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THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY,
56, PATERNOSTER Row; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYAIRD;
AND 164, PICOADILLY.
THE IUT ON THE HILL.
HE brake fern was turning yellow, the
leaves were falling from the trees, and
the breezes that blew over the hill-side
were beginning to have a winterly keenness
in them, which whispered unpleasantly that
it would not be long ere the heather and ling
on grassy slopes were covered with snow, and
the brooks that rippled by the foot of the hill
were turned to ice.
The very birds seemed to feel the threatened:
approach of winter, and hopped about dis-
consolately, or sat on the half-naked boughs
shivering. Indeed, at first sight you would
have thought that the birds were the only
living things on that hill, so far it seemed
from the haunts of men, and so wild and un-
inhabited did all the surrounding country
And so indeed it was. I doubt whether
there was any hamlet or village within five
or six miles of Ousel Hill; and though here
and there a one-storied cottage might be seen
peeping out from the clumps of trees which
dotted the landscape, the nearest one was too
far off for any person standing on the summit
of the hill to be able to notice any particulars
And yet, wild and uninhabited as Ousel Hill
appeared, when examined more closely, a tiny
building, which at first sight looked like a large
pig-sty, might be seen hidden away in the
remains of an old quarry. Its walls arc formed
of unshaped stones rudely fastened together,
and the roof is a thatch, so often mended and
so clumsily done that one can hardly help
thinking that a rough wind will carry it away
"No human being can possibly live there,"
THE HUT ON TIE HILL.
is the natural conclusion of any one looking
at this tumble-down hut; and since the door
cannot be much more than five feet high, its
inhabitant, if it ever had one, must have been
of diminutive stature. One small window, in
which there is one broken pane of glass, affords
all the light of which the hut can boast.
All is quiet within and around it; but a
spade lying near, and a brown jug, half full of
beer or cider, gives rise to the notion that some-
thing, and that not a pig, has lived here
And so it is. Passing through a clump of
young fir-trees, which no doubt formed some
protection from the wind, the open hill-side was
again reached, and there, stretched at full length
among the heather, lay two children intent
on some childish game with blades of grass
and the red cups of the cup-moss.
"Nay, now, that was mine; you be gr, ody,
Essie, child," said the elder, a boy of t a or
eleven, whose rough head and ragged clothes
were quite in keeping with the appearance of
the tumble-down cottage close by.
His companion, who was little more than
a baby, only clutched the beauteous red cups
tighter in reply, and laughed a silvery little
laugh, which seemed to say that she had no
fear of being forcibly deprived of her trea-
And, in truth, the struggle about the moss-
cups was nothing but a game between the big
brother and his tiny sister, who were all in all
to each other, and never quarrelled, though
alone together all day long.
The hill-side was their playground, and there
the long summer days were spent, and, for the
matter of that, many of the winter ones too,
for as long as it was not unbearably cold the
children would not stay in their dismal home.
Not that it ever entered their heads that it
was specially dark or dismal; they had never
known any other, nor had either of them often
seen the inside of other children's homes.
But they loved the open air, the sunlight, the
tyees, and the green grass as much as the birds
that sung over their heads, and the rabbits that
frolicked without fear around them.
But life was not all sunshine to these wild
country children, though the childish troubles
THE HUT ON THE HILL.
of lessons and discipline were quite unknown
to them. Even little Essie had a great heart-
trouble, which, though ofttimes forgotten, would
surge up and vent itself occasionally in bitter
sobs. "My mammy I want my mammy "
was often her cry.
Saddie, as she called Shadrach, would com-
fort her to the best of his ability, with the
assurance that mammy would soon come back
now. And then they would wonder sadly
where she had gone.
Essie had no idea; sometimes she thought
she might have rolled down the hill, and have
fallen into that deep river which they could
see ever so far off. Sometimes the notion that
she had gone away to sec granny, who lived
ever such a long way off, was the favourite
one; and this idea was the one which Saddie
encouraged, as being by far the most pleasant
"But why does she stay so long ?" the little
girl would ask, piteously.
Saddle would tax his ingenuity to invent
reasons which might account for this delay,
although all the while the suspicion was growing
stronger and stronger in his own mind that
she would never come back any more; that she
had gone of her own free will, and that that
kiss which he had seen her give Essie in her
sleep the night of her disappearance would be
the last the child would ever receive from
But all this he kept to himself, as also the
horrible remembrance that was still fresh in
his mind of the loud and cross words which
had passed that night between his mother and
The latter had said more than once, "Then
you'd best be gone."
His mother had replied, "'Tis just what I
And Saddle remembered that he had won-
dered, when he heard her say that, whether
she really meant it. He did not quite believe
it until, when the morning came, he saw that
the place in the straw where she generally
slept was empty, and saw too, from the stern
gloom upon his grandfather's face, that he
guessed why it was empty.
No words had ever passed between them
THE HUT ON THE HILL.
about her; but the old man had bidden him
see to his little sister, and take care of her,
with the gloomy observation, She's none but
you to look after her."
It had been no easy task to still little Essie's
crying for many days; but by degrees she grew
used to the sole company of Saddle. To do
him justice, he was as tender a nurse as his
mother had ever been.
For himself, Saddle had but small cause to
regret his mother's absence; she had never
shown him much tenderness; indeed, he had
sometimes thought that she did not like him.
Sharp words and heavy blows not a few had
given him some reason for this notion; and
since she had not kissed him on the night
when she went away, the idea had become so
fixed in his mind, that if it had not been for
Essie's lamentations he would scarcely have
wished to see her back again.
