Front Cover
 Half Title
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 Work for all, or Patty Grumbler...
 The sister guardian
 Brave Bessie, or the epiphany...
 Back Cover

Group Title: Work for all and other tales : : Work for all, or, Patty Grumbler and her grandchild, The sister guardian, Brave Bessie, or, the Epiphany lesson
Title: Work for all and other tales
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00026569/00001
 Material Information
Title: Work for all and other tales Work for all, or, Patty Grumbler and her grandchild, The sister guardian, Brave Bessie, or, the Epiphany lesson
Alternate Title: Work for all, or, Patty Grumbler and her grandchild
Sister guardian
Brave Bessie, or, the Epiphany lesson
Physical Description: 4, 215 p., 3 leaves of plates : ill. ; 18 cm.
Language: English
Creator: C. E. B
Thomas, William Luson, 1830-1900 ( Engraver )
Evans, Edmund, 1826-1905 ( Engraver )
Seeley Jackson & Halliday ( Publisher )
John Childs and Son ( Printer )
Publisher: Seeley, Jackson, & Halliday
Place of Publication: London
Manufacturer: John Childs and Son
Publication Date: 1872
Edition: 6th ed.
Subject: Girls -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Wealth -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1872   ( lcsh )
Prize books (Provenance) -- 1872   ( rbprov )
Bldn -- 1872
Genre: Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Prize books (Provenance)   ( rbprov )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
Statement of Responsibility: by C.E.B.
General Note: Illustrations engraved by W. Thomas and E. Evans.
General Note: Baldwin Library copy contains prize plate printed in colors.
Funding: Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00026569
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002222441
notis - ALG2686
oclc - 58844073

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Half Title
        Page i
        Page ii
    Title Page
        Page iii
        Page iv
        Page v
    Table of Contents
        Page vi
    Work for all, or Patty Grumbler and her grandchild
        Page 1
        Page 2
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
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        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
    The sister guardian
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
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        Page 189
        Page 190
    Brave Bessie, or the epiphany lesson
        Page 191
        Page 192
        Page 193
        Page 194
        Page 195
        Page 196
        Page 197
        Page 198
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    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text






INThe Baldwin -bray




=----,,, --.[v:'" ------ld i11
"'ii '' i l

i Ii I I ,i







BY C. E. B.,





THE following tales have been written at the request
of a friend of the author, who has much at heart the wel-
fare of young girls in the lower ranks of life.
Their purport is to show that wealth and position
are not requisite accompaniments to usefulness. The
cottager's daughter may, by her energy and sympathy,
cheer the path and lighten the sorrows of others as
effectually as though she occupied a loftier sphere. And
all may rest assured that whether their lot in life be high
or low, rich or poor, God has placed within their reach,
according to their power of action, abundant




GRANDCHILD .. .. ... 1

THE SISTER GUARDIAN ... ... ... ... 87





" Honour to those whose words and deeds
Thus help us in our daily needs,
And by their overflow,
Raise us from what is low."-LoioGE-LLOW.



ONE bright clear evening in January, a troop of neatly-
dressed girls, between the ages of ten and fifteen, might
be seen proceeding to St Mark's Vicarage, in the town
of Hanbury, their animated countenances showing that
something of unusual interest was expected.
They were received by Miss Merton, the Vicar's sister,
who had invited her Sunday school class to the then
novel amusement of a Christmas tree. Another well-
known and pleasant face also greeted them on their en-
trance. Mrs Phebe Edmonds, as she was called, though
a person not much above their own rank, was one uni-
versally looked up to and beloved by the young people;
and as she was the constant dispenser of the Vicar's
charity, and a valuable assistant to him in many ways,
they were not surprised to see she had been invited by
Miss Merton to aid her on the present occasion. By her
they were conducted to a well-lighted apartment, where a
substantial tea was being prepared, after which the won-
ders of the tree were exhibited, and, unlike anticipated
1 *


marvels in general, the reality exceeded expectation.
But when its gifts were distributed to the delighted
gazers, and, though apparently without any previous ar-
rangement, proved to be precisely what each girl most
wanted, it seemed to'them little short of magic! For in-
stance, Ellen Durnford had often longed for a workbox,
having never yet risen to a higher state of things than a
neatly made print bag. To her surprise and pleasure one
completely furnished was placed in her hand. Fanny Tur-
ton's prayer-book was minus several leaves, and one side
of the cover. Had a shopful been placed at her disposal,
she would have chosen the very one of which she sud-
denly found herself the possessor! Rachel Fenn's hat,
though never allowed to be in holes, had been mended so
often that the straw could scarcely be persuaded to meet
together in some places. It looked sadly shabby on its
peg in the school-room every day by the side of those of
some of the girls whose parents were better off. Poor
Fanny had more than once heard very disparaging re-
marks upon it, which she had felt to be unkind because
it was no fault of hers. She had little thought what that
beautiful tree would provide for her! Nothing less than
a new well-made brown straw bonnet with a good ribbon of
the same colour; and as Miss Merton tied it on her head,
Phebe Edmonds placed on her shoulders a warm woollen
cape that had been pinned as a parcel inside the crown.
It would have been worth while to have watched the
child's countenance for a minute or two, so full was it of


joy and surprise-but there was no time, for the coloured
tapers were rapidly getting lower, and the tree had still
much to bestow. Not only had every girl an appropriate
present for herself, but round the foot of the tree lay a
number of packets which proved to be tea and sugar.
These Miss Merton distributed amongst the young people
that they might each one have the pleasure of giving it
themselves to any poor neighbour they chose, and she
trusted by so doing she might enable some at least
amongst them to remember others in the midst of their
own pleasure, and to lead them to enter into the spirit
of our Saviour's words, "It is more blessed to give than
to receive."
That the poor need not consider this saying to apply
only to the rich none felt more truly than Phebe Ed-
monds, who for years had been accustomed to save some-
thing for others out of her scanty means. As she escorted
the young folks to their own homes that night, she was
glad to see how greatly some of them appeared to prize the
pleasure of having it in their power to bestow the little
gifts which Miss Merton's kindness had provided, upon
ieighbours who were yet poorer than themselves. Even
little Rachel Fenn spoke with a delight that seemed to
exceed what she had felt on becoming possessed of her
new hat and cape, of going next morning to an old woman
who lived near them and surprising her with the tea and
sugar; for she said she knew she never had anything but
tea-leaves to make her tea from, and no sugar at all.


The cheerful party gradually diminished as one girl after
another arrived at her own home, till at length only Mary
Grey and Mrs Phebe were left together, for their houses
lay at some little distance. Mary had been very quiet since
they left the Vicarage, but now that she found herself
alone with her kind friend, for Phebe had known her from
a little child, she unburdened her mind of its thoughts.
Don't you think, Mrs Phebe, it must be very pleasant
to be a lady?"
"I dare say it is, Mary; I never thought much about
"I have been wishing I was one ever since we left
Miss Merton."
"Then you have been wishing rather a silly thing,
Mary dear. I should never have expected to find that
you were a discontented girl, with your comfortable home
and kind parents; you ought to feel yourself well off as
God has placed you."
And so I do, indeed," exclaimed Mary; it was not
that, but I thought if I were a lady how much good I
might do, just like Miss Merton."
"Oh, that is a very different thing. I was afraid
it was the large house and the servants, and those sort of
things, you were longing for. But, my dear girl, I think
it is not necessary for you to be a lady in order to do good
to others."
"Don't you think so ?" replied Mary, doubtfully;
then remembering how full of usefulness Mrs Phebe was,


who was not a lady herself, she added, at all events I
must be grown up first, and it seems a long time to wait,
for I am not quite fifteen yet."
But I don't think you need wait till you are grown
up, any more than you need be a lady, Mary. If you are
really and truly desirous to be of use to others, depend
upon it you may find ways and means, young and humble
in station though you are."
Mary looked incredulously at her friend, and the
moonlight was bright enough to let her see it.
Yes, Mary, I am sure I am right," she said, replying
to that look; "another day we will have some more talk
about it."
They were approaching Mary's cottage, and Phebe
was about to bid her good-night, when Mary said, "Do
you think, Mrs Phebe, you could show me something to
do ? I should be so glad."
"I cannot all at once mention any particular thing,
Mary, but I will think about it. Do you suppose your
mother could spare you to come and drink tea with me
some evening soon?"
"Yes, I am quite sure she will," exclaimed Mary.
"When shall I come?"
To-morrow night I must be busy," said Phebe,
"but on Thursday I shall be very glad to see you at five
o'clock. Bring your thimble with you, and you can help
me with some flannel petticoats Miss Merton has asked
me to make for a poor family. Good-night."


"Good-night, Mrs Phebe, and thank you; I will be
sure to come;" and Mary ran merrily up the little slip of
garden that lay in front of their house.
Their voices had been heard at the gate, and the door
was opened even before she could tap at it. Mrs Phebe
might well speak of Mary Grey's home as a comfortable
one. Few girls of her station were more blessed in this
respect, or had kinder and wiser parents.
Her father was a carpenter in constant work; JMrs
Grey was a clean, notable woman, who made her husband's
house what every wife should endeavour to have it,-a
bright and peaceful place of repose and enjoyment after
the day's toil.
They had but two children,-Mary and a little girl of
three years old. The former had been sent to both day
and Sunday schools at an early age, and the religious and
moral training she received there had been carefully en-
forced at home. Would that this were oftener the case
with parents Such promising characters as the open-
ing one of Mary Grey seemed likely to form into, would
doubtless be less rare than they are !
She had much to tell her father and mother of what
they had seen, and of Mr and Miss Merton's kindness
and liberality. The beauty and wonders of the Christmas
tree lost nothing by her lively description of it, and as an
earnest of the truth of her almost fairy-like tale she had
her treasures to produce.
Her own present had been a small green leather case,


containing every convenience for writing, which Miss
Merton had purposely contrived should fall to Mary's
share, because the written answers she expected to certain
questions every week were always so neatly executed by
her. When this had been duly examined, the disposal of
the tea and sugar was discussed.
Don't you think, mother, I had better take it to old
Patty Reed ? She is as poor as anybody we know, though
she is so cross and disagreeable."
"Do, Mary; it will be a real treat to her, poor old
soul. I passed her house to-day and heard her scold-
ing Lizzie terribly. I am afraid the child leads a wretched
life with the old woman, and that it is hardening her into
a rude, self-willed girl; her manners get worse and worse,
I think, and she is never fit to be seen, with her hair
about her ears and her torn frock."
"It's a pity she doesn't go to school, mother; she
would be obliged to mend her clothes there."
Yes; Mr Merton has long wished she could, I know,
but her grandmother won't hear of it; she says she can't
spare her, and indeed I don't see how the old woman could
be left alone so long together, for she gets very infirm."
Come, wife !. come, Mary !" here interrupted John
Grey, "you are forgetting how late it is!" So saying,
he opened the Bible, and the evening closed with the
family prayer, which Mary had never seen missed one
night in her parents' house since she had been old enough
to be allowed to join in it.



MARY GREY hastened over her breakfast the next
morning, that she might have time to run to Patty Reed
(or Patty Grumbler as she was oftener called) with the
tea and sugar before she went to school. Well did the
old woman deserve the name she had acquired. Nothing
ever seemed to go right with her. It had been so all her
life. She had never learnt the habit of looking at the
bright side of anything when young, and now she was
old it was ten times worse. She was always fancying
people were deceiving her, and that her lot was more to
be pitied than any of her neighbours'. Very few of them
ever cared to go and see one who did nothing but growl
and complain directly they entered; and consequently it
was one of her grievances that she was left so entirely to
the company of her grandchild Lizzie, who had lived with
her ever since the death of her parents some years before,
and who certainly was as unfavourable a specimen of
bringing up as could be seen anywhere. Sharp and
clever she was to an unusual degree, but the only use
these qualities had been to her hitherto was to enable her
to trick and outwit her grandmother when it suited her
purpose to do so. She did not bear a very good charac.


ter either for truth or honesty. Although no one could
exactly say why they would not trust Lizzie, there was a
universal feeling it would be safer not to do so. Her un-
tidy appearance, for not even on Sunday was she ever fit
to be seen, was sadly against her making friends amongst
the more respectable neighbours; and children of her
own age avoided rather than sought her, she was so mis-
chievous in her ways that they were sure to get into
trouble if they played together. In fact, Lizzie Reed was
in the really pitiable situation of one whom no one cared
for, and consequently who cared for no one. Her grand-
mother's infirmities had prevented her ever going to
school, and even church was a place almost unknown to
her. Yet there was much that was in reality good in this
poor neglected girl. Circumstances had been sadly
against the better parts of her character coming to light,
and each year seemed to bury them down deeper in the
hard and stubborn soil that was forming over them; but
that there was gold amongst the dross was subsequently
When Mary Grey reached Patty's cottage she found
it a wretched contrast to the clean, well-ordered home
she had just left. Patty was not down, but Lizzie was on
her knees before the fire-place, setting light to an untidy,
ill-made collection of sticks and cinders. As she blew
the fresh-lighted fuel into a flame with her mouth, the
clouds of dust that she disturbed from the only partially
cleared grate found a refuge amongst her hair, which hung


in disorder over her shoulders. Her frock was put on
hind-part before, for the convenience of being able to fasten
it herself; but those useful little articles, the hooks, having
for the most part disappeared, she had supplied their
place with pins. The room was exactly as it had been
left the night before, looking thoroughly uncomfortable,
and as though it would take a week's work to make it
decently clean and neat.
Lizzie's astonishment on seeing Mary at that early
hour was expressed in her countenance, but the latter
was the first to speak.
Good morning, Lizzie, I hope your grandmother is
No, she's not, she says; but what do you want ?"
I've brought her some tea and sugar that Miss Mer-
ton told me last night I might give to any one I pleased,
and I thought she would be glad of it."
That she will," replied Lizzie, rising from her knees
for the first time, and shaking back her hair from her eyes;
"how droll of you to think of bringing it here."
Can't you get your fire to light ?" said Mary, seeing
the last spark in the grate vanishing, and secretly feeling
a benevolent interest in the kettle boiling that morning,
for she thought a cup of good tea would surprise and
please even Patty Grumbler.
"No; I've been ever so long over it already, it's a
nasty bothersome grate that never will light, do what
one will."


