote you."
What! that welcome letter which told me
you hoped that Christ had become your Friend
and Saviour. I trust you do not regret that
That is not what I mean. But I have so
many faults. When you learn how many
faults I have, I fear that you will not believe
that I love the Saviour."
You are thinking of the thorns."
Yes, Lewis, I am not a harmless lily. I
have many thorns, and they often wound and
pierce my friends."
"And yourself too."
"Ah, that they do."
Did you hear all I said to Bridget ?" asked
Emma timidly, after a moment's silence.
I heard quite enough."



Emma's tears flowed afresh.
"0 Lewis, what did you think ?" she
I thought, of course, that you were very
much to blame. I thought the thorn was very
visible. I thought, too, if Christ was changing
that thorn into one of the lilies, you would
soon feel very sorry for this outburst of
I am sorry, dear brother. But I do wrong
so often that I sometimes fear it is all wrong
with me."
Lewis drew Emma close to his side, and
said tenderly, My dear sister, don't you think
the Lord Jesus knows what thorns he has
undertaken to transform into lilies ? Don't you
think he knows all he undertakes to do when
he invites poor, wretched sinners to come to
him and be saved?"
"Then you are not quite discouraged about
me? said Emnia, looking up doubtingly into
her brother's face.
"No, Emma; and what is better still, and
much more to the point, I don't think the
Lord Jesus Christ will cast you off. His
patience with us poor, wayward sinners is



wonderful. Hear what he has promised to do
for those who believe in him."
Lewis took his Bible from his pocket, and
read-"That he might present it to himself
a glorious church, not having spot, or wrinkle,
or any such thing; but-that it should be holy
and without blemish."
This, dear Emma," he said, "is what we
shall be when the work which Christ will do
for us is completed. You must remember this
work has a small beginning, like a grain of
mustard-seed; but in the end it is a great
tree. Doubtless you have many faults, though
I have been with you so little I have dis-
covered only a few of them. The question is .
not if you have faults, but how do you treat
these faults? How do you feel in relation to
them ?"
"I think I am very sorry when I do wrong,"
said Emma; but the worst of it is, my sorrow
does not prevent me from doiAg wrong again.
I was angry with one of my school-fellows
about a week before you came home, and said
some severe things about her. I was after-
wards so sorry that I thought I never should
do the same thing again. But this morning


I was very angry with Bridget. I am
afraid, after all, I am not very different from
what I used to be; I do so many of the same
wrong things."
"Let us look a little further into this sub-
ject," said Lewis, "and see in what respects
you are the same that you used to be, and in
what you are changed. Will you give me all
the particulars of the event which happened
the week before I came home ? I have special
reasons for making this request."
Emma complied with her brother's wishes.
"I suppose," said Lewis, when she had told
the story, that at first you felt towards Mary
very much as you would have felt a year ago,
had the same thing happened then."
"I think I did-just the same."
"Then so far there was no change. Now
let us inquire into your feelings and conduct
afterwards, when you had had time for reflec-
tion. I wish you to take a careful review of
these, and then tell me if they were in any
way different from what they would have been
a year before."
I felt very sorry for my angry feelings,"
said Emma, after a thoughtful silence. "I


remembered how much I hoped had been for-
given me, and felt how wrong it was not to
forgive. I should not have had these feelings
a year ago. Then, when father reproved me
at the tea-table, I freely confessed that I had
done wrong, instead of justifying myself by
relating the provocation I had received, as I
should once have done. The next day I
treated Mary Green as kindly as I could, and
told Julia Summers that I was sorry for what
I had said about her."
Then it seems there are indications of
some kind of a change, even in this incident,
which you justly regard as a sad fall into sin.
All are sinners; but the Bible divides man-
kind into two classes-penitent and impeni-
tent sinners. When Christians fall into sin,
they are truly penitent for it, while others are
not. Others may be sorry they have done
wrong, for many reasons, but they are not
truly penitent. God alone can read your
heart, my dear Emma, and see whether it is a
truly penitent one; but I hope that you were
truly penitent for your anger towards Mary
"At the time I thought I was very sorry,"


said Emma, "and I meant to be very watchful,
and hoped that I should not soon be angry
On what ground did you hope so ? Was
it that you intended to be very watchful and
careful ?"
"I suppose so."
"Then I think you may here find the chief
cause of your failure. Do you think that all
your watchfulness and care can change the
thorn into a lily."
No; but must I not be careful and watch-
ful ?"
Certainly; but you must not trust in that
care and watchfulness-you must not rely
upon them as your security. Let me illustrate
this by supposing a case. Let me suppose
that you were involved in a lawsuit in which
a great deal of property was at stake-indeed,
all that you possessed in the world. We will
suppose it to be a very intricate case-one in
which there are many papers to be examined,
and many puzzling questions to be settled.
We will suppose that you understand very
little about the matter, and that the case seems
to you involved in inextricable'confusion. You

know not how to take even the first step to
get out of your difficulties.
"At this juncture, a person in whom you
have perfect confidence steps forward and
offers to take the case into his own hands. He
reminds you that you do not understand the
subject, and are ignorant what steps to take.
He assures you that he is perfectly acquainted
with the case, and knows exactly what must
be done to secure a favourable issue; and he
engages to bring you safe through, if you will
trust the business with him, and agree care-
fully to obey all his directions. Sensible of
your own weakness and helplessness, you
gladly accept of this offer.
"By-and-by he puts some papers into your
hands, directing you to make a fair and legible
copy of them. You set about the task ear-
nestly and diligently, and take much pains to
have the work well done. But would you rely
for the success of your cause on the correct
copying of these papers ?"
Certainly not. All my hope of success
would rest on the skill and faithfulness of the
friend who had undertaken my case."
"Suppose you should reason that, as all

your hope of success rested on that friend, it
was of no consequence if you did copy the
papers negligently and incorrectly ? "
"That would be most base and ungrateful.
Besides, the agreement was, not only that I
should trust the case entirely in his hands, but
also that I should implicitly obey his directions."
"Then your duty would be to copy the
papers carefully and correctly ?"
"But while doing this, your whole reliance
would be upon your friend, and what he had
undertaken to do for you, and not upon the
way ii- which you discharged this duty."
That is very plain."
"Yet is there not one sense in which your
success would depend upon your obedience to
the directions of your friend?"
I think there is," said Emma thoughtfully.
"If I refused to submit to his direction, I
should have reason to expect that he would
abandon my cause."
"You would also expect that your work
would have its place in securing the desired
result, but only as an instrument which he
would employ and guide to that end."