This, then, was not Saddie's trouble. What
it was he kept to himself; even Essie knew
nothing of it. We shall find out more about
The little family, as we have seen, consisted
of three, the two children and their grand-
father, Joe Burrows, or, as the country folks
called him, Coaly Joe, from the fact that he
had been a miner, and had spent most of his
life working in some coal-mines in the neigh-
bourhood. His mates affirmed that he had
made his fortune; and as he had always had
high wages, and had never been a drunkard,
it is very possible that his savings amounted
to a good round sum. However that may be,
he had given up mining work for some time
past; it did "not suit his rheumatics," he said;
and as he never seemed to want for money,
no one could see any reason why he should
continue to work.
True, it was sometimes suspected that the
occupations to which he was addicted were not
those which are generally considered to be good
for rheumatism; but that, as he was wont to
say, was nobody's affair but his own. For
his part, he believed no one was any the better
for staying at home. What if he chose to go
out in all weathers ? yes, and even on such
rough nights that few cared to face the tempest
and the hurricane which howled around his
THE HUT ON THE HILL.
strange little dwelling, what right had people
to trouble their heads about it ? He'd no mind
to trouble his head with their prying questions,
no, not he !
But people will be prying and inquisitive,
especially when other people have ways which
seem to them not quite the thing; and Coaly
Joe had many such ways.
To live in a hut scarcely high enough to
stand up in, which was nothing better than
a few stones stuck together with mud, when
many of his poorer acquaintances lived in
comfortable cottages, was, to say the least, a
very queer thing to do. And then the spot,
that lonely place on the wild hill-side among
the furze, and heath, and bracken, what could
possess any one to prefer it to the village street,
with the shops close at hand, and a neighbour
always within call? No doubt Coaly Joe had
no fear of ghosts and such like; but it was
fearful to think of those bits of children left
lonely there for hours on dark winter nights.
The villagers were not far wrong in this
thought of theirs. Those long dark nights
were fearful to both the children, but more
especially to Essie; and on the particular
evening when our story opens, the children sat
long on a stone outside their door, watching
the black clouds which had suddenly risen,
and were scudding across the sky at a tremen-
"Will it go and thunder, Saddie ?" asked
the little one; and will the big flashes come
in at window ? "
"No, no; it will only blow and rain; and
you don't mind that. You'll go to sleep, and
never hear nought on it," Saddie replied,
But the round brown face that was turned to
his did not look quite happy; and he went on,
"The clouds are chasing each other, Essie; they're
having a game; they aren't cross to-night."
"Hope they won't bang up againstt each
other," Essie replied. "You'll hold me tight,
Yes, till you're asleep, and then I'll put you
down; you'll sleep best so."
But you won't run away, Saddie ? you did
once, you know."
"'Cause grandfather wanted me to carry his
THE HUT ON THE HILL.
bag; and he telled me to come; but he won't
be going out to-night, so you needn't be
I'm allers afraidd you'll run away, 'cause you
did once," said the child.
""Well, but I never will again; I've telled
you so heaps o' times. Now, Essie, there's
grandfather coming along the hill-side. We'd
best'be in, and make up the fire."
Essie apparently saw the sense of this re-
mark; and while Saddie poked up the embers,
and tried to make a blaze, she ran to the
corner where there was a heap of wood and
dry fir-cones, and fetched a supply in the
skirt of her little frock to help him in his
They had let the fire too nearly expire, and
their efforts had not proved very successful,
when the doorway was darkened by the bulky
form of Coaly Joe, who, stooping as he needs
must to enter his dwelling, crossed the thresh-
old in no very amiable mood, as was evident
from the tone in which he said, "Well,
young uns, let the fire out as usual; not a
bit of heat in them coals to warm a bit of
supper. That means, I suppose, that you're
not looking for none?"
"We's been poking it no end, grandfather,
but it wouldn't burn nohow," said Saddle,
tremulously; for Joe was not altogether plea-
sant when he was put out; and neither Saddie
nor Essie were anxious to go without their
The man pushed them roughly aside, and
pulling a dirty newspaper from his pocket, tore
it up, and by dint of a more skilful arrange-
ment of coals and wood, soon produced a blaze
quite sufficient, in Saddie's opinion, to heat
the contents of a pot which he produced from
under the pile of fuel before mentioned.
"Yes, I like that," said Joe, savagely;
" you're ready enow to eat what you have not
the wits to earn nor the patience to cook. I
like that, I do! But, Master Saddie, listen to
me: you'll have to sharpen your wits a bit;
you're too big a lad to be doing nought but
tend a bit lass the livelong day. If you wants
yer victuals, you'll have to help to earn them;
do you mind me ?"
"Yes, grandfather," Saddie replied, in a
THE HUT ON THE HILL.
frightened tone. "I'll do your bidding; but-"
and he looked at Essie.
"Ay, there's ever a but. I tell ye, lad, the
child must mind hersell."
"Not to-night, grandfather!" pleaded the
boy, softly; "she's so feared of the wind."
"The wind! do she think as 'twill blow her
away? She's safe enov~ lad; and fright kills
She's so little!" half sobbed Saddle.