"You have not cleared out the ashes from underneath,
and the sticks are all laid far apart," said Mary. "I don't
think it can very well light. Mother has always shown
me that I must let plenty of air come in at the bottom,
and you see that is quite choked up."
Lizzie looked as if she were doubtful as to the truth
of this theory, so Mary, asking her if she might show her
what she meant, took the poker, and clearing out a space
(somewhat to the detriment of her nice stuff dress), laid
the sticks on the top in the scientific manner well known
to clever housewives, and a few pieces of coal on the top
of them from an old box standing in the chimney corner;
then striking a match, the result was quickly one that
surprised Lizzie into a broad grin and an exclamation of
" La it won't do so for me."
Mary laughed. It will if you will do as much for it,
Lizzie. Now if you take away the ashes it will look quite
comfortable; shall I fill the kettle for you ?"
"It's too dirty for you to carry to the pump; I'll do
it," said Lizzie, and seizing the sooty article in question,
she rushed out of the door.
At this moment old Patty's voice was heard from the
room overhead, asking who was there.
"It is me, Mary Grey," said Mary; I have brought
you a little present."
"What is it, child ? Bring it up here, don't give it
to Lizzie."
Mary took up the tea and sugar and timidly ascended


the wooden ladder leading up to the only other room. It
was rather more tidy than the one below, though very
poorly furnished.
Old Patty lay in bed with her head covered up with a
half shawl to protect it from the draught that came from
the room underneath. Mary explained about her pre-
sent; the old woman held out her hand for it, and in-
stantly opened the tea at one end to examine it both by
sight and smell.
Tea, do you call it ?" she said, it seems more like
dust, but I suppose anything's good enough for me, Miss
Merton thinks."
"Miss Merton did not know it was for you," said
Mary rather indignantly, it was I settled to bring it to
you, for I thought you would like it."
"Aye, catch Miss Merton thinking of an old lone
body like me! I might starve and she wouldn't mind."
Miss Merton would let nobody starve if she knew,"
said Mary, she is good and kind to everybody; but I
must go now, or I shall be late at school. Shall I take
the tea down and tell Lizzie to make you a cup ? the ket-
tle will soon boil, I think."
"No, that it won't. Lizzie's always an hour get-
ting the fire to light, she can't do nothing like other
Mary was not sorry to leave Patty and her complaints.
As she reached the bottom of the ladder the old woman


called to Lizzie in an angry voice to make haste, and not
go on dawdling another hour. What should I do if that
were my home, and Patty Grumbler my mother," thought
Mary as she hastened to school. No wonder people have
given her that name. Poor Lizzie how I pity her "


MARY did not forget her invitation for Thursday even-
ing, which gave her mother almost as much pleasure as
herself, for she knew that her child could gain only good
from the society of such a woman as her she was
going to. She had not very far to walk. Mrs Phebe
lived in lodgings. They were small but extremely com-
fortable. The arrangement of everything showed order
and good taste. She had been housekeeper for many
years to a former vicar of the parish, who had left her a
small annuity at his death, which, with what she easily
earned by her needle, enabled her to live in tolerable
comfort, as well as assist some of her poorer neighbours
a little. But her sympathy with their troubles, the inter-
est with which she entered into all that concerned them,


and her soothing gentle way in a sick room, was what
they most prized, and gave her greater influence over
them than she could ever have acquired by mere money,
had she had it to bestow.
Her late master had left her various articles of furni-
ture, which gave her sitting-room rather a superior air
to what it otherwise would have had. A sofa and easy-
chair were luxuries Mrs Phebe would not have aspired
to; but as having once been her beloved master's, were
highly valued by her. The crimson moreen curtains
which had belonged to his study gave a warm and cheer-
ful appearance to her little apartment. True, they were
a good deal faded, and her landlady had more than once
suggested that dyeing would make them just like new
again. But for that very reason she did not have
them done. She liked them best in their old colour,
and as she had always remembered them. They were
drawn when Mary arrived. A bright fire burnt in
the grate, before which Mrs Phebe's tabby cat sat
bolt upright, purring and nodding at intervals, but
not yielding to the luxury of rolling herself round into a
sound sleep till she had had her usual saucerful of
milk from her mistress. The tea-things were on the
table, and as Mrs Phebe was not above keeping her own
things well polished, the little brass kettle and metal tea-
pot shone as they never would have shone if left to the
woman of the house, clean and tidy body though she was
in her way. The small white loaf and pat of butter had


a delicious appearance, and as Mary sat on the edge of
the easy-chair in which her hostess placed her, with the
shy feelings natural to the first half-hour-she thought
that even Miss Merton's room could not be more com-
fortable. But good kind Mrs Phebe was not one to be
shy with long, and before tea was half over her young
visitor was chattering with her usual ease.
"Now for the flannel petticoats, my dear," said Mrs
Phebe when tea was removed, producing from under the
sofa a work-basket well filled with garments of different
kinds in various stages of progress. I am anxious
to get these finished, the weather is so cold, and the
woman for whom Miss Merton intends them is very deli-
Mary's fingers set to work with the alacrity of one
well skilled for her age in the use of her needle. Mrs
Phebe's quick eye saw this in an instant.
You are accustomed to sew, I see."
"Yes, I mend all my own things, and make a good
many of them. Mother likes me to do them myself."
"Your mother is quite right. Now since she has
taught you to be so handy in this way, do you not think
you might work a little for the very poor sometimes?
You were wishing to be useful somehow to others, and
this would be just a thing you could do."
"I should like to very much," said Mary, her eyes
brightening with the thought; "if you will let me help
you, I will get as much done as I can every evening."


That would be giving more time to it than you could
properly afford, I think, my dear, for your mother must
have plenty for you to do with your own and your little
sister's things. But I dare say for one, or even two evenings
she could spare your time, and if so, you will be surprised
how much you will get through if you go on regularly. I
have a quantity of print and calico in that drawer, which
Miss Merton is going to give away-she has asked me to
get them made into frocks and under-garments. I can easily
find people who will make them for pay-but perhaps you
would like to give your time and your labour ?"
"And who are to have the clothes? inquired Mary.
Those who Miss Merton considers most want them,"
said Mrs Phebe. If you know any one in real need
whom you would like to work for, I am sure she will
gladly let you dispose of what you make yourself."
"I was thinking of Lizzie Reed," replied Mary. She
seems scarcely to have a tidy thing belonging to her.
Yesterday morning I took Miss Merton's tea and sugar
to her grandmother, and really Lizzie's frock seemed all
to pieces."
Unfortunately Lizzie has never been taught to mend
her things, and make the most of them. I am often
sorry for that girl. They are very poor, and I think a
new frock and one or two under-garments would be in-
deed well bestowed there."
"And I will make them," said Mary, "for I do not
think Lizzie could do them. Perhaps if she for once saw


herself neatly dressed she might try to keep so afterwards.
I really do think she is very much to be pitied; her grand-
mother is always scolding her, and she has never been to
school, and has no one to teach her how to do anything.
I tried to show her how mother taught me to light a fire
yesterday morning, and she seemed quite surprised that
done in that way it would burn up directly."
Mrs Phebe laid down her work, and took off her
spectacles. She had a way of doing this when she was
going to say anything very earnestly. "Now, Mary,"
she said, "here is some work for you which may be
more lasting even than the frocks. There is that poor
Lizzie not much younger than yourself, has lost both father
and mother, and has for years had no one to look after
her but her old grandmother, who spoils her temper and
makes her life miserable by her grumbling and discon-
tent. She has had no opportunities of learning to read and
write like other girls, and as Patty won't part with her
even to go to church, she has none of the religious advan-
tages they have constantly. What a different lot to yours,
Mary! It seems to me as if I might answer the question you
put to me the other night, 'Do you think you could show
me something to do?' by saying, 'See whether you
cannot show your gratitude to God for all His good-
ness to you, by trying to improve this poor neglected
"I wish I could," said Mary, the tears starting to her
eyes. I do feel very sorry for her. I am afraid though


my mother will not like me to see much of her, she is so
particular who I go with."
"And so she ought to be, Mary; but it is one
thing to associate with a girl like Lizzie as a companion,
and another to visit her sometimes in order to try
and teach her such things as she has had no means of
learning. Your mother is a sensible and good wo-
man, and will see this, I am sure. But talk to her
about it, for she is your best friend, and will help you
to judge how far you can be of service to the poor
Much more conversation passed, the good effects of
which did not cease with the hour. When Mary parted
from her kind friend, she thought how much she should
like to resemble one so excellent, and that at least she
might try to follow her example in looking out for op-
portunities of usefulness, however small.


MRS GREY cordially entered into Mrs Phebe's and
Mary's plan with respect to Lizzie Reed, though she
doubted whether much could be accomplished, owing to

her living so constantly as she did in the presence of her
grandmother, who, though apparently caring little for
her, could not bear to have her absent for long together.
"I must try and please old Patty herself first, I think,
mother," said Mary; "I feel almost afraid of her though,
she is so cross."
"You must put up with that and many other dis-
agreeables, I dare say, if you really try to teach Lizzie
anything, but you will be all the more glad if in the
end you succeed. I am afraid Lizzie herself is a rude,
troublesome sort of girl; whenever I have spoken to her,
she only turns away, or stares at me. But I don't wish
to discourage you, Mary. Girls can manage girls per-
haps better than grown people."
I have been thinking, mother, that if I make her a
frock the first thing and take it to her, it will show her
that I wish to be kind, so I will set to work directly, as
Mrs Phebe has given me the print for it. I think
Lizzie-is pretty much my size, though I am older than
she is."
So Mary set vigorously to work, and with her mother's
assistance cut out and made a dark lilac print dress; the
thoughts of the pleasure it would give Lizzie stimulating
her fingers to a pace that soon brought her labours to
a conclusion. Armed with it, she proceeded a second
time to Patty's cottage, but as it was the after-
noon, she had no hope of finding the old woman


in bed as before, which, considering the dislike she
could not help feeling for her, would have been rather
a relief.
She found her seated in the chimney corner in a low
rush-bottomed chair, watching Lizzie, who was employed
in ironing some clothes at a table on the opposite side of
the room.
"Good afternoon, Patty," said Mary; "I wanted to
speak t6 Lizzie, if she is not too busy."
"Busy! she's never busy, she's an idle slut, and
that's what she is. Look at them clothes, washed last
Tuesday, and not ironed yet! "
Lizzie looked sullen and made no reply, but said to
There's a chair yonder, if you like to sit down."
There was enough civilization in this speech to en-
courage Mary to say,-
"If you have a great deal to iron, perhaps you would
let me help you a little; I am not in a hurry."
Lizzie put down her iron, and turned round with an
astonished stare.
"Do you mean you'll care to help me ?"
"Yes, indeed I will, gladly; it is Saturday, so there
is no school, and mother told me I might stay a little
So saying, she rose, and taking an iron she saw heat-
ing, began to assist her with such good-will, that Lizzie