"That, too, is very plain."
"Now, this is an imperfect illustration of
the relation in which you stand to Him whom
you have chosen for your Saviour and Friend.
You have trusted your case to him. You
have put the thorn into his hands to form it
into a lily. That is his work,-not yours.
You struggle with your evil passions and
mourn over your ill success. It is as if you
took the thorn into your hand, and said dis-
consolately, 'Ah, I never can make it a lily.'
It is true that you never can; but Christ can.
You have forgotten that this work is his, and
have been trying to do it yourself. You can
no more re-create your soul in God's image than
you could create it at first. Of all Christ's
lilies it is true that they are born not of
blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the
will of man, but of God.'
"But you may ask, If Christ must do so
much, what have I to do?' Just what you
had to do in the case supposed,-obey his
directions. One of these is, 'Watch and pray,
that ye enter not into temptation.' If you
obey, he will employ that watchfulness and
prayer as one of the instrumentalities by


which he will change the thorn into a lily.
But you must not trust in these. You must
trust only in Him into whose hands you have
put your case. It is by this united trust and
obedience that we gain the victory over sin.
Our resolutions to watch and pray must be
coupled with a sincere reliance upon Christ as
our Almighty Helper. Was it not here that
you failed the other day?"
"I am afraid I relied too much on the
watchfulness I intended to exercise."
This is a very common mistake. While you
watch and strive against sin, never forget who
it is that has undertaken your cause. Rest
all your hopes of success on what he will do
in and for you. Watch and pray in the same
spirit in which you would obey the directions
of your friend in the case I have supposed.
You will then find that you do get the victory
over sin and are becoming more like Christ;
and the rapidity of the change will be in pro-
,portion to your faith and obedience. You
cannot separate true faith and obedience.
They always go together. In the case I have
supposed, you would expect your friend to
cast you off if you refused to obey his direc-


tions. So Jesus Christ will have nothing to
do with those who will not honestly strive to
obey him. It is in vain that we profess to
trust him if we do not obey him; yet it is by
a simple reliance upon him that we obtain
grace to obey his commandments."


THE next day was the Sabbath. In the after-
noon the minister preached from the words,
" For even Christ pleased, not himself." It
was a seasonable lesson, and moved Emma's
feelings very much.
"Haven't we had a good sermon this after-
noon ?" said she to her brother, after their
return from church.
"Yes, a very good sermon," said Lewis,
his countenance beaming with an expression
manifesting his appreciation of it.
If it were only Sunday every day," said
Emma, "and we could hear such sermons as
that, I think we might grow good very fast."



Lewis smiled; but there was something in
the smile that said, I am not of your opi-
nion and Emma so construed it.
Don't you think so ?" she asked.
I do not."
Why not ? When I hear such sermons it
seems as if they took away all wrong feelings
out of my heart. If I could only hear them
every day!"
"Then perhaps you might not discover your
mistake, which would be a great calamity."
"What mistake V" said Emma, looking a
little puzzled.
"The mistake of supposing that listening to
such truth will do the work of removing wrong
thoughts and feelings from your heart."
"But will not the preaching of the gospel
do this ? I thought that was the design of it."
"Did you notice Mr. N. ?"
"Yes; he slept during the whole of the
Do you think the preaching of the gospel
this afternoon had any effect to make him
better ?"
"Of course not," said Emma, smiling; for
he did not hear it."


"Then hearing is necessary, if we would be
profited ?"
Is that all that is required ?"
We must hear with earnest attention."
"Is that all?"
"I suppose we must hear not only with
attention, but with pleasure."
"And is that all?" repeated her brother
Again Emma looked puzzled, and this time
did not reply.
"As you cannot answer the question, we
must look elsewhere for an answer," said her
brother. "I think we can find it here," he
continued, taking out his Bible and opening
it. "The Apostle James tells us very plainly
that something more is wanted. This is what
he says: 'But be ye doers of the word, and
not hearers only, deceiving your own selves.
For if any man be a hearer of the word, and
not a doer, he is like unto a man beholding his
natural face in a glass: for he beholdeth him-
self, and goeth his way, and straightway for-
getteth what manner of man he was. But
whoso looketh into the perfect law of liberty,


and continueth therein, he being not a forget-
ful hearer, but a doer of the work, this man
shall be blessed in his deed.'
"In this passage you will find the reason
why I do not think we should become good by
being always employed in listening to sermons.
If such a thing were possible, how should we
ascertain whether we were doers or only hearers
of the word? By 'hearers,' I suppose the
apostle means those who listen to the word with
attention and even with pleasure and delight.
But he plainly tells us that among those
hearers there are two classes. The one class
ONLY hear. They do not go home to practise
what they hear. They may enjoy and admire
the sermon, and perhaps wish they could listen
to such a one every day. But during the
week, when the occasion comes that the sermon
should be remembered and reduced to practice,
they do not think of it then. They are for-
getful hearers, and might see themselves in
this mirror: 'For he beholdeth himself, and
goeth his way, and straightway forgetteth
what manner of man he was.'
"The other class also listen with pleasure
and delight. But they do more than this.



They hide the word in their hearts, and, as
occasion offers, they try to practise it. They
answer to the description, 'But whoso looketh
into the perfect law of liberty, and continueth
therein, he being not a forgetful hearer, but a
doer of the work, this man shall be blessed
in his deed.'
"Our Saviour described these two classes
of hearers in his parable of the sower. In
that parable he tells us of those who heard
the word with joy and yet were not doers of
the word. They brought forth no fruit. But
he describes another class, who received the
word into good ground, and brought forth
fruit, some a hundred-fold, some sixty, some
It is not when listening to the word that
we are most likely to discover to which of
these two classes we belong. I suppose you
have sometimes thought that the trials, cares,
and temptations of the week are a great hin-
drance to your being good. Isn't it so ?"
Yes, Lewis; I have often thought so."
Yet these trials and temptations are just
what you need to prove whether you are a
hearer only or a doer of the word. If these



are met in a right spirit, they will greatly ad-
vance your progress in holiness. The doing
of the work is as necessary to the growth of
grace in the soul as the hearing of it on the
Sabbath. When we hear such a sermon as it
has been our privilege to listen to this after-
noon, we should hide it in our hearts and
seek for occasions to practise it during the

"Now I shall have two hours-twofull hours
-all to myself; and that will be long enough to
read this book quite through," said Emma, the
next Wednesday afternoon, as she seated her-
self by the pleasant window of the upper hall,
with a book which her cousin Mary had that
day lent to her.
She had read the first chapter, had decided
that the book promised to be very interesting,
and was eagerly dipping into chapter second,
when her ear caught the sound of pattering
footsteps on the stairs. She did not feel very
amiable at the prospect of an interruption,
and mentally exclaimed, There's Grace!
What a little torment she is sometimes She
has come to tease me for something, I daresay.

That's always the way when I don't want to
be interrupted !"
By the time this soliloquy was ended, Grace,
with a skip, hop, and jump, had reached her
sister's side.
0 Emma," she said,-her round, dimpled
face flushed with pleasurable excitement,-
"you don't know what grand times we are
having this afternoon Cousin Susie wants us
to play that Miss Kate [Grace's favourite doll]
is going to be married. Isn't it funny? We
are going to call on the bride and bring her
presents, you know, and have such an amusing
game, and we want you to come to the play-
room and help to dress Miss Kate."
All this was said with breathless eagerness,
and then little C- ace paused. There were two
reasons for this. The first was want of breath
to say more; the second, a chill of disappoint-
ment as she observed that Emma, who had
raised her eyes from her book only for an in-
stant, was now absorbed in it again, and ap-
parently altogether unmindful of what she was
But Grace was not so easily baffled when
she had once set her heart upon obtaining


an object. After taking breath, she pulled
Emma's dress, and said, imploringly,--
Now, do come, Emma. That's a dear, good
sister. It will take you only a very little
Don't you see I am busy, Grace ? Come,
go away, and don't tease me."
Now, Emma, do come. We want you so
much !"
The tones were very moving, and the blue
eyes were already swimming at the thought
of disappointment.
"I am sure, Grace, you and Susie and
Mary can manage to dress your doll without
"So we could other days; but you know
Kate is a bride to-day, and we want her to
look very nice. We don't know how to dress
There was a look of grave concern on the
little upturned face which would have pro-
voked a smile from one less annoyed than
Emma. The urgency of little Grace was not
without its effect even upon her. She wavered
for a moment, looked first into the blue eyes
which were watching her as earnestly as if