Essie's attention being at this moment
attracted by what was passing, Joe Burrows
dropped the subject with a, "Whist, boy! If
she knows nought, she'll fear nought;" and
Saddle choked down the rising tears and said
They made a hearty supper off the contents
of the little pot, strange food as it was for
children-too savoury by far, but they were
used to it; and if their sleep was at times
disturbed by dreams, they would have thought .
them the effect of the wind that raged out-
side, rather than of the heavy suppers that
consoled them for much that was unpleasant
in their lives,
Sleep overtook little Essie before supper was
wUll over; and Saddle laid her down tenderly
in her corner among the straw, and covered her
up with a strange heap of clothes, the only
bedclothes that they possessed.
No undressing, no washing, no saying of
prayers, like the little heathen she was. Essie
tumbled into her rough bed, and slept as
soundly as if she were on feathers, watched
over by the tenderest of mothers, prayed for by
the best of parents.
Saddle's face grew troubled as he watched
her. "Grandfather, you'll not be going out
to-night ?" he said at last, timidly.
I be," said the man, sullenly; "and you bo
"But the wind '11 wake her for certain,"
Saddie pleaded, piteously.
What then "
"She'll maybe cry herself into fits I" was
the boy's reply. I promised her as I wouldn't
"The more fool you!"
"But, grandfather, she's none but me to care
THE IIHUT ON THE MILL.
What care can she want when she's asleep,
you blockhead, you!" said the man, savagely.
" Let me tell you, Saddle, you and she'll have to
fend for yourselves; and the sooner you begin
the better for both of you."
"I'm not going to-night; you may carry
your bag yourself! Saddie sobbed, sulkily.
"I'll work in the day, if you like; but I'm
not going' out in the night to please nobody."
Oh, you ain't, bain't you ? that's a likely
story!" said his grandfather, with a laugh
which made Saddle tremble even more than
his threats had done; but he held his tongue,
and sat crouching by the fireside, while Joe
Burrows pulled on some huge boots and leather
leggings, unrolled a long waterproof coat, and
performed his toilet for his nocturnal ex-
SHe was nearly ready to start when he turned
again to Saddle, and in a-low, determined tone
bade him "rig himself out and come along."
Then, seeing the lad's hesitation, he added,
"Anyhow, I'll. turn ye out -of the hut, and
lock the door. So you may as well ,make
yourself agreeable. Come, I'm determined ;
and if you'd any sense, you'd see that the
sooner you go the sooner you'll be back
It was a dreadful moment; Saddle had no
doubt that his grandfather was determined;
his terror-stricken face, down which two big
tears were rolling, told the hardened man that
he was giving way.
He clutched his shoulder with a grasp that
seemed as if it would break some bones; and,
fearful lest by any further struggling he should
wake the little one, the boy gloomily submitted.
A few minutes after they were battling with
the storm of wind and rain that was raging on
the hill. A strange taste, it certainly seemed,
to prefer the outside to the inside of even the
meanest dwelling on that wild night; but such
was plainly the case with Joe Burrows. Once
outside his surliness passed away, and he
cracked many incomprehensible jokes, which
were intended to raise his companion's spirits;
and when they failed to do so, he swore at him
as a coward, a milksop, and a girl, who cared for
nothing but child's play, and had no notion of
fun and sport.
THE HUT ON THE HILL.
To this Saddle made no answer, and they
pushed their way on through thick bushes and
tangled underwood, which sprinkled them
abundantly with raindrops, scratched their
faces, and threatened entirely to stop their
passage. But such trifles were nothing to Joe
Burrows, or, if he noticed them, they did but
add enjoyment to the expedition.
They came out at length on the opposite
side of the hill; and there, in a little copse
of young fir-trees, they were met by three
other men, younger by far than Joe, but
dressed as he was, and carrying also guns
"Ah, the young 'un you're putting him to
business early, Joe," said one of them. Is he
up to sport ? "
"Ile's a bit of a ninny," was Joe's reply;
"but there's no funking about him. Lazy lie
may be, a bit fonder of bed than work; but
I'll cure that. My young uns shan't humbug
"They'll not find it easy, I'll warrant you
Think of humbugging Coaly Joe! ha! ha!"
"It be a black night with a vengeance.
There '11 be none of they velveteens abroad, I'm
thinking. We has luck for once on our side.
Now, Coaly, which be our way ? You're kint
and leader, you know."
The four men stood still thereupon, and laid
their plans in low tones. Saddie listened, with
the fond hope that they were not going far;
for though, as his grandfather had said, he had
no fears for himself, his whole heart was set
on getting back to Essie before the dawn began
to break, and she should awaken.
There was one suggestion which filled him
with alarm. Buckler's -Brake; fine birds
there; no keeper's cottage for miles." Now
Buckler's Brake was farther from home than
Saddie had ever been, and the.bare thought of
such a tramp was terrible.
Perhaps Coaly Joe felt reluctant, to under-
take such a wa4k; at any rate, -he objected to
the proposal; and they. turned in quite a
different direction, crossing some low fences,
stealing through some open meadows past a
farmhouse, where the watch-dogs, at sound of
their. steps, set up a series of- short barks of
~aarmi and a -head popped out of an upper
THE -HUT DON THE .HILL
window, with the impertinent inquiry; "'Who's
In silence they pursued their way till the
farm was passed, then they turned off into a
narrow lane, which led on to a rough piece of
ground bordered on each side by young woods.
Silent enough it seemed; but Coaly Joe
did not seem at his ease, and when one of his
comrades began humming and whistling, he
silenced him with a "Whist! can't you?"
which caused the meo. to turn round and stare
But they could not see the expression of
his face, and the howling and blustering of
the wind was bewildering; there was so much
noise that any suspicious sounds were hardly
to be discerned from those that proceeded from
the wind and rain.