I can't think why you're so good-natured like all of
a sudden."
Mary laughed, and said, "Because I want to be good-
natured to somebody, and I wish it to be you."
Lizzie's stare was more astonished than before as she
"Now you're making game of me. Nobody never
cares nothing for me."
Mary was touched by these words, and still more by
the tone of voice in which they were said, and replied,-
Yes, I care for you, Lizzie; and I have been making
a frock for you myself-look here and she unfolded it
before her.
Well now, but if you ain't kind exclaimed Lizzy;
"look here, grandmother, Mary has made this for me her-
self, isn't it a beauty "
"It's more than you deserve," said Patty; "is it a
good print ? she added, holding out her hand for the
Miss Merton bought the stuff," replied Mary.
"Mother says it is a very good one, and will wash well."
Patty's inspection of its quality seemed to be satisfac-
tory, seeing she laid it down without finding fault. Mary
would have liked to talk more to Lizzie, but felt it impos-
sible whilst her grandmother sat listening and watching,
so they ironed in silence for a little while, and had nearly
finished when Patty growled out that Lizzie was to make
haste and fetch in some things that were wanted from the


shop. Mary was glad to have the opportunity of accom-
panying her that they might talk as they went along. So
when the last article was folded, Lizzie took up a basket,
and asked for money to make her purchases. This was
given with a suspicion and grudging, that made Patty
appear more than ever unamiable to Mary. She counted
out the half-pence for each thing, as though she ex-
pected Lizzie to cheat her. The girl seemed to take it as
a matter of course, and Mary's pity for her grew strong.
She could not help expressing something of the sort
when they left the house.
Lizzie did not seem to pity herself however in this re-
spect, for she only replied,-
"Granny thinks she's as deep as I am, but she's not;
I can trick her in the price of the butter, I know where
to get it cheaper than she said."
But," said Mary, "shall you not give her the difference
it makes in the money ?"
Now you don't think I'm such a goose as that! No,
I'll spend it on sucks, it'll only be a penny "
I wish you wouldn't, Lizzie, that's stealing after a
way; it's your granny's penny, not yours."
But granny won't be any the poorer, and I'll get the
Indeed it's wrong, Lizzie, though you try to persuade
yourself it isn't. Mother would explain to you what I
"I don't want no explaining to, I know what you


mean, but I dare say you often get pennies given you
and I never get one."
Mary felt how true this was, and as if it must seem
hard in her to blame Lizzie. Yet here was an oppor-
tunity of trying to turn her from doing wrong which she
must not suffer to escape.
She pondered an instant, and then a thought struck
"Lizzie," she said, "if you will not trick your grand-
mother, you shall still have your penny, for I have one in
my pocket I will give you."
What were you going to do with it? "
"Perhaps I should have bought sweets, but I would
rather give it to you."
"No, I won't have it," replied Lizzie, "thank you though
kindly." And she returned the penny with so determined
an air that Mary saw it was in vain to press it. Seeing
she looked disappointed, Lizzie added,-
"I won't take granny's penny though."
That's right, Lizzie; I'm sure you'll feel more com-
fortable when you tell her how you've spent the
"No I shan't; she wouldn't find me out, I've done it
lots of times; but I won't now because you don't like me
Mary felt that this was not quite the best reason she
could have given, but it seemed the highest Lizzie could
rise to at present.


Can you read or write ? was her next question.
"No, how should I? I never had any schooling."
Should you like to learn? "
Yes, well enough, but granny won't ever let me go
to school, I know."
"Would she let me teach you? I should like to, and
would come to your house to give you a lesson as often
as I could, every Saturday I have plenty of time; and
we might do some writing too."
Lizzie looked so really pleased at the idea, that Mary
was sufficiently encouraged, though her only exclamation
La will you really now ?"
A good deal more talk followed, and before they
parted, it was settled that Mary should give her first
lesson the following Tuesday on her way from school in
the afternoon. Mary went home and told her mother
what she had undertaken, and Lizzie proceeded to make
her purchases, nor was there one half-penny not honestly
accounted for to her grandmother of what she had given
her to lay out.



IT is only those who have tried it that can have any
idea of the pleasure there is in beginning to live for
others. Although Mary Grey was by no means what is
called a selfish girl, she had hitherto been simply indus-
trious at school and obedient at home, helping her
mother in whatever she was bidden. Such is the history
of many a well-principled girl, and as far as it goes it is
good and encouraging, But as year succeeds year in
early youth, and young people begin to feel that child-
hood is being left behind, it is well they should remem-
ber that our Saviour's injunction, Love thy neighbour as
thyself," applies to the age at which they have arrived as
well as to an older one. Riches and influence are not
necessary to carry it out. There is probably no respect-
able girl of Mary Grey's class, who, if she were to con-
sider what it is in her power to effect towards the welfare
of others of her own age, would not be surprised to find
how largely she might contribute to their comfort or im-
provement. They who have once felt the blessedness of
having their minds directed to this point and have tried
to act upon it (and we know some who have, even in
childhood), will not need to be urged on. But unfortun-


ately it is a matter little thought of in general, or is re-
garded as not coming within the range of youthful duties.
It is in the hope of arousing the attention of our readers
to the subject that we record the simple yet earnest efforts
of Mary Grey to benefit the ignorant and despised Lizzie,
hoping that they may consider the results in her case as
sufficiently encouraging to induce them to "go and do
Mary soon found that the task she had set herself was
in some respects a difficult and trying one. Lizzie,
though a quick clever girl, had lived in such untu-
tored habits both of mind and body, that she either
could not or would not apply steadily to the drudgery of
learning. She was desirous of possessing the power of
reading and writing, but hated the trouble necessary for
its acquisition. Then again, old Patty, though she ac-
quiesced in the plan, hindered it to a most provoking
degree, by vociferating from her chimney corner to Lizzie
about things that had no connection with what she was
about; thus distracting the attention of both teacher and
pupil whilst the lesson was going on. Once or twice
Mary was almost tempted to give up in despair, but the
alacrity with which she saw the proposal would be se-
conded by Lizzie, who persevered chiefly because she
wished to please Mary, recalled her to the recollection
of what her mother had said,-" That there would be
many disagreeables in her way, but she would be all the
more glad if she succeeded in the end." So she returned


to the charge again and again, and at length succeeded
in making her repeat and write the alphabet correctly.
From that time matters began to improve. Lizzie was so
charmed at the sight of her own letters (albeit they were
none of the most elegant) that every spare moment found
her, pen or pencil in hand, forming them on anything that
fell in her way. Then came the spelling of her own
name, which she soon accomplished with a facility that
surprised Mary, till she discovered that the walls, table,
and even the chairs, were covered with Lizzies of every
possible size and dimensions. The step from this feat to
the reading and writing words and putting them together
was rapid in comparison to what the commencement of
the affair had been, and Lizzie's interest was now as fully
aroused as her teacher could desire.
Almost imperceptibly too, at first, but very decidedly
as time went on, the girl's dress changed to a less slatternly
appearance. Her hair was rarely seen hanging over her
face on the days on which she expected Mary to give her a
lesson, and her frock was neatly hooked straight down
instead of pinned over in any zig-zag direction that suited
the convenience of the moment. Little white collars
now generally gave a finished neat appearance to the
dark print dress round the throat. It was a sign of the
times that the red-framed looking-glass had been brought
from up-stairs and hung over the bench in the back
kitchen where Lizzie's ablutions were usually performed.
Not a sign, be it understood, that she was growing vain,


for no human being could have been freer from that weak-
ness than herself,-but the virtue of cleanliness was be-
ginning to assume an importance in her eyes to which it
had hitherto been a stranger. The same gradual yet
visible improvement went on in the state of the cottage.
Lizzie had learnt to light a fire easily now, and as
Mary sometimes peeped in on her way to school in the
morning, and was sure to give a glance at the grate
as she said "good morning," Lizzie did not like her to
find it untidy and choked up with the ashes of the day
before. She was beginning to love her too dearly not to
try and please her. She felt this all the more because
Mary never tried to speak to her with any authority, or
reprove her for what she wanted to see different. But
she told her how her mother did things, and how com-
fortable their house was in consequence, till she persuaded
her to try and make theirs the same; so Lizzie com-
menced the attempt by way of pleasing Mary, and ended
by effecting it to satisfy herself.
Another trial in Mary's way was the observations
made by her companions on her notice of Lizzie. They
were astonished that she should be so often at her house,
devoting to her the best part of her Saturday afternoons,
and some of them did not hesitate to remark on what
they called her low taste. When she explained that she
was teaching her to read and write and work better,
there was a good deal of laughing at her expense, and


hints thrown out that she wanted to set herself up as
somebody, and to lord it over Lizzie. There was one
girl in particular, Sarah Dallas by name, who tried to
persuade the other girls that Mary's love of power and
rule was the motive that actuated her to take such pains
with her. She had her own reasons for disliking Mary Grey.
Sarah was idle and careless to a degree that often brought
upon her the reproof of the schoolmistress, and on one
occasion she had been detected bringing a story book to
read on the sly in class, when only the week before this
breach of the rules had been most severely commented
upon by Mr Merton himself, to whom complaint had been
made that some of the elder girls were in the habit of
thus offending. It was then intimated that any one again
doing so would not be allowed to go to Miss Merton's
Christmas tree, which was being anticipated with great
anxiety. Notwithstanding what had been said, Sarah Dal-
las soon after was seen by her neighbours in the working
school with a book hidden under the large-sized piece of
work she was engaged upon, which she was contriving to
read whilst the mistress believed she was engaged only
with her needle. No notice was taken by the other girls
till Mrs Jeffrey was called away; then several expressed
their disapprobation, and none more earnestly than Mary
Grey, who entreated her to put it aside. Sarah refused,
saying there was no occasion, for she could both work and
read at the same time, and that she was not afraid of Mrs


Jeffrey seeing the book, so cleverly as she contrived to
hide it. Mary replied to this speech of the ill-principled
girl rather indignantly, and Sarah was answering with
anger, when Mrs Jeffrey entered and insisted on knowing
what was the cause of the talking and of Sarah Dallas's
angry looks. None of the older girls would reply, but
on Mrs Jeffrey appealing to one of the younger children
the truth came out. Mrs Jeffrey found the book in
Sarah's lap, and she was at once struck off from the list
of those who were to go to Miss Merton's tree. Instead
of seeing how entirely the blame was her own, she ac-
cused Mary Grey of being the cause, as having caused
her detection by her "preaching." Mary was very un-
happy, and went herself secretly to Miss Merton and
begged her to overlook the matter. But Mrs Jeffrey
would not second her request; Sarah was too trouble-
some and deceitful a girl to make it wise to do so, and
thus the affair ended, as far as Sarah's punishment was
concerned. But from that time she began a sort of petty
persecution towards Mary, never letting an occasion slip
of representing her as considering herself better than
others, laying down the law, &c. Mary's natural character
was so entirely the opposite of this that it did her no harm
with her companions; but Sarah saw that she shrunk from
ridicule, and was delighted to have found a way of annoy-
ing her. She had a few partisans of her own class, and
from these the words "Mary the preacher," "Mary the
fault-finder," &c., would reach her ears when saying her


lessons to Miss Merton on Sunday, who had no idea
why the colour should so suddenly rush over her face,
and her words be stammered in repeating what she
evidently knew. It may readily be imagined how gladly
Sarah would seize on the circumstance of Mary's exerting
herself for Lizzie's good, and twist it into a case of love
of power and domineering, and in proportion as her
gentle spirit winced under the spiteful remarks and inu-
endoes that Sarah threw out, the latter delighted in re-
peating them.
Had Mary Grey's desire in what she was doing been
praise from others, she would, with her sensitive dis-
position, scarcely have stood proof against these annoy-
ances, and Lizzie would have been gradually left again to
herself, her ignorance, and her cross grandmother. But,
almost unconsciously, a higher motive was at work. The
wish to do something for others had been aroused in her
heart; and He, without whom we cannot even think a
good thought, was leading her on to know something of
that true charity which beareth all things, hopeth all
things, endureth all things. So Mary persevered with
Lizzie, and bore Sarah's unkindness with meekness.
Then there was the brighter side of the picture. If
there was shade, there was sunshine also. Lizzie's na-
tural disposition was most affectionate. Under a rough
exterior lay a heart which required but the touch of kind-
ness to show that it had stores of love and gratitude
ready to be called forth by circumstances. Mary's interest


in her aroused these qualities with a force and warmth that
grew stronger and stronger as time went on. Even grumb-
ling Patty began to look on her with complacency, and to
associate her with the increased comfort that had arisen in
the cottage since she had first tried to improve Lizzie in
the art of tidiness and method. Not only was there a
bright little fire every morning when she came down, but
the kettle was generally boiling, and the tea-cups set
ready for breakfast. The room was no longer left till the
middle of the day to be swept, and then only done because
a scolding from her granny obliged Lizzie to obey. The
table and dresser were subject to sundry scrubbings utterly
unknown to them before, and their complexions were be-
coming as fair under the new system as nature originally
intended them to be. There was a sad dearth in the cot-
tsge of conveniences, such as shelves, pegs, &c. But the
landlord, a sullen, cross-grained man, obstinately refused
to put them up. So Lizzie's shawl and bonnet were still
doomed to be thrown on the first vacant spot, and the
saucepans and other such articles, though not very numer-
ous, were too many for the only place intended for them.
They had to put up with their old quarters on the floor,
to the detriment of Lizzie's dresses, which showed sooty
saucepan and kettle marks much more easily than form-
erly, seeing that they were now regularly washed every
week instead of just as it might happen. Lizzie was less
perplexed than Mary how to manage, saying, they must
just go on as before, there was no help for it." But