the fate of a kingdom depended on her deci-
sion, and then at the book in her hand. The
last look decided the question, and decided it
in favour of self-pleasing.
No, I can't go," she said. You must
dress your own dolls."
Oh, don't say so We won't ask you to
stay long-only a very, very little while."
Misfortunes never come single," is an old
adage. Whether it be true or not, it is certain
that sins never do. With this decision on the
part of Emma to please herself came an in-
creased feeling of vexation at Grace for inter-
rupting her quiet.
Go away, you little torment !" she said,
quite angrily. I tell you I will not be in-
At this moment Emma heard her brother
coming up stairs. He crossed the hall and
went into his own room, without seeming to
notice either herself or Grace.
The big tears rolled down the cheeks of
little Grace, as she turned slowly from her
sister. Thicker and faster they came as she
descended the stairs. When she reached the
foot, they broke out into sobs which came up



from the very bottom of the heart, that was
not yet used to disappointment. To her the
bridal dress of doll Kate was a matter of as
grave importance as her own might be some
years hence. She threw herself down on the
lowest step and sobbed and cried for a few
minutes. Then she arose, and, brushing away
the tears, went to inform Susie and Mary of
the ill success of her mission.
"Never mind," said the independent Susie.
"We can dress Kate without any of Emma's
help. If she doesn't choose to come, let her
stay away."
But she would have made Kate look so
nice," sobbed the still grieved child.
I am sure Kate will look very nice with-
out any of her help," said Susie with an in-
dependent toss of her head, as she proceeded
to search Mary's work-basket for a needle and
thread, with which to work out the fulfilment
of her own prophecy.
Emma tried to be deaf to the sobs of her
little sister, as they came up to her from the
foot of the stairs. But they reached her ears
in spite of her, and, what was still more
annoying, they reached her conscience also.



She tried to read as if nothing had occurred
to disturb her; but the inward monitor would
not suffer it, and she was compelled to listen
to its voice. That act of yours," it said,
"was a selfish, unsisterly, unchristian act.
You may call it only child's play,-only help-
ing to dress a doll, a very small affair, indeed.
But you know that you might have made
your little sister very happy by a trifling self-
denial, and gained a yet warmer place in her
loving little heart. Hear her sobs Are you
not ashamed of yourself ?"
When all was quiet again, Emma tried to fix
her attention upon the book and feel the same
interest in it that she had felt before this in-
terruption; but she could not. The honest
verdict of conscience would come between her
and it and divert her mind from the story.
At last she suffered the book to drop on her
lap, while she fell into a fit of musing. It
was something in this way :-" I declare it is
too bad that one can't take a bit of comfort
when one sets out to do so. That little teaser
has contrived to get my mind off my book,
anyhow. I suppose I need not have answered
her quite so sharply; but then it was so pro-


evoking to be interrupted. I wish Grace did
not always want something when I am par-
ticularly busy."
In this tone, partly of vexation and partly
of self-dissatisfaction, Emma carried on a con-
versation with herself. Notwithstanding the
faithful admonition of conscience, she had no
very distinct apprehension of the wrong she
had done. She saw it just clearly enough to
produce an uneasy feeling of self-reproach,
mingled with the vexation of losing the enjoy-
ment of her book; but no feeling of genuine
penitence was produced.
At this moment the door of her brother's
room opened, and he came into the hall. In-
stead of going down stairs, he came slowly to
the place where Emma was sitting.
I wonder if he heard what I said to Grace?"
thought she, as he approached. She gave a
quick glance into his face, to see if she could
there read an answer to this query. But she
could not. If he had heard, his face told no
What are you doing, Emma?" he asked.
Reading," said Emma.
Reading?" he repeated in a sceptical tone.


Emma blushed as she looked down upon the
book which lay half closed in her lap.
I was reading a short time ago," she said;
"but I believe I was thinking just now when
you came out of your room."
Do you find the book interesting ?'
I believe so. I hardly know yet."
Was it of that you have been thinking?"
Emma looked into her brother's face. His
eyes were fixed upon her in a way that made
the blood rush to her face. Was he reading
her thoughts ?
"I can't say I was thinking of my book,"
she replied.
Since that does not furnish you with sub-
jects of thought, shall I give you one ?" he
Emma assented.
Her brother took a paper from his pocket,
wrote a few words upon it, folded it several
times and handed it to Emma. He then went
'down stairs, and was out of sight before Emma
had unfolded the paper.
It contained only five words; but the tears
came to her eyes as she read them; for they
were these,-" Even Christ pleased not him-



self,"--the words of the text the last Sabbath
afternoon,-the text of the sermon to which
she had listened with so much pleasure.
All that her brother had said to her about
doing as well as hearing was at once recalled
to her mind. "A forgetful hearer," she mur-
mured. Where is the doing? Why did I
not think of that sermon and that text this
afternoon ? I heard the word with pleasure
and delight; but where is the fruit? How
hateful the thought of pleasing one's self looked
to me last Sabbath afternoon, when compared
with the self-denial of the blessed Saviour!
Yet how have I pleased myself this afternoon!
If this truth had been in my heart when
Grace came to me, I could not have answered
her as I did. Lewis heard what I said to her,
no doubt, and has taken this way to reprove
me. He could not have done it more effect-
ually than by leaving me with these words to
show me how unlike Christ I am."
Emma's heart was now truly melted and
penitent. While meditating in this strain, a
merry peal of laughter from the playroom
reached her ears. This aroused her.
This is only feeling," she said. "It is not


doing. Can I do anything for Grace to show
that I am sorry for my selfishness ? Kate is
dressed ere this, no doubt. What can I do? Ah!
I know," she said, after a moment's reflection.
Brushing away the tears which still fell, she
left her seat and hastened into her own room.
She was soon surrounded with bits of silk,
ribbon and artificial flowers. Being skilful
in such work, fifteen minutes sufficed to pro-
duce a very respectable and not untasteful
article of miniature millinery, which was
designed to be Miss Dolly's bridal hat. She
then put on her sun-bonnet and repaired to
the place where the children were playing.
As she approached, she hid the offering she
rad brought under her shawl.
I have come to pay my respects to the
bride," she said, as she drew near the group.
Grace, whose loving little heart was in-
capable of retaining for any length of time
either vexation or resentment, caught her sis-
ter's hand.
I am so glad you have come !" she said.
She had already quite forgiven Emma for the
disappointment she had caused, though she
had felt it keenly.