What is it, Joe ? whispered the youngest
of the men, a lad of eighteen, who was trying
his hand at what he called, night-work for the
first time, and was therefore a little uneasy
" Be it a fidgety old man kept awake by the
storm, think you?"
"How can I. tell, you gabby? We can.do
nought till the moon breaks out; I thought
sure she'd be quit of them clouds afore this."
"She's getting high now, and it's a deal
lighter than it were; she's getting the best of
it. See, you," (this was to Saddie) "you're
startling a lot of partridges that were just
enjoying their first nap."
"Ay, ay, here's business," said Joe, rubbing
his numbed fingers, for with ready speed two
of the birds were bagged; and whatever un-
easiness he may have felt was forgotten in the
prospect of sport; while Saddle's anxieties
were laid aside, and little Essie, sitting crying
in her loneliness, was for the moment for-
The bit of moorland covered with bracken,
heather, and broom, promised to be a good
hunting-ground; the moon, too, got the better
of the clouds, and the rain soon ceased entirely.
The poachers were certainly in luck, and so
good-humoured did they grow, that Saddle
found them very pleasant company.
It would never do, he said to himself, for
him to be a child; he would be kind to Essie,
but he must not think too much about her,
THE HUT ON TIIE IILL.
for, as his grandfather said, he must learn to be
And a man he felt indeed as he joined in
the poachers' rough jests, and even tried to
imitate their language. Poor Saddle! that
seemed to him the way to be a man. He
knew no better; how should he? Had not
his grandfather taught him to think those
manly who did as they chose? And his was
the only teaching poor Saddie had ever had.
It was pleasant, too, to be with his grand-
father when he was in a good temper. He was
so often cross at home, but the open air made
him another man. Saddie was beginning to
think that he would have been a fool indeed
if he had stayed at home, when he became
suddenly aware of the presence of men who
were not of their party. Whence they came he
knew not; he had not noticed their approach;
it seemed as if they must have sprung out
of the earth, so suddenly had they appeared.
Then ensued a scramble and.scuffle, in which
Saddle was utterly at a loss to know what was
going on. There were loud voices and angry
words; more than one .gun was fired, and
Saddie heard a heavy fall. Just at the same
moment a sharp pain ran through his shoulder
and down his arm, making him turn faint and
sick in an instant, and stagger and fall into a
furze-bush. His head felt all in a whirl, and
the trees, the clouds, and the sky seemed to
fade away from his sight; but faintly he heard
the continued scuffle around him ; then that too
died away, and all was still.
A NIGHT AND DAY OF MISERY;
ITTLE Essie had slept soundly for a
long time after her grandfather and
Saddie had left the cottage; but at
last an ugly dream, probably caused by her
heavy supper, had disturbed her sleep, and she
woke up sobbing,
It was. strange not to hear Saddle's voice
asking her what was the matter, and stranger
still to miss the loud snoring which was the-
A NIGHT AND DAY OF MISERY.
invariable accompaniment of her grandfather's
After a few- minutes she checked her sobs;
and then the terrible stillness all around her
convinced her that there could be no doubt
that she was all alone; Saddle had broken his
promise, he had gone away, as he had done once
before, and left her all alone in that little hut
on the top of the hill.
Now little Essie was a timid and also a
very passionate child; and this discovery not
only frightened her, but made her excessively
angry. From sobs she soon proceeded to
screams, or, as she afterwards told her brother,
"I yelled as loud as ever I could."
But yelling is a fatiguing process, and it had
again subsided into sobbing, when, in the grey
morning light, the door was slowly opened, and
a very sorry figure appeared.
Saddie had revived to consciousness just as
the first streaks of dawn w re appearing; he
sat up, and slowly managed to hoist himself
on to his feet again, though feeling strangely
dizzy and tottery. How long he had been
lying among the furze-bushes he had no idea.
All his companions had disappeared; he had
either been forgotten or disregarded by them.
And I do feel terrible bad, Essie. I could
scarce drag myself home at all," said the
poor lad, with a trembling voice, and a face
distorted with pain. "I could just cry, I
could !" and sitting down on the straw beside
her, he did cry with all his might.
Essie had of course meant to be terribly
angry when her truant brother made his ap-
pearance; but these intentions were entirely
forgotten in pity and distress at his miserable
plight. She put her arms round him, and set
herself with all her might to soothe his pain
"Poor Saddie! lie down in my nice warm
bed. Saddle will feel better soon; he hurt
hisself when he fell."
"No, no, Essie; I was shot; I know I was.
I couldn't think what the row was; but I do
believe now it was a lot of them horrid keepers,
as granddad talks about; and I shouldn't
wonder if granddad was caught, and is shut up
in jail by now."
Oh dear I" said Essie, who had not the
A NIGHT AND DAY OF MISEHI.
faintest idea what jail meant; and will they
kill him, Saddie ?"
"No, I don't suppose they'll do that; but
oh dear me! how it does hurt, Essie! I do
believe my arm's broken all to bits."
"But it isn't; it's all right, I can see," said
the child, looking hard at the injured limb; "it
is quite tight on, I am sure."
"As if you could tell, Essie it's only doc-
tors as can tell whether folks' arms are coming
off or not; but mine is, I know, though I bain't
a doctor at all."
But it will take a doctor to mend it, won't
it ?" said Essie, in perplexity. Granddad had
a doctor when he broke his leg."