Mary resolved there should be help, and going to her
father with the difficulty, coaxed him into coming one
evening after working hours and putting up a long deal
shelf in the little back kitchen, and a row of pegs in the
sitting-room. He did not get many thanks from Patty,
who, though secretly pleased, was too much of an habitual
grumbler not to complain that the hammering made her
head ache, and that she didn't believe Lizzie would ever
use them, except Mary was by to see she did. Lizzie's
awkward but honest gratitude however pleased him, and
made him look round to see what else his tools might
effect for her comfort. After various small repairs, he
walked home with his daughter, and gladdened her heart
by expressing an interest in poor Lizzie, and promising
to make a little book-case, which she should give her for
a present on her next birthday; Lizzie's attainments in
the reading line promising to become such before long as
to make a place for books desirable.
Another and a more serious subject lay on Mary's
mind respecting her protegee; and this was that she
was seldom or never able to go to church, old Patty's
infirmities making it undesirable she should be left long
alone. After much thought, she settled on a plan for al-
lowing her to go every Sunday afternoon if her parents
would consent to it. She had always been in the habit
of attending three times herself, after morning and after-
noon school, and again in the evening with her parents.
She thought she might contrive for Lizzie to go in the


afternoon by undertaking to sit with old Patty, who was
not likely to make any difficulty now she had become so
accustomed to Mary's presence, she being a decided
favourite with her. Her parents made no objection, and
were pleased with the idea of Lizzie's being enabled to
attend divine worship regularly, but Mary hoped to ar-
range more than this. She wished her to have the
privilege of Miss Merton's Sunday afternoon instructions
to her class, which she had for so many years enjoyed.
She confided her wishes to Mrs Phebe. That good
woman was watching Lizzie's progress in civilization and
education with great interest, and was ever ready to en-
courage Mary with her advice. She at once entered into
her plan.
"I will speak to Miss Merton about it, my dear," she
said, "I am sure of her consent to Lizzie taking your
place in her class in the afternoon."
Mr and Miss Merton were so much pleased and in-
terested in what Mrs Phebe told them about Mary and
her pupil, that they sent for her and expressed their ap-
probation, and it was settled that Lizzie should have the
offer of going to school before church.
"I am sorry to lose you, Mary," said Miss Merton,
" but I consider that the hour will be as profitably spent
by you in enabling Lizzie to partake of the instruction
which has long been yours. The injunction Freely ye have
received, freely give,' applies to this case as much as if it


were money you had to bestow, and will be as favourably
regarded by God as alms rendered by those to whom He
has given riches. If, as I believe is the case, you are
denying yourself a pleasure for Christ's sake, of you it
may be said you are obeying His command to 'give alms
of such things as ye have.' "
Mary's heart beat high at these words, but not because
she was elated with praise, and thought she was doing
great things. Never had she felt more conscious of her
own weakness and unworthiness than as she walked away
from the Vicarage. She feared Miss Merton thought far
higher of her than she deserved, and the tears rose to
her eyes as she remembered how great had been the
struggle of her mind before she had brought herself
to give up her treasured hour with Miss Merton and
spend it in listening to cross old Patty's grumblings.
"God loveth a cheerful giver," said she to herself, and
Miss Merton and mother and Mrs Phebe all think I am
one. They cannot see my heart and know as He does
that I thought about this long ago, but would not pro-
pose it because it was disagreeable to me; Lizzie has lost
several services and hours of Miss Merton's instructions
through my selfishness.
Her face looked so grave when she arrived at home
that her mother scarcely expected to hear Miss Merton
had consented to the wished-for arrangement. When,
however, her daughter came out of her little bedroom to


tea not a trace of the slight cloud was visible. She had
confessed her short-comings to Him who could bear with
and pardon them, and Who would accept her offering,
small and humble though it was, and made in much
weakness and imperfection.


LIZZIE was well pleased with the proposal that she
should go to church every Sunday afternoon, and was
grateful to Mary for arranging it. But her countenance
fell at the idea of the school.
"I should like to go," she said, but I am so ignor-
ant, and have such poor clothes. The other girls will
only laugh at me. No, Mary, thank you kindly, but I
think I'd rather not."
Never mind being ignorant, Lizzie. Miss Merton
knows it, and won't ask you questions; she will only tell
you things, and talk to you with the rest, so kindly.
Then about the clothes, Mrs Phebe and'I have settled all
that. Mother and I are making you another dress, a
nice dark blue merino one, and it is to have a large cape of
the same, lined with flannel, which you can take in or out


according to the weather. Miss Merton gave us the
stuff. Then you are to have a new straw bonnet with
some dark blue ribbon on it. Mother wishes to get you
that, and as your granny bought you a new pair of boots
lately, you will be quite as well dressed as any girl there,
so you need not fear being laughed at."
Lizzie's face had brightened up wonderfully as Mary's
speech proceeded. I'm sure I can't say thanks enough,"
she said. "I tell you what, Mary, if there was just any-
thing I could do for you I'd be happy, but I feel all chok-
ing with your kindness;" and Lizzie burst into tears of
pure heart-felt gratitude, sobbing out, There's nothing
I can do but love you!"
Mary felt almost inclined to cry too, but she said
cheerfully, "Indeed, Lizzie, you are making me very
happy by taking so much pains about everything. I don't
know what I should do without you, it is so pleasant to
see you getting on with your reading and writing."
Patty made no objection to Mary supplying Lizzie's
place with her on a Sunday afternoon, so it was settled
she was to go to school the following Sunday, and as she
still shrunk from the first appearance there, Mary per-
suaded her mother to go on that one occasion to Patty
whilst she accompanied her, Lizzie declaring that after
this she should be willing to go by herself.
No mother's anxiety on her daughter's first appear-
ance in public could have been greater than was Mary
Grey's over Lizzie Reed on the occasion of her taking


her place amongst the girls in Miss Merton's class. She
was quite aware she would be eyed with curiosity by all,
and disdain by some, and she was resolved that she
should appear perfectly neat and properly dressed for her
station. The dark blue dress was finished on Saturday,
and the bonnet trimmed with its curtain and band of
ribbon by Mary's own hands. Out of. her pocket-
money she had saved enough to purchase a pair of
gloves, as she knew the absence of them would cause
remarks, and poor Lizzie had never in her life had a pair
on her hands.
She and her mother went to Patty's house after their
early dinner on Sunday, the latter to remain there whilst
the girls went to school. Lizzie was ready, looking so
nice in her new dress and bonnet that a stranger would
scarcely have recognized the modest tidy-looking young
person with her well-brushed hair braided under her
simple bonnet-cap, to be the same Lizzie who used to be
so often seen with it streaming behind her, and her dress
matching the hair in its arrangement.
The gloves however were a trouble to her. "Must
I wear them, Mary ?" she asked, as they walked along.
" They make my fingers tingle; I can't bear them; do let
me pull them off;" and Lizzie gave a tug at her left glove
with her right hand.
To Mary's relief, who had had the trouble of getting
them on, the glove refused to yield to the pull, though by
no means a gentle one.


"No, don't take them off, Lizzie, try and bear it,
you'll soon get used to them ; all the other girls will have
them on, and I want you to be like the rest."
"I'll wear them," said poor Lizzie, with a sigh, and
evidently feeling that for the present she had taken leave
of her old comfortable fingers for a set of entirely new
and disagreeable ones; "I'd do more than that to please
you, Mary."
"Yes, be sure and please preaching Mary," said a
girl at that moment pushing past, who had overheard the
last words, and Sarah Dallas ran on in front with a com-
panion, looking back however, and saying loud enough
for them to hear,-
Mary's in her glory now, with her pupil by her side.
Shan't we have fine airs to-day ?"
"What is that she's saying ?" asked Lizzie, in utter
ignorance of her meaning, yet seeing by Mary's height-
ened colour that it was something unpleasant connected
w:th her.
"Nothing of any consequence," replied Mary; Sarah
often says rather disagreeable things, but it is no use to
mind them. We must come on quick, Lizzie, or school
will have begun," and they walked on at a pace that
prevented any further remarks about Sarah Dallas.
Miss Merton received Lizzie with extreme kindness.
She saw she was feeling shy and awkward, and that
she was aware every eye was fixed on her with a stare of
curiosity. She placed her between herself and Mary,


and at once called the girls' attention from her by com-
mencing work. It was her habit to read aloud to them
of an afternoon, explaining and commenting as she pro-
ceeded; Lizzie had therefore only to sit and listen like
the rest, or if questions were asked, Miss Merton took
care to put them in such a way that she should see no an-
swer was expected of her. When school was over, she
kept Mary and Lizzie back for a few minutes, and spoke
with great kindness to the latter, saying she hoped to see
her regularly, and that if she went on as she was doing
at present, she should find she had a friend in her as well
as in Mary.
From this Sunday began a second and new era in
Lizzie's history. Her attendance at the afternoon school
was punctual and regular, and her attention to Miss
Merton's teaching so great that the lady was much grati-
fied. Without seeming to do it on Lizzie's account,
she so managed her instructions to the class in general,
from the first Sunday of her coming, as to carry them
through a course of simple Scripture teaching such as
most of them knew, but none could be the worse for hear-
ing again. This soon brought Lizzie, who was particularly
quick, to be more on a par with the others, and before
many weeks were over, if a question were put to the girls
generally, none was more likely to answer correctly than
Lizzie Reed. The extreme disadvantages under which she
had been brought up, and the pains Mary was taking
with her, gave her a great interest in both Mr and Miss


Merton's eyes. This was noticed by Sarah Dallas, whose
inattention made her by no means a favourite; indeed
such had been her conduct on several occasions, that she
had run great risk of being dismissed from the school.
Although Sarah cared little how she stood with her elders,
her dislike to Mary made that feeling extend to Lizzie,
and she could not endure to see the notice that was taken
of her. As Mary never was with her when she came to
school, she had not the satisfaction of throwing out the
insulting speeches which she knew so greatly discom-
posed her. But she did not hesitate to try and annoy
her second-hand by attacking Lizzie in various ways. For
instance, she drew the attention of some of the girls to
her dress, and then after admiring the colour, asked her
who had given it to her? Then turning to her bonnet,
made the same inquiry, and said she was thankful she
was not obliged to go trying to please people in order to
get presents so as to be fit to be seen. Her unkind re-
marks had however little effect on Lizzie, so long as they
were only thrown at her. Straightforward herself, she
scarcely could understand hints and inuendoes.
But at last, Sarah showed her dislike so openly one
day that Lizzie's indignation was fairly aroused.
It happened that the two girls had entered a shop to
purchase such things as are to be found at small de-
p6ts. There were a great many customers, and they
had to wait for a time. Others came in, for it was Satur-
day, always a busy day at such places, and Lizzie was


gradually obliged to stand further and further in, till she
was almost behind the counter. A woman from the
country had been buying some tea and sugar, for which
she laid down half-a-crown as payment. A moment after
she remembered something else she wanted, and was
about to add the money for it to the rest, when it was
found the half-crown had vanished! In vain the counter
was searched, and the floor likewise, though it could
scarcely have fallen without the noise having been heard.
The woman kept declaring she was certain she had laid it
down, and the man who served her said he had cer-
tainly seen her do so. The affair was unpleasant and
mysterious. The woman was unwilling to pay a second
time, the shopman not disposed to let her go away without
doing so. His wife, who was in another part of the shop,
came forward. Sarah Dallas, to whom she was well known,
whispered a few words in her ear which caused her to
look towards Lizzie, who was standing close to the end of
the counter where the half-crown had been laid. What-
ever the whisper was, it had been heard by others, for
she suddenly seemed the object of general attention.
And the wife, going behind the counter, said something
in a low voice to her husband, which caused him, also, to
glance suspiciously at her.
"I say, Lizzie Reed," said he, why have you taken
into your head to stand so uncommon close to the
counter ? That's the place for them as takes money, I'm
thinking, not for them as gives it."