Is the bride to take a wedding-tour ?"
asked Emma, as Grace led her forward to where
the doll sat in state to receive congratulations
and presents.
Mary and Grace looked as if this were some-
thing they had not thought of; but Susie
promptly answered,-
To be sure she is. She starts to-morrow."
"Then this will be just what she needs,"
said Emma, holding up the tiny hat.
A bridal hat A bridal hat i" exclaimed
all the girls at once.
"What a beauty !" said Mary.
It is just the thing," said Susie.
It is better than if she had made the
dress," said Grace; "for Susie did that very
nicely, but she could not make such a hat."
There, Miss Kate! What do you say to
that ?" said Susie, holding it up before the
bride, who certainly looked at it in a very
dignified way, such as no doubt became a
Try it on," said Mary.
This was done; and all the girls danced with
delight to see how very becoming it was.
In the midst of the uproar, a voice was



heard just behind them, asking, very plea-
santly, "What is all this noise about ?"
0 Lewis," said Grace, bounding towards
him and catching hold of his hand, we are
just as happy as we can be !"
So I should think," said Lewis, looking
down on her beaming face and patting her on
the cheek. But you haven't told me yet
what all this noise is about."
Oh, Emma has just brought us a bridal
hat for Kate, and it is such a beauty and I
am so glad I don't know what to do."
"Not a very common complaint," said
Lewis, laughing.
You must come and see the bride," said
Lewis suffered himself to be led forward
into the presence of that dignified personage;
and he made his little sister very happy by a
well-timed compliment on her appearance.
All this time Emma kept herself a little
on one side,-feelings of humiliation and of
pleasure struggling for the ascendency and
by turns lighting her face with smiles and
dyeing her cheeks with blushes. At last she
ventured to raise her eyes to her brother's


face. Their eyes met, and he smiled. There
was something in that smile which made her
heart throb. He came up to her, and said,-
Come with me to the house, Emma. I
think it is plain that these little folks will be
happy enough without our help the rest of the
afternoon." He drew her hand within his
arm as he said this, and they walked towards
the house.
Well, Emma, what do you think about
hearing and doing?" he asked.
"I forgot the doing," said Emma, with a
shade of sadness in her tone.
But you remembered it after a time, and
you have made your little sisters very happy."
I did not think of it till you reminded
me of it. I acted very selfishly when Grace
came to me. I please myself before I think."
When you are reminded of your duty, let
your action be right, as it was this afternoon.
You will find this the best of all methods for
learning to practise what you hear. There is
nothing helps the digestion of the word, so
that it will cause us to grow in grace, like the
doing of it. On the Sabbath you listened to
the doctrine that Christ pleased not himself.



To-day, after you became sensible of your
error, you tried to follow his example. On
which occasion do you think you best pleased
your Saviour ?"
It was but a little thing," said Emma;
" only making a doll's hat."
"And therefore you think it so small that
your Saviour will overlook it?"
"I don't know. It seems like a little
We make sad mistakes sometimes on this
point. Nothing can be a small thing, or an
insignificant trifle, that has an effect upon our
moral and religious character. When you
sent Grace away so roughly, it was not a trifle;
for it involved the principle of self-pleasing.
It showed you to be a forgetful hearer of the
truth you so much admired. It made you
unlike your Saviour.
When you repented, and made that hat to
please your sister, it was not a little thing.
It was fruit from the word. It was an act
done, I trust, to please your Saviour. If so,
it could not be a trifle. Our ever-present
Saviour saw you in the midst of that playing
group as surely as he sees you in church or in


your closet. If it was your desire to please
him, his approbation and his smile were there
also. "Was it a small thing to win these?"
"Oh, no," said Emma, the tears filling her
eyes. "If I could only see what I call small
things in that light !"
"This is the light in which they should be
viewed. To please his God and his Redeemer
should be the work of the Christian's life.
But life is mostly made up of small things.
We seldom find an opportunity to do any
great deed. But we can please Christ in small
things every day and every hour. You may
serve him in the smallest act, when it is done
with a desire to please him. By doing this
you will grow to be like him, and the thorn
will be changed into the lily."


"How would you like to take a ride with
me to-day?" said Lewis to Emma, at the


breakfast-table, one morning in the course of
the next week.
"I should like it very much. Where are
you going?
I think of riding over to visit Uncle Dennis,
and I thought you might like to go with me
to see your cousin Lucy?"
"Indeed I should."
"Then get ready as soon as you have finished
your breakfast; for we must be off in an hour
at furthest."
"Did you hear what Uncle Dennis said to
me just before we came away?" inquired
Emma of her brother, as they were returning
home at night.
"No. What was it?
He said he should bring Cousin Lucy over
^in a few days to spend several weeks with us."
"Indeed! I suppose you are very glad?"
"I am glad, and yet I am sorry," said
Emma, thoughtfully.
"And why sorry? Don't you enjoy your
cousin Lucy's visits?"
"Yes,-generally. We have sometimes
been very happy together ; but we don't always
get on smoothly."



"Why not?"
"For several reasons."
"What is one of them?"
"One of them, I think, is that Lucy likes so
very much to have her own way."
"And another is that her cousin Emma
likes so much to have her own way too. Is it
not so?" asked Lewis, looking into his sister's
I suppose it is," said Emma, blushing.
"By what do you suppose your cousin Lucy
is governed, when she is mistress of her own
actions, and not controlled by circumstances
or the authority of her parents and teachers?"
"By her own will, I think."
"And by what is my dear sister Emma
Emma did not reply.
Do you know who says, 'My sheep hear
my voice, and I know them, and they follow
"It is Jesus," said Emma, in a subdued
"Who are his sheep?"
"Those who love and obey him."
"When self-will speaks demanding one

thing, and his voice is heard requiring a con-
trary thing, which will his sheep hear and
"They will obey him, I suppose."
Don't you think you will get on pleasantly
with 'your cousin, if you listen to the voice of
the kind Shepherd instead of the promptings
of your own self-will?"
"I suppose so. But I fear I shall not
always do this. I am still sometimes very
self-willed; and I fear I shall show this more
than ever when cousin Lucy comes."
Then, my dear sister, you must watch and
pray, that you may not enter into temptation;
for it is written, 'Blessed is the man that en-
dureth temptation.' If you are one of the
Saviour's lambs, you earnestly wish that your
self-will may be subdued and that God's will
alone may rule your heart. If your cousin
is more than ordinarily self-willed, her visit
will afford you an excellent opportunity to
discover and watch against and subdue self-
will. I trust you will be disposed to make the
best possible improvement of this opportunity."
I believe you always see some good to be
derived from everything," said Emma.

"Why should I not? Have I not the best
authority for doing so? Do not,' all things
work together for good to them that love God?"
Uncle Dennis did not forget his promise.
The next week he brought his daughter Lucy
to spend the vacation with her cousin Emma.
The first two days passed away very plea-
Come, Emma; let's take a walk," said
Lucy to Emma on the third afternoon.
"Agreed," said Emma. "Let us go as far
as Mr Dalton's.and take a peep at his garden.
I know it must look beautiful after the rain
we have had."
But I do not wish to go in that direction,"
replied Lucy. I want to go down to the
river this afternoon. We can go to Mr.
Dalton's another time."
"And we can go down to the river another
time," said Emma, whose self-will was sud-
denly aroused by her cousin's opposition to her
"But I want to go there this afternoon."
"And I want to see Mr. Dalton's garden
this afternoon. Besides, the grass is damp
in the walk to the river," said Emma, who



wished to fortify her position by a show of
"Nonsense! the grass is not damp. It has
had plenty of time to dry since the rain. We
are not obliged to wear thin shoes, either.
Mother says we had better not wear them in
such walks. So for the river, I say."
Lucy laid aside her work and left the room;
but Emma did not rise to follow her. Per-
ceiving this, Lucy paused and turned round
when she reached the door.
"Come, Emma; are you not going?" she said.
Not to the river."
"Well, I am going to the river. If you
will go with me, very well; if not, I will go
Emma had not expected this. She thought
her steady determination to go nowhere else
but to Mr. Dalton's would bring Lucy to
terms and gain her consent to her wishes.
But it had produced an opposite effect, and
had strengthened her cousin in her resolution
to go nowhere but to the river. She how
regretted that she had so positively declared
she would not go in that direction; but, hav-
ing said it, she would not draw back.