"Ay, but granddad is in jail by now; and
who is to fetch a doctor ? My arm will have
to mend itself. Oh dear! but it be terrible
Saddle flung himself down among the straw
as he spoke; but the movement increased the
pain, and he lay there sobbing and morning
till little Essie began to cry for symp-thy.
This, as perhaps she knew, was the surest
way to check her brother's tears. With a
weary moan he roused himself at last. ." You
must find me something to drink, Essie, child,"
he- said at length. "I'm that thirsty, I.-cannot
This was a task within Essie's powers.; and
when she had brought Saddie a drink of milk
she began to wonder whether there was nothing
else she could do for him. "I'd ought to go
fetch a doctor," she said, "but I don't know
where to go, nor does you, Saddie."
"And doctors has to be paid, Essie; and
we've no money."
"No," said Essie, with a sigh. "I hope
you. won't die, Saddie. What should I do
Saddle did not know, but he felt so bad
that he was half inclined to think he should
die; and as the day wore on, and the pain
rather increased than diminished, the courage
with which he had set himself to endure grew
every hour less and less. Yet so little were the
children used to have any dealings with the
villagers, that it was long ere the thought of
seeking for help occurred to either of them.
., Essie got their .breakfast: somehow; but
A NIGHT AND DAY OF.-MISERY.
SSaddie was too uncomfortable to care much
Sfor food, and she was too unhappy about him
to feel much appetite.
"If grandfather would only come home!"
was her unceasing cry. But to -this Saddle
made no reply. He had a strong impression
that his grandfather was safe in the lock-up-;
and, miserable though he was, he felt that it
was lucky he was not there too.
Towards afternoon the pain grew so intense
that he took the desperate resolve of sending
Essie to see if she could find some one who
would come to his help. It was with great
misgivings that he saw her start; for though
the child was willing enough to go, and glad to
do something, he had never yet trusted her by
herself far from the cottage.
"You must be quick, Essie," he said; "and
mind you go no farther than old Brown's.
Tell him as how we're all alone, and I's got
hurt and can't move. Mayhap he'll .come, or
And the child promised, and putting. on her
ragged hat, set off to rundown the hill. She
thought she -knew the way quite well,. At
the bottom of the hill there was a low stone
wall, and on the other side of it a small wood.
.Essie knew that Brown's cottage stood on the
farther side of the wood; this path through
the wood she should easily find.
Alas, Essie did not know that there were
more paths than one through this same wood;
and not knowing this, she of course took the
wrong one. So while Saddle, lying on his
heap of straw, was counting the minutes and
thinking them ages, she was wandering about,
wondering more and more that she never
came near old Brown's cottage, -and gradually
coming to the conclusion that she had lost
It was not at all a pleasant idea; but the
notion that she was doing a brave thing in
venturing so far by herself sustained Essie's
courage for some time longer, and she walked
on and on, ever hoping that at the next turn
in the path old Brown's cottage would come
in sight. That she had really turned her back
on it sever entered her head. It did seem
a dreadfully -long walk, :but for all that she
must come to the end of it at last; for had she
A NIGHT AND DAY OF MISERY. 31
not often passed the cottage with Saddle ? which
proved that she must know the way.
But when the short wintry day began to
close in, and Brown's cottage did not make its
appearance, the little maid's heart began to
beat with great thumps. So used was she to
the neighbourhood of woods, that in general
she had no silly fears about them; but to be
lost in a dark wood, and to have perhaps to
spend the night there, was a prospect which
filled Essie's heart with terror, and suggested
all kinds of horrible ideas to her.
The rustling of the dry leaves reminded her
that she had once heard that snakes were
found in that wood, how'7big and how deadly
she had no idea; but fear suggested the picture
of a monster big enough to swallow her with
perfect ease. Bears, and wolves too, she
fancied, lived in some woods, and why not
in this? And then came another idea; she
was growing very, very cold. Supposing she
had lost herself, would she not be certain to
die of cold and hunger before morning ?
Essie sat down on the roots of a tree and
sobbed, as she asked herself whether it would
be most dreadful to die of cold and hunger or
to be gobbled up by a bear. It was not easy
to answer this question; but Essie sat still
so long thinking about it, that, in spite of
all her terror, in spite of the cold and other
miseries, she fell into .a half-doze, leaning
against the tree, and had many dreams ere she
was awakened by a deep voice, not gruff
enough surely for that of a bear, and not
altogether such as she had fancied a wolf's
But, wherever the voice might come from,
it brought the child to her senses with
a sudden start. She tried to jump up; but
sitting and sleeping on the damp ground had
made her stiff, and the effort to rise was so pain-
ful, that, half from pain and half from fright, she
began to cry again, moaning out, "Oh, Saddle,
Saddie! \ve shall both die--both of us "
But at this sound, so piteous and helpless;
the deep voice was heard again. It could not
belong to a wolf, or -a bear, or a lion, -for it
spoke words; and -even- in -her fright' Essie
seticed -this, and venturd- -timidly to take -her
liads' fiem her face-and to look up;
A NIGHT AND DAY OF MISERY.
No, it was not a bear that was stooping
over her. Essie could see that through the
gathering darkness; and her sobbing ceased
with the discovery that she was not, as she
had thought, alone in that dreadful wood.
"What are you doing here, little one? said
the deep voice. "Don't you know how late
it is? You ought to run home as fast as
possible. Come, get up, and don't sit there
"I can't help it !" said Essie, the tears still
running down her sunburnt face. How can I
go home when I don't know my way?"
"Where do you live? Perhaps I can show
you your way; but get up, little girl; you must
not sit on the wet ground."