Lizzie did not detect the double meaning implied in
these words, and replied simply,-
"I was pushed up here when I came in, there were
so many behind me."
I suppose then you saw the half-crown put down ?"
"Yes I did," replied she, "it was placed by this
piece of cheese."
His wife now came forward, saying,-
If you know so well where it was, perhaps you can
tell us where it is now."
"I know no more than you do," exclaimed Lizzie,
who began to see by the looks around her that she was
suspected, and the blood rushed indignantly to her face.
"Who says I have taken it? is it you, Sarah Dallas ?"
she added, for she saw her nodding and making mysteri-
ous grimaces to the shopwoman.
Sarah laughed aloud. What makes you suppose I
lay it on you?" she replied; "is it because you know
you can't deceive me with your new ways as you do some
others ?"
I deceive no one," said Lizzie passionately. "And
I am sure you are trying to make them think I have
stolen the money only because you don't like me. I
should like to be searched," she said eagerly to the shop-
man. "I brought only fifteen-pence into the shop, and
now that you think I have taken the half-crown, I want
it to be seen whether I have it about me."
There was a pause for an instant, and then the coun-


trywoman said, She would much rather lose the half-
crown than have any more said, for she didn't believe
the girl had touched it. Perhaps it would turn up, and
in the mean time there was another."
But Lizzie was resolute. "If it is not found," she
said, Sarah will tell every one that I am a thief; I want
it to be seen I am not."
At this moment the shopman, who was obliged to
serve an impatient customer with some cheese, placed
the slice he had just cut off in the scales. As he did so
there was a metallic sound, and on lifting it up to
examine the cause, with a sudden suspicion of how the
case stood, he found the half-crown had stuck to the
bottom of the cheese, which was soft and decayed, thus
proving he must have himself placed it heavily down
upon it. As it adhered to the bottom it was not seen in
the search that had been made by lifting things from the
The tide was instantly turned against Sarah, and in
favour of Lizzie. The shopman and his wife at once
expressed their regret that she had been suspected, and
the latter said it was Sarah Dallas' fault, who had whis-
pered to her that she had seen Lizzie leaning with her
arm on the counter in a very strange manner, the
moment after the half-crown had disappeared. A cry
of Shame! shame! arose from those around, and one
loquacious dame did not hesitate to give Sarah not only
a severe scolding for trying to ruin the character of an


innocent girl, but a pretty sharp push as she pressed
by her to get out of the place that was getting too un-
comfortable to remain in. Lizzie became the heroine
of the moment, especially with the countrywoman, who
had been indignant from the first at her having been
suspected. She waited for her outside the door, and they
walked together as far as their roads lay the same way.
Her kindness a little soothed poor Lizzie, who had felt
deeply the cruelty of Sarah Dallas, and longed to tell
Mary what had occurred.
Patty had the usual complaints ready when she returned
at her having been too long away, and there was so much
to do before going to bed, she had not time to dwell on the
scene in the shop, but that she had an enemy in Sarah she
was now assured; nor, if she had searched into her heart,
would she have found that her own feelings towards her
were either amiable or forgiving. Poor Lizzie had yet
much to learn of the sinfulness of her own heart, and
she lay down that night, having repeated the words
of the Lord's prayer certainly, but without feeling that
she had forgiven, or wished to forgive, them that had
trespassed against her.



IT happened that Mrs Phebe's landlady was in the
shop when the half-crown was lost, and she had con-
sequently been witness to the whole affair, and had related
it to Mrs Phebe when she returned home. Vexed for
the pain Lizzie had been put to, and angry with Sarah
for her disgraceful endeavour to injure her, she thought
it right to mention it to Miss Merton the next day, who
was extremely shocked, and sending for Sarah, spoke to
her with more severity than she had ever done before,
constantly as she had had occasion to reprove her. She
found the girl was sullen and dogged, giving no sign
whatever of contrition, nor did she do so after Miss
Merton had represented to her how great was the sin
she had committed, in trying to fix a charge of theft
on an innocent person. She at length said that, till she
was really sorry for her fault, and had told not only her-
self but Lizzie that she was so, she should not allow her
to come to her class, and desired her to take her place
in a much lower one. This was a great mortification to
Sarah, but her countenance as she left was more ex-
pressive of temper than sorrow.
Lizzie was astonished when she passed up the school-


room in the afternoon to her own place to see Sarah
removed to the other end. She had no idea that Miss
Merton had heard of what had occurred, and when that
lady on her arrival informed the girls that misconduct on
the part of Sarah Dallas had obliged her to remove her
from her class till such time as she was contrite and
grieved for her fault, Lizzie had no suspicion that she
herself was so closely connected with her disgrace. Her
inward feelings on hearing of it were known only to her-
self and God who searcheth the heart. But perhaps there
was something in her countenance which made Miss
Merton choose for her lesson that afternoon the example
set us by our blessed Saviour in His forgiveness to His
enemies, and she exhorted all present to search their
hearts and see whether, if they had been injured in any
way, they could bless them that persecuted them, and
pray for them that despitefully used them. She was
more earnest than usual, and Lizzie's attention was
completely riveted. She had never before thought on
this subject; it was a new light opening upon her that
she was to love her enemies. How could she love Sarah
Dallas ? How pray for her who had been so cruel? Yet
had not Miss Merton just been describing how Christ
had prayed for His murderers even when in all the agonies
of the death to which they were putting Him; and how
much smaller had been the offence Sarah had committed
against her Lizzie was quick in her perceptions, and


she could catch something of the exquisite beauty and
grandeur of the Divine love of which Miss Merton had
been speaking in glowing language. Perhaps a faint ray
of it illumined her own heart as the first class filed down
the room, for no look of exultation was on her countenance,
nor did she even raise her eyes as she passed close to
where Sarah stood, thinking it might be painful to her
to be noticed.
From that time Sarah studiously avoided Lizzie; no-
thing seemed further from her thoughts than to tell her
she was sorry for her unkindness, and it was a bad sign
that before the following Sunday she had persuaded her
parents to let her give up going to the Sunday school at
all. Lizzie's character continued steadily to improve
under the valuable instructions she received from Miss
Merton and the good influence of Mary Grey's friendship.
Even Patty, though she still found fault with her inces-
santly, owned she wasn't like the same girl as before
she knew Mary. The old woman was not only far more
comfortable than formerly, owing to Lizzie's greater
thought for her, but she was less discontented with
everybody and everything. Mary used to spend her
Sunday afternoons with her in reading the Bible aloud,
and such simple tracts as Mr Merton thought suitable.
At first she seemed indifferent, and unable to acquire the
habit of listening, but by degrees her attention was
aroused, and she would lean forward as Mary sat on a low
stool by her side with her shrivelled skinny hand over


her ear, that she might catch the words more distinctly,
sometimes stopping her to ask for some passage that she
could not quite follow, to be repeated. Lizzie also was
now able to read to her, and the last hour of most even-
ings was spent in this way. Mr Merton made them a
present of a large Bible, which Patty valued greatly; at
first because of its appearance on the little book-case
which Mary had given to Lizzie, and afterwards from the
real pleasure it gave her to hear it read.
About a year and half after Mary Grey had begun
to be interested in Lizzie, Mr Merton announced that
the Bishop of the diocese was going to hold a Confirma-
tion, and requested such young people as were of a
proper age to send in their names to him. Mary was
now more than 16 years of age and Lizzie about 10
months younger. Their names were both amongst the
candidates, but that of Sarah, who was as old as Mary,
was not on the list.
Sarah Dallas is of an age to be confirmed," said the
Vicar to his sister, "but she has not entered her name."
"I am not surprised," replied Miss Merton. That
girl has baffled all my efforts to do her good, and since
she has given up the school I have of course lost what
little influence I had over her, which however I fear con-
sisted only in her dread of losing any pleasure that might
be going forward. She has never forgiven me for dis-
missing her my class till she should acknowledge her un-
kind conduct to Lizzie Reed."


Do you suppose," said Mr Merton, "that she still
feels her old dislike to Lizzie ?"
Yes, I am afraid she does, from what Mary Grey
told me the other day. She says she does not show it
openly because they are seldom thrown together, but that
she will never lose the opportunity of being disagreeable
to both her and Lizzie if it comes in her way."
"Perhaps the preparation for Confirmation may be
the very means of arousing better feelings in her heart.
Unfortunately her parents are such as will not second
one's own efforts for her good. They rarely come to
church themselves, or insist on their daughter doing so."
A. day or two after this conversation, Mr Merton
called at Sarah's cottage, and as he happened to find the
girl alone he at once spoke to her on the subject of the
She replied rather pertly that she supposed of course
she had better do as others did.
Mr Merton was not satisfied with her manner, and re-
solving to have some private talk with her before he re-
ceived her with the other candidates, he requested her to
call at the Vicarage on the following evening, at seven
Sarah looked as if she would rather avoid the inter-
view, but, not daring to refuse, promised to go, and Mr
Merton took his leave.
From her he passed on till he came to Patty Reed's
little cottage. It was a strange contrast to what he once


remembered it when going his pastoral rounds. Clean
and orderly now as any he ever entered, he looked about
with approbation, and said to Lizzie, who was busily em-
ployed with her crochet needle when he came in,-
Why, Lizzie, this is not like the same house I used to
see once on a time; you have learned to be as tidy as
Mary Grey, I think."
Lizzie coloured with pleasure as she replied,
"It was all Mary Grey's doing, sir; she taught me
She is a good girl, Lizzie, and you have cause to be
grateful to her, and to God who put it into her heart to
take such pains with you. Where is your grandmother ?"
She is in bed, sir, very poorly indeed."
"Will she like me to go up to her? "
"I am sure she will, sir; she begins to like to be
spoken to, and to hear the Bible read now, since Mary
Grey took to reading to her every Sunday."
Now you are alone, Lizzie, I want to say a few words
to you on a subject that in the prospect of your Confirma-
tion becomes of great importance. You know that that
sacred rite should be followed by a participation in the
sacrament of the Lord's Supper, on which subject I shall
hope to have much conversation with you hereafter; but
one thing I wish to be sure of, namely, that there is no ill
will in your heart towards Sarah Dallas, who I am aware
once tried to injure you."
Lizzie crimsoned. She thought Mr Merton must


have penetrated into the most secret corners of her
heart. Sarah had aroused angry feelings on that evening
long ago, the sin of indulging which had on the following
day been put before her so forcibly by Miss Merton.
She had struggled with them then, and often since, but
little vexations at different times from Sarah had produced
them again. True they did not often meet except in the
street, but many a scornful look and taunting word she
had had to endure. She could not hide from herself that,
notwithstanding her resolution not to be angry, there
lurked a feeling of resentment within her which ought
not to be there, and when Mr Merton put the unexpected
question, whether she felt any ill will, she was conscious
that she could not truthfully reply in the negative.
Mr Merton did not press her further. But he talked
as his sister had formerly done on this subject, and
showed how she might make this very trouble, for such
she confessed it was, a means of honouring God by trying
to imitate the example of His Blessed Son in His forgive-
ness to His persecutors. His words were not lost on
Lizzie. Whilst he was up-stairs with her grandmother,
she searched deeper into her feelings than she had yet
done. The scrutiny showed her how uncharitable they
were towards Sarah, and she had been too carefully
taught latterly not to know where to turn for help to
struggle against them. Nor did she seek it in vain.
Sarah went to the Vicarage at the appointed hour,
and Mr Merton, after a few remarks on the subject of


Confirmation, led the subject to that on which he wished
to prove her, namely, her feelings towards Lizzie Reed.
He told her how pained he and his sister had been by her
refusal to confess her fault some months before, which
had obliged Miss Merton to send her from her class.
"And then, Sarah," he added, "your anger and pride
of heart made you even leave the school rather than ac-
knowledge you had done wrong. Nor is that all. I much
fear that although you may not again have dared openly
to show your dislike to Lizzie, you have suffered it to
rankle in your heart, and perhaps let her see it in
other ways."
Sarah remembered her many looks and hints at Lizzie
as she had found opportunity, and her conscience at once
led her to rush to the conclusion that she had been telling
Mr Merton about her, for she had seen him go in the di-
rection of her cottage when he left her the day before.
Her anger rose, her heart hardened towards her more
than ever, and she replied sullenly,
I do not like Lizzie Reed, and I don't care if she
knows it. I suppose she has been telling tales of me ? "
"No, Sarah, Lizzie has told me nothing. She never
even mentioned your unkind conduct to her in the shop,
I heard of it from entirely another source. It is yourself
alone who have given me cause to suppose your feelings
towards her are not such as they should be."
Sarah pouted, and muttered loud enough to be heard
that Lizzie was getting quite a proud upstart since she


had been made so much of,-then added more boldly, for
Sarah was not deficient in pertness,
Lizzie Reed is nothing to me, sir, and I don't want
to have anything to do with her."
"But it is my duty to tell you, Sarah," replied Mr
Merton, "that in one sense you have a great deal to do
with her. She is one to whom you have shown unkind-
ness, and when your fault was pointed out to you you re-
fused to acknowledge it. Now although months have
passed since then, you still remain unrepentant, and with
your heart full of resentment towards one who has in no
way injured you. In this state of mind, how could I pre-
sent you to the Bishop as fit for Confirmation, and how
could I afterwards admit you to the Holy Communion?
No, Sarah! you must be led if possible to see your fault,
and to humble yourself before God, asking Him to soften
your heart and bring you into a different state of mind
towards Lizzie. His grace alone can effect this, but His
grace is all-sufficient for the purpose, and will be given to
you if you seek it with a real desire to obtain it. Come
to me at this hour next Thursday, and we will talk to-
gether again on the subject."
Sarah left Mr Merton with an air that gave him little
hope his words had taken any good effect. She went
home and complained bitterly to her parents that Lizzie
Reed had done all in her power to set Mr Merton
against her, in order that she might stand well with
him herself. That he had been telling her she was


not fit to be confirmed because she couldn't like an ill-
mannered low sort of girl, who, till Mary Grey took it
into her head to set her up, wasn't fit to be seen with
any decent person. For her part she didn't care about
being confirmed. If it were necessary to be so very good,
why she didn't profess to anything of the sort, and would
leave it to such girls as Mary and Lizzie, who perhaps found
it worth their while to try to seem better than others.
Her mother was wrong and imprudent enough to
take her daughter's part, and consider she had been ill-
used. The result was, that instead of following Mr
Merton's advice, and asking to be brought into a better
frame of mind, Sarah told him on the following Thurs-
day when she went to the Vicarage, that she had quite
made up her mind not to be confirmed, and that her
parents did not wish it either.
"Nor can I wish it in your present hardened state,
Sarah; but have you thought what is to become of you
if you continue thus ? Have you considered that you
are throwing away privileges which may never again
be offered? If you turn away from the blessings that
might be yours, you are provoking God to remove you
perhaps beyond the reach of them. Remember that
the same cause which prevents you from being fit to be
confirmed, or to presume to approach the table of the
Lord, unfits you also for death, and who can say, however
young they may be, that they are sure of life? "
Sarah's look in reply was one of such pert confidence,


that it might be supposed she felt sufficiently sure on the
subject as far as she herself was concerned. Finding he
could do no more with her at present, Mr Merton sent
her away, trusting that God might lead her to repentance
in His own good time.