Lucy, on her part, did not exactly fancy the
idea of a solitary walk to the river. In fact,
she would really have preferred to have re-
mained at home, if Emma would not go with
her. But she had said that she should go,
and go she would.
Emma did not feel quite at ease after Lucy
had gone. But she had not much time for
reflection during her cousin's absence; for
several things occurred to occupy her atten-
tion. She had just resumed her sewing, from
which she had been called away, when
Lucy returned. She came bounding into
the room, holding in her hands a beautiful
Emma did not expect that Lucy would
enjoy her solitary walk very much; but the
first glance at her face showed that she had
enjoyed it. Emma was vexed rather than
pleased at this discovery. Lucy's face told of
something more than enjoyment. It told of
triumph too, and a malicious satisfaction in
that triumph. She had indeed enjoyed the
walk; but, not content with this, she had come
home to enjoy teasing her cousin for refusing
to go with her. Circumstances had given her



the power to do this, and she intended to
make the most of them.
"There, Miss Emma!" she said, holding up
her bouquet triumphantly; isn't that beauti-
ful? Is it not better than looking over the
wall at the flowers in Mr. Dalton's garden?
Now don't you wish you had gone with me?"
Emma was much disturbed by her cousin's
air of triumph, though she tried hard not
to show it. She was too much vexed to own
she wished she had gone with her.
"I don't wish any such thing," she replied.
"Neither do I," said Lucy, with a toss of
her head. "I had the best of company, and
did not miss you at all."
Here Lucy paused. She was sure her
cousin would be very curious to know who
had accompanied her, and she intended that
she should be obliged to ask before her curi-
osity was gratified. Emma was both desirous
to know and unwilling to ask. But curiosity
conquered 'sullenness.
"What company?" she inquired, after a
moment's silence.
"What company? Cousin Lewis, to be sure.
Didn't he act the agreeable to perfection? He



knows how to treat a guest civilly, if his sister
Emma's cheeks flushed; but she made no
reply. Lucy maliciously enjoyed her discom-
fiture, and perversely went on in the ungracious
work of increasing it.
But I haven't told you all," she continued.
When we came home, Lewis took me
round past Mrs. Crawford's. When she saw
your brother, she called to us and invited us
to come in. Cousin Lewis at first declined;
but she said,-
"' You really must come in with your young
friend. My very best cherries are now in
perfection, and I hope you 41l come in and
have some.'
"Lewis thanked her, and we went in. You
never saw such a dish of cherries as tLe st
before us. I think I never tasted any qual1
to them. I thought of you, but comforted
myself with the reflection that you might be
looking over the wall into Mr. Dalton's gar-
den, which would make amends for all."
Emma writhed under her cousin's raillery,
but said nothing.
"After we had eaten as many cherries as



we wanted," continued Lucy, Mrs. Crawford
invited us into her beautiful garden; and there
she gathered for me this beautiful bouquet."
"How came Lewis to go.with you?" Emma
now ventured to ask.
The question reminded Lucy that here was
another point on which it was in her power to
tease Emma, and "pay her," as she called it,
for not going with her.
I met him at the door," she replied. "He
wished to know where I was going, and why
I was going alone. I told him how particu-
larly amiable and obliging my cousin Emma
was this afternoon; for I did not wish him to
suppose that I really preferred a solitary walk.
Learning how the case stood, he courteously
offered me the benefit of his company, which
considerate offer was gladly accepted; and we
enjoyed the pleasantest walk imaginable, as
one usually does in such company."
It was a little too much for Emma to
know that Lewis had been made acquainted
with her disobliging conduct to her guest.
She was forced to leave the room hastily to hide
the tears which could no longer be repressed.
Emma found much food for bitter reflection



on reaching her room. She was exceedingly
disturbed by Lucy's triumphant rehearsal of
the pleasures derived from the walk that she
had refused to share. Her cousin had obtained
a great triumph over her. But, worse than
this, she could not rid herself of the uncom-
fortable reflection that the annoyance had
been the result of an act on her part which
could not be justified.. She was conscious
that she had been disobliging and uncourteous
to a guest, whose preferences should have met
with greater consideration. But that which
rendered her most unhappy was the knowledge
of the fact that her brother had been made
acquainted with the whole affair, and that her
conduct had been placed before him in a very
unfavourable light.
The retrospect of the afternoon filled the
mind of Emma with vexation and ill humour.
She was vexed with herself, for she felt that
she had acted foolishly ; she was much vexed
with Lucy for the way in which she had tri-
umphed over her; and she was even a little
vexed with Lewis for making himself so
agreeable to Lucy and so greatly promoting
her enjoyment.



She was really unhappy. She was really
very sorry too for the part she had acted; but
she was not penitent for it. It is quite possible
for one to feel very sorry for doing wrong
and yet not feel the least true penitence. It
is possible to feel much self-reproach even
without penitence. Some imagine that all
sorrow for sin is repentance; but it is a very
great mistake. Had Emma been truly peni-
tent that afternoon, all feelings of vexation and
wounded pride would have been removed from
her heart. Pride and penitence cannot dwell
there together. When one enters, the other
must depart. But Emma's heart was full
of wounded pride that afternoon, and no
change had taken place when the bell sum-
moned her to tea. She felt particularly un-
amiable towards Lucy; but no opportunity of
manifesting the feeling occurred that night.
The next morning Lewis, Emma, and Lucy
were in the sitting-room together. Lewis was
reading the morning paper ; Emma was sewing,
and Lucy was seated by a stand at a little dis-
tance from them, trying to arrange between
sheets of paper some flowers she wished to press,
She worked very diligently for some time;



but, having had little practice, she had not ac-
quired the skill which practice alone can give.
Though she tried hard, she could not place
the flowers on the fair white page so that they
would look as did the specimens in Cousin
Lewis's herbarium, or even in her cousin
"Emma, I do wish you would come and
help me !" she exclaimed at last, discouraged
by her want of success. "I can't get them
to please me. They look so stiff and awkward !
Come; you know how to do this a great deal
better than I do."
Emma did not feel at all disposed to comply
with this request. Her vexation with her
cousin had not passed away. Besides, these
very flowers had formed a part of the bouquet
which Lucy had the day previous held up
before her so triumphantly; and she was
secretly glad that she could not arrange them
as she desired.
"I can't help you," she said. "I am very
busy sewing."
"Will you accept of my assistance?" in-
quired Lewis, looking up from his paper.
Perhaps I shall do as well as Emma."



"Thank you, Cousin Lewis. You will do
a great deal better than Emma; for you know
more about it. I consider that I am the gainer
by her refusal to assist me."
This wAs said in a tone of triumph which
did not escape the observation of Emma or
lessen her vexation.
With the assistance of Lewis, the flowers
were soon placed entirely to Lucy's satisfaction.
"That will do nicely now," she said. "I
shall know much better how to manage next
time, for the instruction you have given me.
I am very much obliged to you."
You are quite welcome," said Lewis, with
a pleasant smile. It is a service which
brings its own reward, to instruct a pupil who
is so attentive and apt to learn. If you will
come with me to the library, I will show you
some fine specimens I found and pressed yes-
terday morning."
Thank you," said Lucy.
As they were leaving the room, she asked,
"Don't you extend this invitation to Emma ?"
"I do not," said Lewis, gravely. "You
know she is very busy this morning and can-
not be interrupted."