"I's so tired !" said Essie; my legs does
ache so; and I can't find Brown's cottage
"Brown's cottage do you live there ? Why,
child, you are going quite the wrong way."
"I doesn't live there; but Saddle sent me
to fetch the old man to help him. Saddie's
hurt hisself, he has."
"And who's Saddie? Perhaps I shall do
as well as old Brown; will you take me to
"Yes; oh, I's so glad! but I's lost myself.
I doesn't know which is the way home; does
"If you'll tell me who you are, perhaps I
shall know where you live; but I don't think
I ever saw you before that I remember."
"I's Essie, old Joe's grandchild; and Saddle's
my brother; and we live up top of hill, close
by the quarry; but I don't know which way
to go, 'cause I lost myself, do you see ?"
"Yes, I do see; and I think, if I try very
hard, I may be able to find the way home for
you. I know where old Joe lives; but it's
rather a long way from here, and so we must
Yes, we'll run; for Saddie must be wanting
me terribly, he was so bad. Poor Saddle!"
But, in spite of the best intentions, Essie
soon found that her forty winks in the wood
had made her so stiff and numbed that, she
could scarcely move.
"My legs won't go !" she said, piteously.
"Ob, I wish I was at home!"
A NIGHT AND DAY OF MISERY.
"I shall have to carry you," said her new-
found friend. And the little tired child found
herself the next minute lifted high into the
air, her head nestling of its own accord on
her protector's shoulder.
He heard the sigh of relief and contentment,
and forgot the repugnance which for a moment
the task of carrying so untidy and unclean
a child had caused, and only said to himself
that it was certainly a very happy thing that
he came through the wood just when he did.
Before long her heavy breathing convinced him
that Essie had fallen asleep; she did not
speak from the time he picked her up till the
top of the hill was nearly gained, and then
she said in a drowsy voice,-
I think I'll get down and walk. I's very
heavy; your arms must ache."
But when he said, No, lie still," the order
was too pleasant to be disobeyed; and she
did not rouse herself again till they stood at
the cottage door.
It was quite dark by that time, and as
dark inside as outside the cottage; so that
when Essie was. placed -o -her feet -and
bidden to open the door, there was no means
of discovering how the place was tenanted,
until she said, in a low, half-frightened voice,
"Saddle, Saddle, is you dead ?"
This elicited the reply, in a voice weak with
pain, "No, Essie; but what ails you, child ?
I thought you'd been and lost yourself. "
"And so I did," said Essie, groping her
way to the corner where she had left her
brother. "I should have died in the wood,
most likely I should have been eaten up by
wild beasts, but this kind gentleman found
me, and carried me all the way home. Wasn't
"Yes; but, Essie, find the matches and
get a light, and then I'll be able to see him;
it's just terribly dark here now the fire's
Essie routed about till she found the matches,
and in due course of time a candle, which
had been stuck in an empty bottle by way
of a candlestick.
The faint light thus obtained enabled Saddle
and his visitor to see each other.
It was a kind but rather sad face that
A NGIGT ANTI DAf O M4ISERY.
looked down on the sick boy, a very different
face from that of any of the ordinary fre-
quenters of the cottage; and Saddle as he
looked felt a great weight lifted from his
heart. This tall, strong gentleman would
settle everything for him, would perhaps
know what had become of his grandfather,
would take care of Essie if he died. For
during that long afternoon Saddle had grown
so sick and faint with pain and hunger,-that
his heart had failed him, and he had begun
seriously to think that he must die.
And the stranger gentleman, looking at
the two children, and the wretched hovel in
which they lived, felt a great pain at his
heart. The little bright-eyed child who had
brought him there was even dirtier and more
ragged than lie had at first imagined; and
the sick boy, on his heap of dirty straw and
heather, in the clothes which he had worn
the night before, and which had been drenched
in the storm, was a still more deplorable
There were two broken chairs and a three-
legged stool in the cottage; and selecting
the latter, the visitor drew it close to Saddie
and sat down.
Saddle looked up gratefully, and in reply
to his inquiries told simply and plainly the
story of the night's transactions.
"Out poaching," was the visitor's remark,
when Saddle had ended; and his face grew
graver and sadder than before. But lie turned
to the examination of the injured arm, which
he felt and moved about till the boy cried
out with pain
We must fetch a doctor to-morrow," he
said at length; "but now we must see if we
can make you more comfortable for the night.
Little one, can you help me to light a fire ?"
"Oh yes; Essie knows where the wood is,"
Saddle said, eagerly.
Essie, nothing loth, fetched all that their
friend needed; and though the wood was by
no means as dry as desirable, in due course
of time a fire was crackling on the little
hearth; and Saddle, seated before it, was
warming his chilled limbs, and watching with
adriiration while the heather and straw of
his bed were sliken up, and a rough horse-
A NIGHT AND DAY OF MISERY.
:cloth, "which had been lying in one corner,
was spread over it, making, in Saddie's eyes,
-a bed fit for a king.
No one had ever before taken so much
pains to make his bed comfortable; and when
the stranger proceeded to get some bread and
milk ready for their supper, both the children
felt as if their mother had come back; for
never since her strange disappearance had any
food been prepared speciallyfor them.
But all this care and kindness, though they
cheered his spirits, did not cure the pain in
his arm, which, as Saddie said, "jumped hor-
ribly." True, when their new friend had
made a sling to support it, he did contrive
to get some snatches of sleep. But try as
he might to be patient, the night seemed
terribly long; he had never known any hours
pass so slowly before.