IT is pleasant to turn from Sarah Dallas to Mary Grey
and- Lizzie, whose preparation for the approaching rite
was a happy period to both. Mr Merton was quite satis-
fied by subsequent conversations with Lizzie that she was
struggling with any resentment she might feel towards
Sarah, though he was not aware how completely, as the
weeks passed on and her mind became more and more
under the good influence of his teaching, she succeeded,
by God's blessing, in eradicating what had lurked in her
mind against her. Her great desire now was to try and
make Sarah feel more kindly towards her, and she saw with
pain that, on the contrary, she appeared more disposed
to dislike her than ever. Of what had passed between
her and Mr Merton, and of the reason why she was not


amongst the candidates for Confirmation, she was quite
ignorant. How to conciliate her she knew not, for she
was aware that she would probably meet with a repulse
if she were to speak to her. At length a circumstance
occurred which suggested the idea of offering her a little
present which she hoped might be acceptable.
The art of crochet had been for some time much
practised in the school, and Miss Merton was often in
the habit of lending the girls patterns for collars; and
also of disposing of their work for them amongst her
friends for a higher price than they could get in the
shops. Sarah, having now left the school altogether,
had no longer this advantage. Mary had taught Lizzie to
crochet, and she took to it with such a remarkable degree
of skill, that she soon excelled many who had learnt for
years. Miss Merton having called on her one day and
seen some of her work, not only offered to sell it for her,
but to lend her a collar to copy, which she thought she
was capable of executing, though it was somewhat ela-
borate. She charged her to be very careful and
keep it as clean as possible. Lizzie's skilful fingers set
to work, and she was busily engaged when a girl
named Letty Vernon came in, and after admiring it,
"Why this is the very collar that Sarah Dallas was
copying when she left school! She has always wanted to
go on with it."


"I am sure Miss Merton would lend it to her," said
Lizzie, "she is so good-natured. I shall soon have finished
with it."
"But I know she wouldn't ask her for the world,"
said Letty; Miss Merton isn't pleased with her."
An hour or two after, Letty appeared again.
Lizzie," said she, "will you let me take that collar
away for a little time ? You shall have it back quite
"Indeed, Letty," replied Lizzie, "I mustn't, Miss
Merton told me to be so very careful of it, and I don't
think she would be pleased if I let any one have it with-
out her leave. I am very sorry, but you shall have mine
to copy from directly I have finished it."
It is not for myself, but for Sarah Dallas,"
said Letty; "she asked me to come and try to bor-
row it."
Lizzie felt really vexed to be obliged to deny Sarah
the first request she had ever made her, but she was
quite sure she had no right to lend what was not her
own, and was firm in her refusal. Letty, who was a great
friend of Sarah's, was annoyed, and showed it by saying,
"Sarah said she knew you would not oblige her in
anything! and she left the house.
Lizzie pondered for some time as she sat working;
she could not bear things to be left so, for she feared
Sarah would mistake her motive for refusing. Suddenly
a thought struck her. "I will finish my collar and ask


her to accept it from me," she said to herself. She
will see then that I bear no ill-will towards her." The
idea was pleasant, and her fingers quickened their pace, so
that the collar was soon completed. She felt rather
timid at the thoughts of taking it to Sarah, being doubt-
ful how it would be received. Not liking to go to her
house, she folded it in paper and put it in her pocket,
intending to- watch for an opportunity of giving it.
That very afternoon as she was on her way to the Vic-
arage to take back the pattern collar, she saw Sarah
approaching; she hastily drew forth her own as she sup-
posed, and stopping said, to the surprise of the girl, who
was passing her with her usual disdainful air, Sarah,
will you speak to me an instant ? I was very sorry I
could not. send you Miss Merton's collar the other day
when Letty Vernon asked for it."
"I might have known you would not do anything
good-natured for me," interrupted Sarah. "I was very
silly to let her go to you about it."
Indeed my only reason was, because Miss Merton
said so much to me about being very careful of it, and not
letting it get dirty; she seemed to value it so."
And why should I have hurt or dirtied it more
than you, pray ? I dare say I am quite as careful as you,
although Miss Merton doesn't like me as well, thanks to
your tales about me."
"Oh, Sarah," exclaimed Lizzie, indignantly, "I have
never said one word about you to Miss Merton; how can


you say such a thing and anger was beginning to rise
up fast and to whisper to her not to offer the collar.
But a better feeling rose also and struggled with it.
"I wish you would be friends with me, Sarah," she
said. Look, I have finished the collar, and though it
is not nearly so well done as the copy, it is exactly like
it, and I want to know whether you will accept it from
me for yourself."
She unpinned the paper at one end as she spoke, and
drew it out, but finding it was the wrong one, took out
the other and held it to her.
Mingled astonishment and shame for a moment were
visible in Sarah's countenance, that one she had tried to
injure should treat her so generously. But pride quickly
overpowered every other feeling, and she replied,
Since I cannot have Miss Merton's to copy for myself
I do not want the collar at all. I am not going to be
beholden to you for a present."
Again Lizzie managed to struggle with her wounded
feelings, and answered,
"Then if you will not accept it as a present, will you
let me lend it you as a pattern ? "
"No," replied the other, "if I may not have Miss
Merton's, I don't care for the other. You have it there,
why not let me take it for a day or two ?"
Because I am sure it would not be right," said
Lizzie. "I am going with it to the Vicarage now."


"I suppose you are afraid of losing favour with Miss
Merton," replied Sarah, as a tidy careful girl, such as
you think yourself now," and she laughed scornfully.
A scuffle between some rude boys, who ran up against
them, here separated the girls, and ended the conversa-
tion. Lizzie put her rejected collar into her pocket
It is to be hoped that the tears Sarah's unkindness
produced were shed more in sorrow than anger. When
she reached the Vicarage, she stood an instant outside
the door to take out Miss Merton's collar, and arrange it
neatly in the paper before giving it in charge to the
servant. What was her dismay to find only her own.
The empty piece of paper belonging to the other was
there, but not the collar She shook out her pocket,
examined the folds of her dress, all to no purpose. It
was gone Her distress may be imagined. She hastily
retraced her steps, but although not a crowded street,
it was scarcely likely she would find it if dropped. She
knew it was safe when she showed it in mistake for
the other to Sarah, and she remembered, as she
thought, distinctly putting them both back in her
pocket when the boys came rushing up against them.
Sarah had walked off instantly one way as she went
the other, so she could know nothing about it. She
turned into one or two shops and told her trouble. They
advised her to have a paper written, describing it, and


offered to place it in their windows. Poor Lizzie
walked away feeling quite bewildered with her sorrow.
How careless Miss Merton would think her! It was
such a handsome collar too, far more so than most of
those she was in the habit of lending the girls. She felt
she could scarcely presume to offer her own in its place,
for it was not so well done, and it might appear like a
liberty in her to do so. She had not courage to go back
at once to the Vicarage, but walked sadly to Mary Grey's
cottage arid mentioned her trouble. Mary urged her to
lose no time in telling Miss Merton; so she went, and with
much distress explained to that lady the misfortune she
had met with. Miss Merton, though of course vexed, saw
that poor Lizzie felt far more about it than she did, and
told her not to trouble herself further. She, however,
questioned her closely as to the manner in which it had
probably been lost, and in so doing the whole story of
her having wished to give Sarah her own collar was
drawn from her. Miss Merton was more pleased at this
than concerned for her collar, but her bad opinion of Sarah
was unavoidably increased. At Lizzie's entreaty she
wrote one or two notices that it had been dropped, offer-
ing a small reward to any one who should bring it to
the shop in which the paper was placed. As she gave
these to Lizzie she said,-
"You do not think it at all likely that Sarah knows
anything about it ? she did not take the collars into her
hand, did she ?"


"No, ma'am, she never touched them. She cannot
possibly have had anything to do with it. I can only
suppose I dropped it when some boys ran up rudely and
parted us. They were fighting and scuffling together, so
it might have fallen under their feet, without my seeing
The papers were puxt into the shop windows, but no-
thing more was heard of the missing article.


ABOUT a week after the loss of the collar, old Patty
was taken seriously ill, and a very few days showed that
her end was approaching. Lizzie was indefatigable in
her attendance upon her. Cross as her granny had al-
ways been, she felt in the prospect of losing her, that
she was her only relative, and when she was gone,
she would be left alone in the world. All her scoldings
and her grumblings were forgotten now, and she hung
over her pillow with a yearning towards her Pho had
never felt before.
Mrs Grey and Mary helped her to nurse Patty day
and night. The poor old body showed that real affection


existed in her heart towards her grandchild, by her
anxiety as to what would become of her. She had been
servant in her youth and middle age to a lady to whom
she had been faithful, and who had left her an annuity suf-
ficient to keep her in tolerable comfort. On this she had
subsisted; but it would of course cease at her death, and
Lizzie be left entirely dependent on charity or her own
exertions. Patty's penuriousness had been almost pro-
verbial. Many had been provoked with her for denying
herself and her grand-daughter almost the common ne-
cessaries of life when it was known she could afford
But how often are motives mistaken And under
an unpleasant surface how much good is sometimes
hidden! So thought Mrs Grey, when one night as she
was sitting up with the old woman, who was drawing
near her end, she asked her to put her hand under her
pillow and take thence a small bag. On opening it
at her request, she found within money to the amount
of 23, which she said she had in the course of years
saved for Lizzie against the time when she would be
left entirely an orphan. "It was all I could do for
her," said the old woman; "I never allowed myself any-
thing I could go without, or she would have been penni-
less at my death." She then asked Mrs Grey if she and
her daughter would continue to befriend her. She spoke
gratefully of the comfort Mary's Sunday afternoon read-
ing had been to her, and thanked Mr Merton for his


visits in a way that greatly touched him. He had a good
hope that a ray of Divine light illumined the soul of the
poor creature in her last days, great as was the darkness
into which it had to penetrate !
And so old Patty passed away, and Lizzie was left
alone, feeling how gladly she would now listen to the dis-
contented words and oft-repeated scoldings, which had
become a mere matter of habit, but were hushed for ever
in the grave at last !
What is to become of that poor child Lizzie ?" said
Mrs Grey to her husband after supper the night succeed-
ing Patty's death. My heart aches to think how lonely
she is in the world, for however cross her granny used to
be to her sometimes, still she was her grandmother, and
after all. there's nothing like kin. That the old woman
loved her in her own way she showed by pinching herself
to save for her. I suppose the girl must go to service at
once, for she should not touch her little store of money if
it can be helped."
"John Grey was leaning back in his three-cornered
arm-chair, smoking, as his wife spoke. He gave whiff
after whiff, and seemed as though he had not heard
a word, but was looking with a sleepy gaze at a
bit of soft coal lying between the bars, which every
now and then, being filled with a super-abundant
quantity of gas, emitted a jet of bright blue flame,
then as suddenly withdrew it and looked dark and
black as before. His wife spoke again. "Poor Lizzie !"