This was said in a tone which Emma felt
was intended to convey reproof. She was sure
that her brother had been watching her con-
duct and had disapproved of it, and that he
intended to express that disapprobation by in-
viting Lucy to see his flowers, and excluding
her from the invitation. Even the assistance
rendered to Lucy might have been intended
as a silent reproof for her own disobliging
refusal. She was very unhappy while left
alone in the sitting-room; but, though un-
happy, she was not yet penitent.
Still, while left to her own reflections, she
resolved upon a change in her outward beha-
viour. She would be more obliging and amia-
ble to Lucy. She was rendering herself very
unhappy, and forfeiting her brother's approba-
tion. This last consideration had great weight
in leading her to decide upon a more amiable
and conciliatory course.
When Lucy returned, Emma, by a strenuous
effort, concealed her irritated feelings, and
during the remainder of the day assumed a
manner more kind and obliging. But Emma's
feelings of self-will and vexation with her
cousin had not passed away. They were simply




concealed and placed under strong restraint.
Her spirit was not calmed, but chafed and
fretted by this restraint, so that it seemed to
her the more she tried to feel amiable the
more unamiable she felt.


IN the afternoon of the next day Lucy pro-
posed a walk to a grove in the neighbourhood,
to which Emma consented.
Stop a moment," said Emma, when they
reached the back door of the hall; "I must
look for Grace and take her with us."
"You may spare yourself that trouble,"
said Lucy. I don't want Grace to go with
us. It is a bother to have a child always
tagging after one; and she shan't go."
A brief explanation of the moral position in
which Emma now stood may be necessary.
The declaration that Grace should not go with
them had aroused her self-will. But then she
had firmly resolved not to be wilful again on



any such point. She must not insist upon
Grace's going, merely to have her own way.
Fortunately, as she regarded it, inclination in
this case was backed by duty. She could
gratify her own self-will and shelter herself
from the charge of doing so under the plea
of duty.
Grace must go with us," she replied,
though not in a very gentle or conciliatory
manner. Aunt Fanny has gone out, and
she told me to look after the children."
"You can leave them with Bridget."
"She told me not to let them trouble
Bridget, as she is very busy this afternoon.
Mary has got hold of that book Lewis gave
her this morning, and I know her well enough
to be sure she will not leave it till she has
read every word. So if we don't take Grace
with us she will have nothing to do but trouble
At this moment Grace came skipping to-,
wards them.
0 Emma," she said, "where are you
going ?"
"We are going to the grove," said Emma.
Do you want to go with us ? "


"Oh, yes, yes said Grace, clapping her
hands with glee.
"I don't want you to go," said Lucy.
" Come, be a good girl and stay at home with
Mary is reading and won't speak to me,"
said Grace. "I want to go with you."
"I don't want you to go with me," said
"How unreasonable you are !" said Emma.
"I tell you what it is, Gracie is going with us;
so there is the end of the business."
Lucy was roused by this positive assertion,
not made in the most conciliatory manner.
"You need not say going with us," she re-
plied; for I am not going if she does."
Now, Lucy," said Emma, "aren't you
ashamed of yourself? You know I can't go
and leave Grace. It would not be right; and
Aunt Fanny would not like it."
These arguments failed to produce their de-
sired effect upon Lucy; for she saw plainly
that Emma was simply gratifying her own
self-will while entrenching herself behind the
plea of duty. She therefore persisted in say-
ing that she would not go if Grace did.


Was there ever such a wilful and-obstinate
girl !" exclaimed Emma.
"People that live in glass houses should not
throw stones," retorted Lucy. "I wonder
who was wilful and obstinate the day before
yesterday ?"
"That has nothing to do with it," said Emma.
You know I have the right on my side this
time. Gracie ought to go to the grove."
"Take her there, then," said Lucy, turning
to leave them.
When Grace saw the difficulty of which she
was the innocent occasion, with a spirit of
brave self-denial worthy of an older head and
heart, she pulled her sister's hand, saying,
"Call her back, Emma, and tell her I am not
going. I don't want to go if she doesn't want
that I should."
"I shall do no such thing. Let her go.
There is one comfort; I know I am in the
right this time."
Lewis came round the corner of the house
just in time to hear the last sentence; and he
now stood looking calmly and inquiringly into
his sister's flushed face.
"That is a great deal to be certain of,



Emma, with such wicked and deceitful hearts
as ours," he said, in a grave tone.
Emma looked somewhat embarrassed; still,
she said, confidently, "I am sure I am right
in this case."
"I don't know what the case is," said her
brother, in the same tone; but, judging from
your manner, I should fear that you were all
wrong instead of all right."
"Let me tell you about it, and then you
will think differently. I am sure you will say
I have done right."
"Very well; I will listen to you in a mo-
So saying, he drew from his pocket a small
paper of sugar-plums, which he gave to Grace.
Thank you, Lewis," said Grace, when she
had discovered what the paper contained.
Well, if you thank me, just take them out
to the arbour in the garden and eat them
there, will you?" `
"Yes, that I will," said Grace, bounding
Lewis seated himself on the bench of the
portico, and invited Emma to take a seat by
his side.



Now tell me," he said, how you make it
out, in spite of your flushed face and angry
tones, that you are quite in the right."
Emma blushed at this reference to the tem-
per she had exhibited, but told her story with
a good degree of self-confidence.
We can seldom decide upon the character
of an action by looking only at the surface of
things," said her brother, after listening to
her recital. Suppose I had come up a few
minutes sooner, while you were discussing the
subject, and had offered to take charge of
Grace while you and Lucy went to the grove.
Do you think the arrangement would have
pleased you?"
Emma was silent; for she was conscious
that Such a turn of affairs would have been
very unsatisfactory to her.
"Answer the question to yourself, if not to
me," said her brother, after a pause. "Sup-
posing it thus answered, I will go on. You
understand perfectly that the motive makes
an action right or wrong. You know that
kindness and courtesy to our guest require us
to consult her wishes, and yield to her pre-
ferences whenever it is proper to do so. If



you felt as you ought to have done this
afternoon, you desired to do this; and duty
alone compelled you to oppose her wishes. If
such were your feelings, it is obvious, in the
case I have supposed, you would have been
gratified by my offer to take charge of Grace,
that Lucy might enjoy the walk in her own
way. Is not this point clear?"
"Yes," said Emma in a subdued tone.
On the other hand, if self-will was at the
bottom of the whole, and duty was only used
as an entrenchment behind which self-will
could operate, shielded from the charge of ob-
stinacy, the case would be very different. I
wish you to see this difference clearly. On
the first supposition, there was no wilfulness
in the act. You opposed your cousin's wishes
only from a sense of duty On the second
supposition, self-will was the reigning motive,
and you were only too glad that duty and in-
clination took the same road and that self-will
was kept in countenance by duty. In the
latter case you could not have been gratified
by a proposal to take charge of Grace; for
this would have baffled self-will. Is not this