Essie, relieved of her anxiety for him, now
that the care of him had fallen to other hands,
slept soundly, while the stranger gentleman
sat in old Joe's arm-chair by the fireside, and,
as far as Saddle could tell, did not sleep at
all. At least, Saddie remembered afterwards
that whenever he had moaned or sighed, his
friend had either tried to place the arm in
a more comfortable position, or had spoken
some encouraging words to keep up his spirits.
As soon as it was light he was again busy
getting the children's breakfast, sending Essie
out to wash herself in a tub of rain-water
-which stood just outside the door, and himself
washing Saddle's face and hands.
Then he bade Essie take great care of her
brother till he came back; he must go, he
said, to find a doctor to look at the poor
arm; and he hoped, too; to be able to send a
woman to stay with the children while Saddle
Then he went away; and Essie, after
watching him down the hill, came back to
Saddie, to wonder who he was, and what
made him so kind to them.
T's just that he's kind to anybody
Swho's in a peck of troubles. It's his
nature, 1 take it."
So said Nanny Hook, the strong, cheery
body who had professed herself willing to
look after the bairns, when the clergyman
had walked into her cottage with his tale of
the sad plight of the children in the hut at
the top of the hill.
Of course he had made it worth her while
to undertake the work, and being fond of chil-
dren, it was a task very much to her taste.
And under her care and the doctor's, Saddle
was beginning to feel quite himself again;
though what would have become of him if
Essie had not met the clergyman that dreadful
evening he could not guess.
"What made him so kind I can't imagine."
And Nanny had answered as we have seen.
"It was his way," she said; "he was kind to
all poor folks."
"But why?" Saddie persisted. "Surely it
must have been a great trouble to him to
come up here, carrying Essie too; and then
he never went to bed at all that night, though
I dare say he was thinking of his beautiful
bed at home all the while."
Happen he was. I'll answer for it he
liked making hisself miserable; his sort does."
"Liked making hisself uncomfortable how
could he ?" and Saddle's pale blue eyes opened
so wide with astonishment that old Nanny
"Well, maybe it do sound queer; but it's
true for all that. I tell you he likes it; and
I'm thinking he'd say as much himself."
"He's coming he's coming!" shouted little
Essie, who was standing just within the open
door; and when, a few minutes afterwards.
Mr. Wood stooped his head and passed under
the low doorway, the eager child exclaimed,
"Saddie, Saddie, you can ask his own self."
-"What is it you are going to ask me?"
the clergyman inquired, as he saw -a red flush
mount to Saddie's brow, and noticed that he
seemed loth to speak.
" THE MASTER,".
'-' I -didn't mean to .ask you -aaything, sir,".
said the boy, nervously;. "but. we. were
talking about you, and Nanny said you liked
to be uncomfortable; and I--"
"You thought I had more sense, did you?"
replied Mr. Wood. Why, I thought Nanny
knew me better."
That ain't just what I-told the lad," said
Nanny; "he's leaving out -the half."
"And what was that half, Saddie ?" .in-
quired his friend. "Let's hear the-whole,
while we are about it."
"She said you liked to make yourself un-
comfortable to help other miserable people,
I think she said."
"Ah, that's different. But I'm not sure
that she's right there. I may be willing to
make myself uncomfortable to help others,
but I'm not so sure- that. I like it." .
"She said you did."
Mr. Wood was silent for a minute, then he
said, "Do you remember what I told you
yesterday about the Master that I work for ?"
"Yes, oh yes; I've-. been thinking a deal
about it, because I always thought as you
was a gentleman, and never worked for no-
body; and it seemed so queer like to think
you has a Master who lives somewhere up
in the sky."
"Does it ? Well, but think, didn't I once tell
you He'd lived in this world just as we do ?"
"Yes, and that He'd chosen to be a poor
man, so poor that He hadn't even a hut like
this that belonged to His own self; and yet
you said He was really and truly the Son
of God; yes, I've thought a deal about it,
for I can't think why He did it."
"No; it's wonderful, isn't it?"
"Yes, I can't make it out; why should
He have troubled Hisself at all?"
Shall I read you a story, Sadde ?"
"Oh, I shall like that, and Essie too."
"Then Essie must sit down quietly," said
Mr. Wood, as he took a book from his pocket,
which the child eyed with great respect.
Books were never seen in that cottage, for,
to tell the truth, no one there could read.
It was not at all likely that they had ever
had a story read to them; and both listened
with breathless attention while Mr. Wood
" THE MASTER."
read how the world was made, and then a
story of a beautiful garden, and how a man
and a woman lived there, who were quite good
till one dreadful day they did just the one
thing that God had told them not to do; and
then God said they must not live in the
beautiful garden any more, but they must
go and work hard for their living; and they
would have pains and trouble, and never be
quite happy any more. And after they had
begun to be naughty they couldn't help
doing wrong things continually; and they
had children who were like themselves, and
did bad things.
The story was not told so shortly as I have
told it, but Saddle and Essie listened with
all their might. They liked to hear about
the beautiful garden where there were rivers
and every beautiful tree that could be seen.
But they felt very sad indeed when they
heard the end.
Essie sighed, and said, Oh dear me II wish
they hadn't been so stupid. I am sure they
might have let that tree alone; when they had
all kinds of fruit, they couldn't want it."
* But Saddie had been thinking, and after a
minute's silence he said, "Please, sir, is that
why we are all so bad ?"
- "Yes, Saddie, it is; bad trees do not bear
good apples,. and so bad parents cannot have
"And is that why everybody must die?