she said; "what a thing it would be, John, if our Mary
were to be left as she is Supposing she were, I wonder
whether any one would be kind to her, and give her a
home for a time?"
John puffed on; the coal continued to send forth its
little bright blazes; and he seemed more absorbed in
contemplating it than ever. Mrs Grey, nevertheless, felt
pretty sure that her 18 years' experience of her good man's
character was sufficient to tell her he did not see that coal
at all, but was thinking of just what she had been trying
to draw his mind to. She was mistaken this time, how-
ever, for John was looking at the coal, and thinking of it
"Wife," he began at last, do you see that bit of
coal? how it flames out every instant, and how dark and
black it looks between whiles "
"Yes, I see it," replied M3rs Grey in a slightly dis-
appointed tone of voice, I wasn't thinking of it though,
but of poor Lizze."
"And I was thinking of Lizzie and the coal too,"
said John, giving a final puff, and laying down his pipe on
the hearth. I was thinking, wife, how that there bit of
coal is going on just like my heart. You would like to
take Lizzie Reed into our house for a time, and mother
her till something can be found for her, and you want me
to propose it, and to feel that it is only doing what we
should wish done for our own child if she were left in the
same way. I saw all that whilst you were speaking, and


my heart was going on just like that coal-one moment
blazing up warm towards Lizzie, and resolving she should
come here, and the next it turned cold and dark, and
thought it wouldn't be pleasant always to have another
person with us, making the home seem not our own.
Then came the blaze again, then the dark, till my heart
and the coal seemed having a race together. But I've
won, wife. My light is burning steady now, and please
God won't go out again. What's the use of reading the
Bible every night if one can't do as it bids one when the
right time comes ? We have enough for ourselves, and
for an orphan too, for a time at least, so let her come here
and be welcome, and her money be put into the savings'
bank at once for future need."
There! that's just like yourself, John," said Mrs
Grey, and her eyes glistened with tears, called forth, not
by her interest in Lizzie at that moment, but by the
honest pride she felt in her warm-hearted, simple-minded
husband. Our Mary will be glad to have the girl hero
now the Confirmation's coming on," continued she.
"They both seem taking after good ways."
"It has done our Mary a deal of good I'm thinking,
wife, looking after Lizzie so much as she has done for a
long time; and she keeps'steady to her like."
Indeed, John," replied Mrs Grey, I think it's im-
proved Mary almost as much as Lizzie in a way. She
used to be a bit giddy and thoughtless, forgetting things
I told her to do; but since she has tried to put Lizzie in


the way of managing well, it's wonderful how she has
begun herself to think, and be orderly in her ways. Liz-
zie's an affectionate-hearted girl, she's quite got about my
heart as well as Mary's."
So after the funeral Lizzie went home to John Grey's
house, where she was to share Mary's little room, and
assist her in her domestic duties. It seemed as if she
could never be doing enough to show her gratitude for
their kindness, and from the moment she came to them
she was so on the watch to render every service in her
power, that Mrs Grey laughingly declared, "if this went
on, she and Mary might as well turn into fine ladies at
once." Early as the latter was in the habit of rising, she
found the morning after Lizzie's arrival that she had been
earlier still; the kitchen fire being made, and the room
swept and dusted, before she could make her appear-
ance. Mary still continued her attendance at school,
so there were abundant opportunities for Lizzie to be
useful to Mrs Grey, both in household affairs and in
taking charge of her little girl, who was not in good
health, and required care.
The thoughts of both girls were now chiefly turned
towards the time of Confirmation, which was close at
hand. Many young voices dn that day repeated the
words by which they declared they took upon them-
selves the vows of their baptism. By some they
were uttered in carelessness, and with hearts more en-
grossed by the novelty of the scene around them than


by their own solemn part in it. Others there were who
endeavoured to fix their thoughts on what the Bishop was
saying, prayerfully seeking the realities of the blessing
he pronounced upon them. Amongst this last number
we may venture to include Mary Grey and Lizzie Reed.
The following Sunday the celebration of the Lord's
Supper was to take place. John Grey and his wife had
for many years been communicants, and they started
for church in good time, followed by the two girls. As
they passed down a street which led to the railway
station, they saw a number of people hastening in that
There is a cheap excursion to Fisherton to-day,"
said John, in answer to his wife's inquiry as to the
reason, "and this is about the time fixed for starting.
What a pity that so many are turning their backs on
public worship, and going probably to profane the Lord's
As he spoke, a party came running up, expressing
their fears lest they should be late. Amongst them,
dressed in a manner very unbecoming her station, and
talking and laughing loud, was Sarah Dallas.
"Oh father exclaimed Mary, see there is Sarah
Dallas going with the rest; how grieved Miss Merton
would be after all the pains she used to take with her."
She came up at this moment, and was passing by
without appearing to see them, when John Grey, who was
a plain outspoken man, stopped and said-


Why, Sarah my lass, surely you are not going off to
Fisherton on Sunday Have you forgotten all you learnt
in the Sunday school already?"
The rest of her party, except one, had hurried on.
John Grey and his wife had often shown Sarah kindness
formerly when as a little girl she used sometimes to go to
their house and play with Mary, and an involuntary feel-
ing of respect made her stand still as he spoke. She
coloured, and seemed ashamed for an instant, but her
companion came to her relief by saying, "Come along,
Sarah, or they will go without us," and hurried her off.
She, being only too glad to escape any further remon-
strance from John, ran as fast as she could go, and was
just in time to get into her place as the train started.
How differently were the next few hours spent by the
several girls. Sarah in the midst of a set of young
people who made open game of the church-going family
they had met, and passed the time as they sat in the
railway carriage in singing unholy and coarse songs; for
the party she was with, was one which hesitated not to
make fun of the most sacred subjects. Sarah was quizzed
about what John Grey had said to her, his words having
been repeated for the edification of the rest by the com-
panion who had remained behind with her. They pro-
duced a roar of laughter, in which Sarah joined, at first
uneasily, but before long she was as merry as the rest,
and even amused them by relating the history of her re-


fusing to be confirmed, and was rewarded by hearing
herself called a girl of spirit for not having been managed
by Mr Merton. Yet this conversation brought to her mind
what she would gladly have forgotten at that moment;
viz., Mr Merton's warning, "Remember, Sarah, that the
same cause which prevents you from being fit to be con-
firmed, or to presume to approach the table of the Lord,
unfits you also for death; and who can say, however
young they may be, that they are sure of life ? Often
had those words haunted Sarah, and now they rose up
before her at a time when the reproaches of her con-
science made them less welcome than ever. She could
not quite recover her former spirits, and was glad when
the arrival of the train at Fisherton changed the scene, and
drew the attention of her companions to other subjects.
And where were Mary and Lizzie at this hour ?
Conscious of their own weakness and sinfulness, tremb-
ling at the deep solemnity of the holy rite they were ad-
mitted to, yet clinging to a strength superior to their
own, and trusting to that love they were about to com-
memorate, they approached the table of the Lord, and
received from the hands of Mr Merton the sacred
food, which taken in faith and thankfulness would pre-
serve their souls unto everlasting life.



IT was a quiet and happy little party in John Grey's
cottage that sat reading round the table on the even-
ing after Mary and Lizzie's first communion. Their
book was the "Pilgrim's Progress," which next to the
Bible was John's delight, and every Sunday Mary read
it aloud to her parents.
"It's a wonderful book," said John as she closed it at
nine o'clock, the hour for their family prayer. "The
more one reads it, the more it seems to grow like one's
own history. You don't know what I mean by that, girls,
yet; you are only just setting out on your journey, and
have most of your battles to come. I am a good way on,
and have had some hard ones to fight, just as Christian
had, and shall have harder yet, may be, before I've done
with the enemy. You've got them before you, as I said;
but mark you," said John, folding his arms and look-
ing at them with his honest face lighted up with earn-
estness, "you have this day buckled on armour, which,
if you keep it bright and fit for use, will serve you in
good stead in many a pitched battle with Satan, and be
sure to bring you off victorious at last."
At this moment they were surprised by a tap at the


door, and on Mary running to open it there stood Mrs
Phebe Edmonds Though always a welcome visitor, her
appearance excited considerable astonishment at present.
She came in, but declined to sit down.
"I have brought sad news," she said, which will
greatly shock you all. A dreadful accident has happened
to an excursion train returning from Fisherton, and great
numbers are killed or injured. Sarah Dallas was one of
the passengers, and has been brought home dreadfully
hurt. I am going to see if I can be of any use, for I
hear her mother is in fits, and the neighbours are crowd-
ing in, no one knowing what to do. I called here to see
if you would come with me," she added to Mrs Grey, "for
I knew how clever you are as a nurse."
A general groan of horror broke from her hearers.
Mary Grey was obliged to cling to her father's arm for
support, and Lizzie's deadly pale face spoke her feelings.
Poor girl! poor girl said John Grey after a mo-
ment's silence. May God in mercy give her time for
repentance before He takes her away Get ready, wife,
you may be a comfort to her body and mind."
Mrs Grey was already pinning on her shawl.
"Don't sit up late," she said, "perhaps I may be
kept all night."
"I will walk with you," said John, and learn some
more particulars. We shall none of us sleep, I'm think-
ing, till we know more."
They set out, and Mary and Lizzie, putting fresh fuel


on the fire, crouched together in front of it in the shiver-
ing terrified state of nerves which so often follows a sud-
den shock of horror given at night. Neither of them
spoke much to the other, the subject seemed too dreadful
for discussion, with all its attendant circumstances; but
thoughts crowded one after another on their minds, and
many an ejaculatory prayer was silently uttered for poor
It was an hour before John Grey returned. He. had
not been able, he said, to learn any particulars concern-
ing the accident that could be relied upon. Some said
one thing, some another as to the cause. It seemed,
however, that the excursion train had left Fisherton much
behind its time, and owing, it was supposed, to careless-
ness respecting the signals, a regular train had run into
it when it was passing through the tunnel close to Han-
bury station. The amount of injury done was terrible.
Many had been taken to the infirmary. Sarah Dallas
was carried home by her own entreaty.
And did you hear any particulars about her, father ?"
asked Mary.
"I went to the cottage door with your mother and
Mrs Phebe," said he. There -seemed much confusion,
and as if there were no one to take a lead. I could hear
Mrs Dallas' screams as the door opened. Some women
were trying to quiet her. The doctor was not come when
I first got there; but he arrived in about a quarter
of an hour, and I waited outside to see if I could be


of any use. It was some time before he came out, and
then I ventured to step forward and ask what he thought
of Sarah. It was Dr Kennedy, so he knew me at once,
and said that he considered it a serious case. There is severe
internal injury he thinks, besides the leg being badly hurt
and several ribs broken. He was going to return with
another doctor as soon as possible. He said he was very
glad to find your mother and Mrs Phebe there, and that
he hoped they would remain a few hours to see how she
went on. I came home then, for I could do no good by
staying. You had better not sit up longer, girls, your
mother won't be home to-night, depend upon it."
They went to bed after commending poor Sarah to
the tender mercy of God, but sleep was almost un-
known to any of them. It was about eight o'clock
the next morning when Mrs Grey returned, looking pale
and fatigued with her night's nursing. In answer to their
anxious inquiries about Sarah she replied,-
"She is in a terrible state, both mind and body. It
has been a dreadful time. I have sometimes sat up nurs-
ing for three or four nights together and have felt less
fatigued than now. Her pain is such she cannot lie still
an instant, yet every move she makes causes increase of
it somewhere. The doctors say if she were of a more
placid easy temperament there might be a little hope, but
that her state of mind is enough to produce fever in itself.
Poor soul! she keeps asking if there is any chance of her
life, whether no one can save her from dying. Mrs Phebe


tried to turn her mind to think of Christ, and of His will-
ingness to save her soul if she would turn to Him-but
she kept saying in reply, Oh save my life make me
live and then see whether I will not do quite differently
to what I have done.' Another time she exclaimed,
'Oh that I had been confirmed Mr Merton told me
if I were not fit for that, neither was I fit to die. I kept
thinking of his words as I lay in the dark tunnel in that
dreadful agony; but I could have borne the pain; it was
my thoughts were the worst part, the dread of dying
there all in the dark with no one to speak to. I tried to
pray but I could not; no words would come; oh Mrs
Phebe Mrs Grey what shall I do ? That's how she
kept running on till six o'clock, when she fell into a sort
of sleep.. Mrs Phebe went home for an hour or so, and
then came back to let me off, for her mother is not fit for
"Oh mother," exclaimed Mary, bursting into tears,
"what can be done to comfort poor Sarah? may I run
and fetch Mr Merton to her ? "
"I went round by the Vicarage. Mr Merton was out,
he is going from one to another of the poor sufferers, but
Miss Merton said he would be sure and see Sarah, for
he had heard about her being hurt."
Mrs Grey did not remain long at home, for she knew
how her services were required in the sick room. When
she went back she found the doctors had been again, and
that they intended taking off the wounded leg in the


course of the day, as its appearance was becoming sus-
picious. Mrs Phebe said Mr Merton was with her.
I hope he may soothe her, poor thing," she remarked,
"for she is in a dreadful way about her leg coming off.
She has taken into her head she shall die whilst they are
doing it, and her mother makes her worse by her way of
going on-one moment wringing her hands and saying she
is going to lose her, and the next telling her she knows
she will get well, and that there is no fear, so that Sarah
does not know what to believe. I was quite glad when I
persuaded her to go and lie down a bit."
At this moment the door of the room where Sarah lay
was opened, and Mr Merton came out.
That poor young creature wants to see Lizzie Reed,
Mrs Grey," said he; "she has something on her mind which
she must confess, and ask her forgiveness for, before she can
have a moment's peace. She should be brought immedi-
ately, for it is possible her time may be short, especially
as the operation must in this case be a dangerous one."
"I will go and fetch her," said Mrs Grey, hastily
tying on her bonnet and leaving the cottage.
Mr Merton waited only to say a few words to Mrs
Phebe about Sarah, and then left, saying he would return
and see her again in the course of the day.
Mrs Grey soon returned with Lizzie. She left her in
the outer room whilst she went softly in to tell the suffer-
ing girl of her arrival, but reappeared almost instantly
and beckoned. Lizzie trembled all over, she dreaded