"Are you willing to tell me candidly
whether you would have been gratified by
such a proposal? Would it have pleased or
vexed you?"
I fear it would have vexed me."
Then can you not see that you were grati-
fying self-will under the plea of duty?"
I do see it," said Emma frankly. "But
if you did not know any of the circumstances,
why were you so sure in the first place that I
was some way in the wrong ?"
I judged so by your manner and the tone
of your voice. If you had been prompted by
a sense of duty and not by self-will, you would
have been kind and conciliatory, and your
manner would have been calculated to convince
your cousin that you were actuated by a sense
of right, and not by a desire to have your own
way under the pretext of duty.
You are not the first, dear Emma, who
has made this mistake. Many a person,
under the plea of duty, is simply obeying the
dictates of an indomitable self-will. But the
temper and conduct of such a one will usually
reveal the spirit by which he is actuated. He



will be proud and imperious, ready to condemn
others, while he boasts that he is in the right.
Just as the temper and spirit exhibited by you
this afternoon revealed the motive by which
you were actuated, so will such a man reveal
the motive by which he is governed. Self-will
is ever proud and imperious; and its nature is
not changed when it puts on the garb of re-
ligion. But the man who seeks not to do his
own will, but the will of his Father who is in
heaven, will be conciliatory while he is firm,
courteous while he is decided; and humble
while he is earnest. He will be patient of
contradiction, and ready to yield his own will
when it is only his will, and not duty, that he
is called upon to surrender."
After this conversation Emma left her
brother, more dissatisfied with herself than
ever. He had made it very plain that she
had been governed that afternoon by the old
spirit of self-will. It was not pleasant to find
that all was wrong where she had been so
sure that all was right.
For the next two days everything went
wrong with Emma. Causes of vexation were
constantly occurring. Though she often com-



handed herself sufficiently to restrain the out-
ward tokens, yet her mind was constantly
chafed and irritated, and she was restless and
Everything went wrong in the closet as well
as elsewhere. Whenever Emma visited that
sacred spot, she did so with the painful con-
sciousness that she was quite in the wrong,
without any clear perception how she was to
get right. In this manner two or three days
passed away.
One afternoon Lucy joined her little cousins,
Mary and Grace, in their playroom. Emma
felt no disposition to go with her, but, when
left to herself, repaired to her favourite seat
by the window of the upper hall. She took a
book with her for a companion; but the book
proved scarcely more attractive than the society
of her cousin and sisters. A discontented,
dissatisfied, restless mood unfitted her for any
After she had been seated there a short
time, her brother came up stairs. He was pass-
ing on to his own room; but, observing Emma
sitting alone, he turned and came up to her.
You seem to be disengaged," he said.


"Will you come to my room? I have two
engravings I wish to show you."
With pleasure," said Emma, her counte-
nance lighting up; for few things gave her
more satisfaction that an invitation to her
brother's room. Lewis placed a chair for her
by his table.
I think you have not seen this," he said,
taking a engraving from a portfolio and placing
it before her.
I have not," said Emma, looking at it.
You understand what it represents, do
you not?"
Emma examined it attentively. It repre-
sented a mountain covered with broken rocks
and precipices, accessible only by a steep and
difficult footpath. Amidst this scene of deso-
lation a solitary lamb was wandering. Emma
thought it looked timid and frightened, and
as if it were torn and bleeding, perhaps from
a fall amid those rocky heights. At some
distance from it a man was carefully wending
his way along the precarious footpaths..
It represents a stray lamb wandering on
a desolate mountain, I think," said Emma.
"That man, I suppose, is the shepherd, going



in search of it. Poor thing It looks as if
it needed help. See, it is torn and bleeding.
It could never find its own way out of that
desolate place."
Lewis removed this engraving and placed
another in its stead. The scene was the same,
-the same wild mountain and jagged rocks
and precarious footpaths, the same lamb, and
the same kind shepherd. But in this last en-
graving the lamb was not wandering alone
among the rocks; it was safely folded in the
arms of the shepherd, who was making his
way down the steep descent.
Emma gazed earnestly. "What a contrast!"
she ai;j after a short silence. "How safe,
comfortable, and happy the poor thing looks
in the arms of the shepherd!"
"Does this scene remind you of anything?"
Emma looked up to her brother. Again
she bent her eyes upon the engraving, her face
wearing a thoughtful expression.
Does it not remind you of the Good Shep-
herd whose mission it is to seek lost or wan-
dering lambs ?"
"Yes," said Emma seriously.
"I want to ask you one question. Do you



not think there is a wandering lamb in this
room, whom the Good Shepherd is calling to
return to him ?"
The manner in which this question was
asked-so gentle, tender, and affectionate-
moved Emma more than the question itself.
A flood of tears was the only reply.
Lewis had been standing leaning on Emma's
chair. He now seated himself by her side,
and, taking olie of her hands in his own, held
it with a gentle pressure, which of itself spoke
a volume of tender sympathy and affection.
Emmafelt the soothing and calming influence of
this simple act. She soon looked up and said,-
0 Lewis, I am so very, very unhappy!"
Christ's lambs always are when they wan-
der from him," was the reply, in a tone of
gentle sympathy and kind concern.
"But what shall I do ?"
Lewis answered by pointing to the lamb in
the arms of its shepherd.
I wish I were there !" said Emma, the
tears flowing afresh.
Why are you not there ? The Shepherd's
arms are ever open to receive the returning
wanderer. Can you doubt his love for the



lambs for whom he has laid down his life?
Have you not heard his call?"
"But I have been so very wicked! and I
am not penitent as I ought to be."
I see how it is," said her brother.
He removed the last engraving from before
Emma and placed the first in its stead.
"You see that poor wandering lamb again ?"
he said.
And the shepherd not very far from him,
as before ?,
"Do you think he could hear the shepherd
were he to call him ?"
I think he might."
If he heard the call of the shepherd, would
he not at once make his way towards the place
from whence the call came?"
"I think so."
"Suppose, instead of doing this, he should
reason in this way :-' I am ashamed to have
my shepherd find me, away on this desolate
mountain, all torn and bleeding. I must get
back part of the way before I go to his arms.
If I could only reach the foot of the mountain



and get part way back to the fold, then I
would run right to the shepherd; but I can't
go to him here;' and the little lamb hides away
in the crevice of a rock when the shepherd
calls, intending to find its own way almost to
the fold before it goes to him. What would
you think of such a lamb ?"
I should think it was very foolish."
"It could not find its own way out of the
mountain and half-way back to the fold. If
it could do all that, it would not need the help
of the shepherd; for that would be the hardest
"That is true," said her brother smiling.
"But can't you see how very true it is in your
own case? You have just been trying to do
the hardest part yourself without any help.
You are wandering on the mountain of sin,
bleeding and torn; but you say, 'I cannot let
the Good Shepherd see me in this plight. I
must get out of the mountain first. I must
get somewhere near the sheepfold, and try to
wash away some of the stains I have contracted
in the waters of deep repentance, before I can
present myself to the Shepherd.'



For some days past you have been trying
to get out of the mountain and find your way
back to the sheepfold, instead of going to the
Shepherd and asking him to take you back.
When you have been reading and meditating,
it has not been to find your Shepherd and
fly to his arms, but it was that you might
find the way down the mountain for yourself
and get ready to go to him.
But the plan did not work at all. Christ's
wandering lambs must be willing to go to him
as they are, torn and bleeding. Like the poor
lamb, you found yourself every hour becoming
more and more bewildered. You found no
food in the Bible, no help in prayer. Every
day you grew more unhappy, and your spirit
more chafed and irritated, less able to bear
vexations and trials and to exhibit the Chris-
tian temper. Is this a correct picture? Or am
I quite mistaken in regard to the state of
your mind the last few days?"
"Indeed, you are not mistaken. Had you
read every thought of my heart, you could not
have described my case better. I don't know
how you could understand my feelings so



"One may well be familiar with a road he
has often travelled," replied Lewis, a shade
of sadness stealing over his countenance.
"But tell me," he asked, "is the poor lamb
weary of its efforts to find its own way down
the mountain, and willing to be carried in the
arms of its Shepherd?"
Oh, yes," said Emma. "But how shall 1
get there ?"
"How did you get there in the first place?
Did you wait till you were very penitent and
felt as you ought, before you went to Jesus?"
"Oh, no. I tried that plan at first."
"And how did it work ?"
"It did not work at all. The more I tried
to make my feelings right, the harder my
heart became."
What did you then do ?"
"I had to go to Jesus just as I was."
Lewis turned over the engraving repre-
senting the lamb in.the arms of its shepherd.
There were some lines written on the back of
it. They were these:-
"Just as I am, without one plea
But that thy blood was shed for me,
And that thou bid'st me come to thee,
0 Lamb of God, I come!

"Just as I am, and waiting not
To rid myself of one dark blot,-
To thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot, -
0 Lamb of God, I come! "

"Was that the way you came ?" asked
Lewis, when Emma had read the lines.
"I hope so."
"In the same way you must go now. The
sinner who has never repented, and the sinner
who has repented and wandered, must both
come in the same way. It is the lamb folded
in his Saviour's arms that weeps the tears of
genuine repentance for sin. I will present
you with these two engravings. If you
please, you may now take them to your own
Emma took the engravings to her room and
laid them on her own little table, by the side
of which she sat down to reflect on all her
brother had said to her. She thought of the
sweet invitation, "Come unto me, all ye that
labour and are heavy laden, and I will give
you rest." She felt that it was the call of the
Good Shepherd. She fell on her knees and
entreated that he would bear her in his arms
back to the fold,-that he would give her a
penitent, humble, and contrite heart,-that he


would subdue her pride and self-will and teach
her to be meek like himself.
He who loves his lambs and watches over
them with a tender care, who is never far
from them even when they wander, heard her
prayer. Emma left her chamber that after-
noon with a peace in her heart which had not
been there for many days. The penitence
which she had struggled in vain to obtain now
melted and subdued her heart. The tears
flowed when she thought of the self-will she
had exhibited and the wrong tempers she had
The next morning Lucy, who had been
adding some new specimens to her herbarium,
brought it to Emma to exhibit them to her.
As Emma turned over its leaves, her eyes fell
upon the flowers that had formed a part of
the bouquet obtained from Mrs. Crawford's
garden. Two or three involuntary tears were
the tokens of the penitence now felt for
the self-will and angry passions of that
afternoon. That incident had cost her tears
before; but those were tears of vexation
-these were tears of penitence. And how
different they were! While the one chafed



and irritated, the other humbled, subdued,
and relieved.
Lucy observed the tears, though Emma
brushed them quickly away. She supposed
that her cousin still felt vexed about the
occurrences of that afternoon, and that the
flowers had proved an unpleasant reminder.
She had herself, after her vexation with Emma
had passed away, felt some self-reproach for
teasing her cousin so much; and she now
expressed this feeling by saying,-
"I am sorry, Emma, I teased you so on my
return from the walk to the river. I daresay
these flowers remind you of it."
"No, Lucy; it is not that."
"Then it was my telling your brother what
had passed between us."
"No; I was vexed about it at the time,
but am not now."
"But I saw the tears start to your eyes
when you looked at the flowers."
The effect of this assertion was to bring the
tears afresh.
"There! you are weeping now," said Lucy.
"It is." said Emma, after a moment's silence,
"because I feel so sorry when I think how


self-willed I then was. When these flowers re-
minded me of it, I could not help shedding tears."
Is that all?" said Lucy, carelessly.
Is it not enough ?" said Emma. I think
the remembrance of wrong-doing may well
bring tears of penitence."



"THERE is the carriage coming round the
corner," exclaimed Lucy as she and Emma were
together in the sitting-room that afternoon.
A moment after she added, It is father himself,
and mother too. I am. so glad! But-"
"A gloomy 'but,' I should think, by the
way it has chased the sunshine from your
face," said her cousin Lewis, smiling.
"I am only afraid they have come to take
me home," replied Lucy. "In that case I
could hardly be glad to see them."
"Nor I," said Emma. "But we shall not
let them have you."




Lewis now left the room to meet his uncle
and aunt, and was followed by Emma and
Lucy. They were quickly joined by Mary
and Grace, who from the back-yard had seen
the carriage as it came up, and lastly by Aunt
Fanny, who came from another part of the
house to welcome the guests.
When they were all quietly seated in the
pleasant parlour, Lucy went up to her father
and said, I hope, father, you have not come
to take me home?"
"No, pussy, no fear of that. You don't
suppose we want you at home? We shall be
greatly obliged to your Uncle Lewis and your
Aunt Fanny if they will keep you off our
hands a week or two longer."
"Why, father," said Lucy, laughing, "one
who did not know you would think you were
really glad to be rid of me."
I am not talking to those who do not know
me," said Mr. Dennis, smiling kindly.
"Who is that stopping before the gate?"
said Emma, addressing her Aunt Fanny.
I don't knoww" was the reply. He seems
to be a pedlar. He has a pedlar's cart."
"See! he has only one leg," said Emma.



"Oh, that is Gordon," said Lucy, who had
been drawn to the window by Emma's inquiry.
"Don't you know him?"
"He calls at our house very often. Mother
usually buys something from him, because she
pities him."
"That is true," said Mrs. Dennis. "He
had one limb taken off two years ago, and he
has been obliged to take this way of supporting
his family. He is an honest, deserving man,
and Mr. Dennis and I make it a point to buy
from him when we are in want of anything
he has to offer."
By this time Gordon had reached the door.
Mrs. Dennis went out into the hall to inquire
if he had linen handkerchiefs. Ascertaining
that he had some, she proposed to go out to
his waggon, and invited Aunt Fanny to go with
her. Aunt Fanny declined, on the plea that
she was not in want of anything in his line at
that time. Mrs. Dennis went out to the wag-
gon, followed by Emma and Lucy, who felt a
natural curiosity to take a peep at the pedlar's
stock in trade.
After Mrs. Dennis had made her purchase



and returned to the house, the cousins still
stood by the cart, examining a pile of muslins
which had attracted their attention. They
were soon joined by Mr. Dennis.
"What are you looking at, girls?" he asked.
"At these muslins," said Lucy.
Anything pretty there ? "
"Yes, sir; some of them are very pretty."
"Well, girls I'll tell you what I'll do," said
Mr. Dennis, with a mischievous twinkle in his
eye. "I will give each of you a dress, on one
"What is it, father?" asked Lucy, eagerly.
That the dresses shall be alike. You must
both agree to choose one from the same piece."
"Agreed," said Lucy. "But I wish Aunt
Fanny and mother were here to help us to
"Take them all into the house," said the
pedlar. This suggestion was easily followed,
as the entire assortment did not comprise more
than half a dozen pieces.
They were soon laid upon the sofa in the
parlour, and one after another drawn over the
large easy-chair to mark the effect. A
brown and a buff were thus displayed,


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