seeing Sarah, though she longed to try and comfort her.
The -room was partly darkened, and the bed curtains were
.drawn on the side next the door, so that she had a mo-
ment's time to recover herself. Mrs Grey was standing
at the foot of the bed, Mrs Phebe was seated near with an
open Bible in her hand. Mrs Grey led Lizzie round to
the side where Sarah lay.
Very awful was the change that had taken place in the
face of the bright blooming girl she had met only the morn-
ing before White as the pillow on which it lay, except
where several bruises and cuts disfigured the skin, and
expressing vividly the terrors of a disturbed mind, the
face of Sarah Dallas could scarcely be recognized. She
was burning with fever, and longing to toss about in
hopes of a moment's relief, yet not daring to move because
of the fresh torture she would create for herself in doing
so. A more melancholy picture than that which she
presented cannot be conceived. But great as was the
agony of her body, it was trifling compared to what she
was undergoing in her mind. She did not perceive Lizzie
at first, but exclaimed to Mrs Phebe, who was reading
such passages of Scripture as she thought would soothe
and comfort her,-
I can't listen, I can only keep on thinking think-
ing oh Mrs Phebe, ask the doctors to try and save me.
If I could but get well again and go to Miss Merton's
class, and be confirmed But I never shall now. I shall


die, I know I shall." Sobs and moans accompanied the
Here is Lizzie Reed, Sarah," said Mrs Phebe gently,
"you wished to see her."
Sarah looked up eagerly,, as, drawing close to her,
Lizzie said a few kind affectionate words.
So you have come to me, Lizzie Reed," she said; "I
want to speak to you alone."
Mrs Phebe and Mrs Grey immediately quitted the
room, and the girls were left together.
Can you forgive me ? she began again, I have been
so unkind to you."
Indeed, dear Sarah," said Lizzie, kneeling down
by her, "I have nothing to forgive, do not talk so."
"I have a great deal to tell you, Lizzie, but my head
is so bad I scarcely know where to begin. Do you re-
member that collar of Miss Merton's I wanted to copy ?
and how we spoke in the street about it? You lost it,
did you not, that day ? "
"I did," replied Lizzie, I think I dropped it."
Yes," said Sarah, you did, and I picked it up when
the boys were pushing each other. You had walked on;
I felt too proud to run after you with it, and then suddenly
the thought came into my head that I would hide it
away, that Miss Merton might think you careless. I
tried to persuade myself I should serve you right for not
letting me have. the collar. So I brought it home and


put it out of sight far back in a drawer, and there it lies
now. I saw the papers that were put in the shop win-
dows, and I knew how vexed you must be at having
lost it. Now, Lizzie, I have told you all, can you forgive
"Indeed I do, Sarah, with my whole heart, and I am
quite sure Miss Merton will, so do not think any more
about it. I am very sorry for you, and Mary Grey is
also, she asked me to tell you so."
Sarah gave a groan of anguish. Oh, that I were like
Mary Grey," she exclaimed. I always disliked her because
I thought her religious, and trying to be good, and I
laughed at you both yesterday because you were on your
way to church when we were going to Fisherton. It
seems all so terrible now that I am about to die "
But perhaps you will get better, Sarah, and then you
will go to church, and be sorry for having done wrong."
"No, I shall die, I know I shall," sobbed Sarah. Oh !
it is so dreadful They are going to take off my leg too,
and perhaps I shall not live through it. Lizzie, promise
that you will pray for me that I may not die, and ask
Mary Grey to do so also."
Lizzie had just promised, when Mrs Phebe came in
and said Sarah must be quiet now, and gave her a com-
posing draught. Lizzie went home and related her af-
fecting interview with Sarah to Mary.
An hour or two later the doctors came to perform the
operation. Her terror was extreme; not so much of the


pain, as lest she should die whilst it was going on. It
pleased God however to grant her yet a little space for
repentance. After the removal of the limb she became
somewhat easier in body, but not in mind. Her dread of
death seemed to absorb all her thoughts.
Mrs Phebe was unremitting in her efforts to lead her
to throw herself on the refuge of the cross of Christ,
and Mr Merton saw her constantly. Many were the
prayers put up for her by Mary and Lizzie, as well as by
John Grey in their family worship, that she might find the
peace she so sorely needed. And at last Sarah prayed
for herself. Broken-hearted and humbled to the dust, she
cried with her whole soul, "Lord, save me, I perish." By
degrees a ray of comfort broke in upon her, which was
followed by others as she began to be able to comprehend
in some measure that for such sinners as herself Christ had
died. It was hoped at first that her youth and good consti-
tution would enable her to struggle through the terrible
suffering she was enduring, but about a week after her
leg was taken off, the medical men saw that it could not
be. Poor Sarah's hours were numbered !
Mary Grey and Lizzie went often to see her by her
own request. Miss Merton spent some time with her
daily, and Mr Merton was indefatigable in his efforts to
prepare her for that end which all saw approaching. Life
ebbed slowly, and latterly without the racking pain that
had at first made her almost unable to collect her


A great change took place in her on Sunday, exactly
a fortnight after the accident, and on the evening of that
day she breathed her last, having lain in an unconscious
state for some hours previously.
And so ended the sad history, as far as this life is con-
cerned, of one who turned aside from privileges of which
she found the value too late, and who forgot that in the
midst of life we are in death Let us hope that her re-
pentance was accepted by Him whose mercy knows no


LIZZIE remained with her kind friends for half a year
after Sarah's death, and then she became anxious to be
no longer a burden to them, for although she was able by
her skill in crochet-work to make sufficient money to pay
for her clothing, she.could not do more, and John Grey
positively refused to touch a penny of the small store left
her by her grandmother. When his neighbours ex-
pressed their astonishment at his keeping her so long, he
used to reply,
"I have not missed' the little she has had; on the
contrary, work has appeared to be more abundant since



she came to us, and instead of feeling poorer we have
seemed to be richer. God has given me enough for the
wants of myself and my family, and* something over be-
sides for the orphan girl who has been led to us for a
Lizzie spoke to Miss Merton at last, and respectfully
asked her if she would aid her in getting into service.
It happened that the girl who assisted the cook at the
Vicarage was at this time going to leave, and Miss Mer-
ton was so pleased with all she had seen of Lizzie as well
as by Mrs Grey's report of her, that she offered to put
her into the vacant place. Nothing could have been
more desirable for her in all ways, and it was settled
that she should go to her new home in a fortnight. We
must not follow her thither further than to inform our
readers that Miss Merton never regretted having received
her into her family. Her anxiety to please and her na-
tural cleverness made her gradually become a favourite
with mistress and servants. In the course of a few
years she was promoted to the post of cook, and was soon
regarded as their most valued and trusty domestic by
both master and mistress. Her marriage with a respect-
able farmer alone removed her from their service. She
and Mary Grey used often to meet. Lizzie's love and
gratitude to her kind friends seemed to increase rather
than diminish as years went on. Mary Grey became a
schoolmistress, after having served her time as pupil-
teacher, and when she obtained a situation at some dis-


tance from her parents, they used to say they felt the
separation from her less than they should have done, had
they not had Lizzie at the Vicarage, who was almost as a
second daughter to them. Mary also became comfort-
ably settled in life in course of time.
Mrs Phebe still lives. The red moreen curtains are
more faded than ever. The tabby cat has been dead for
many years, and her place on the hearth-rug is supplied
by one of her descendants. The large work-basket is no
longer filled with work to be done for the poor, for Mrs
Phebe's eye-sight will admit of nothing but knitting stock-
ings now. She is old and feeble, calmly waiting her dis-
missal from a world where her great happiness has been
to try and soften sorrow by her sympathy, and to lead
others to know the happiness of doing some good in their
generation, whether the capability placed in their power
be great or small. She is never lonely in her old age.
There are many to watch over one who has so long cared
for others, and foremost amongst these may be found
our old acquaintances, Mary and Lizzie. The latter lives
at no great distance from her, and the former, when
she pays her yearly visit to her parents, never lets an
hour elapse after her arrival, before going to see this old
and valuable friend of her youth.


i. :111 111
I:I III ;j

1/1 II






,I* l




ABOUT forty miles south of London, in a well-wooded
part of the country, lies a town which was formerly of
little importance, but has greatly increased in size since
the erection of a paper-mill on the banks of the river
Win, which in this part winds its way between steep and
picturesque banks.
At first the inhabitants of Windale were rather indig-
nant at the erection of an unsightly building by their
beautiful stream, but before long they found that the
town was likely to be a gainer by it. The prejudice
which the lower classes had seemed to feel against the
idea of working in the mill, began to give way when they
found.families from other neighborhoods coming to settle
there, attracted by the high wages and the excellent ar-
rangements made by its respectable owner.
Gradually rows of small houses sprang up on the banks
of the river near the mill, which was situated about a mile
and a half from the town. Then was felt the necessity of
a new church and means of instruction for the multitudes of


young people who were employed in the business. Fresh
shops were opened, and thus business went on gradually
increasing, till the once humble town of Windale grew
into a place of some pretension.
One fine morning in June there was an arrival of a
cart-load of furniture at the door of a small house which
stood in a row near the mill. It was followed almost im-
mediately by a light conveyance, driven by a farmer-like
sort of man, who handed from it a delicate-looking widow
of middle age and a girl of about fifteen. A boy, two
years younger, had leaped out the instant the vehicle
stopped, and was in a moment employed in taking as rapid
a survey of the cottage as could be obtained by peeping
into the lower windows.
A few women came out of the adjoining doors to look
at the new comers, but for the most part the neighbour-
hood seemed deserted; for almost all, excepting those
who had infants or very young children, were at the mill.
This is the house, Mrs May," said the man who had
driven, "I hope it will suit you, it was the only one to be
"I have no doubt it will do very well," said the
widow cheerfully. She took care that neither William
Hemings nor her children should hear the sigh that arose
as she compared the formal town-built cottage before her
with the pleasant creeper-covered lodge in which she had
long lived.
It will seem a bit gloomy at first, I fear," said Hem-


ings, "but one gets used to everything. Now for the
key; they said it would be left next door. You ought to
find the house all well-cleaned down as I gave orders,
and if so we shall soon get the furniture lifted in."
The woman in the adjoining cottage now came out with
the key, and told them that the house was scoured from top
to bottom; and she volunteered her aid in taking in the
furniture and getting things straight. Towards evening,
when William Hemings returned home, he was able to in-
form his wife he had left them getting tolerably tidy.
But we must tell our readers something about Mrs
May and her children, and the circumstances which had
brought them to seek work at Windale Mill.
The early life of Mary Welton, afterwards Mary May,
was passed in different circumstances to those in which
we introduce her.
Her father had been a respectable clerk in a lawyer's
office, but her mother died, and this was the commence-
ment of misfortunes which seemed to follow him from that
time, and when Mary was about sixteen years old she was
glad to take a situation as under lady's-maid in a gentle-
man's family in the country. Her steady upright conduct
soon won for her the respect of her master and mistress,
and in their house she first learnt those lessons of practi-
cal piety with which in after days she strove to impress
the hearts of her children.
In process of time she took the position of nurse in
the family, and remained as such for about ten years,


when she married Stephen May, the head-gardener, with
the entire approbation of her master and mistress, who
settled them in the entrance lodge to the hall. Here
passed fifteen years of peaceful life, clouded only by the
loss of two infants.
When her eldest child Mary was about thirteen years
old, the family at the hall was broken up by the death of
its master, Mr Wynn. He left Mrs May an annuity of
10 a year as a mark of his esteem for her. Soon after, it
was arranged that the place should be let, and Mrs Wynn
and her daughters take up their abode on the Continent
for some years whilst the only son was being educated in
A tenant was soon found, who was glad to engage
Stephen May to continue in his post as gardener, and
reside in the lodge as formerly.
The loss of the family to whom she was so attached was
a heavy trial to Mrs May, but a greater was in store for her.
About a year later, Stephen May fell from a high
ladder, and was so severely injured in the head. that he
died in the course of a few days, leaving his wife and
children to maintain themselves as best they could.
Of course it was necessary to quit the lodge, and that
without much loss of time, for a new gardener had to be
appointed. Her 10 annuity, though a great help, would
not go far towards supporting them, and the widow's health
was too delicate to endure much hardship or labour.
It was in this dilemma that her daughter Mary, who,

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