And shall we all be punished?" Saddie's
face was very troubled, and Essie's lips
Try to remember what I told you yester-
day about my Master, Saddie; and then you
will understand what I mean when I say,
No; we need not all be wicked now, because
some one has borne our punishment instead
of us. Do you know who I mean ?"
"Is it your Master, please, sir?"
"Yes, Saddie, it is. He bore my punish-
ment for me."
Then don't yju love Him everso much ?"
said little Essie, eagerly. "I woul.l if He'd
do it for me."
But Saddie looked mournful. "NN one
will ever -do it for the .likes of, us, Essie; it
wouldn't- signify -to nobody what happens to
"THE MASTER." 47
us. Granddad wouldn't care, nor mother
neither. 'Tain't likely a stranger would.".
"Then what will you do, Saddle?"
"I doesn't know. What other folks does
that nobody cares about, I suppose. It ain't
to be expected that any one would trouble
theirselves about Essie and me; I always
knowed we were born bad, and couldn't
"Saddie," said Mr. Wood, "you wondered
I should take the trouble to pick up little
Essie, and carry her home; you said I'd no
need to take thought for her. What will
you think when I tell you that my Master
took thought for you too ? It wasn't only
for me He died, but for all the world, and
for you and Essie too, poor lost, forgotten
things as you are! "
Saddle half uttered a cry, then checked
it, and forgetting manners and everything
else, exclaimed, "Who told you so ?"
"He did; my Master did."
"But when ? how? you've never seen Him;
and He doesn't know us, Essie and me.. Hpw
can He ? nobody knows us; not a creature
ever comes nigh the place that's got any
good in him."
"He does, my Master does."
"Please, sir, you doesn't know how lone-
some like it is here. Many's the day no
creature sets foot on the hill. Essie knows
it as well as I."
"Still, I say, He comes. I think He is
here now. You cannot see Him, Saddie.
Don't you know why? You remember I
told you who my Master is, the great God
who made us all, who died for us all, who
longs to make us all good."
"Does He know about us ? hasn't He for-
gotten us? Of course He knowed about us
when He made us, but since then- "
"Well, Saddie, since then?"
"I can't fancy as He's been thinking about
us when we've knowed nothing about Him.
He may have thought about most of the
people down in the village yonder, but not
Pf we; and as to bearing to be put to death
for two childer like we, it couldn't be true;
no, indeed it couldn't, air "
"Then, Saddie, what will happen to you?
rk THE MASTER.'P
Must you go, when you die, to live with the
bad spirits in their dreadful home ? and
Essie too, must she ?"
The boy's face, which had lighted up with
a sudden ray at Mr. Wood's former words,
had resumed its look of hopelessness; and
to this question he replied in an undertone,
"I'm not fit to go anywhere else." Then,
after a pause, looking up at his sister, some-
thing of the cloud passed away as he said-
"She's such a nice little thing; maybe the
great Master will take thought for her; she
ain't half so bad as I."
The clergyman smiled as he rose to go, and
said, Well, Saddle, you must think about
it, and tell me when I come next whether
you haven't changed your mind. You must
not expect to see Him; but still I tell you
He does not forget you; and if nobody else
visits this hill, be sure He does."
THE LOST SHEEP.
ADDIE and Essie were sitting together
some days after this conversation; and
for the first time since Nanny had been
with them they were quite alone. She had
wanted to go down to the village to attend to
some affairs of her own, and as Saddie's arm
was now much better, she had told the children
that if it began to rain in the evening she
should stay all the night; that hill was no joke
to climb on a bad night.
So it came to pass that the two children had
the prospect of a solitary night again ; and
when the rain began to beat against the one
tiny window they became very sober, and
Essie was half inclined to cry.
"It was so comfy to have Nanny there," she
Saddie, who had not failed, to perceive how
much better his little sister was tended by
Nanny than by himself, could not wonder that
THE LOST SHEEP.
she should miss her. Still he did his best to
You're not afeard when I'm here, are you,
Essie ?" he said; you never used to be."
"No, I'm not just feared; but it's nice to have
Nanny. I don't like the wind; I sometimes
think the house will come down and smash us
up to bits."
"But it never does," argued Saddle, "and
we've had worse winds many nights."
Yes, I know; but I can't help my feelings.
These thinks will come."
"Essie," said Saddle, in a low voice, as if
afraid that some one should hear, "do you
remember what Mr. Wood said about the great
God thinking about us ?"
"Yes, but you said you was sure He wouldn't
"I know I did; but Mr. Wood must know
"Then I wish He wouldn't let the wind
blow," said Essie, fretfully; "it may knock the
house down, you know."
"But perhaps He won't let it. Perhaps He's
on the hill now, Essie."
Out in the rain ?
"If He'd bear all Mr. Wood said He had to
bear, He wouldn't mind the rain. But I forgot,
He is God, and the rain's nothing to Him."
"I can't understand," said Essie, sleepily.
"I'll go to bed. I hope the great God will
take care of us."
She went to bed and to sleep; and very soon
her brother followed her example.
He, too, missed Nanny; but he was not afraid,
though the wind did howl terribly. It roared
in the trees behind the cottage, it moaned and
whined on the side of the hill; but this it had
often done before, and Saddle did not trouble
his head much about it. Only once, when a
loud blast came after he had lain down to sleep,
he murmured to himself, "Please, great God,
think about Essie to-night, and keep her
And then he wondered why he had said it.
Did the great God know what he had said ?
Mr. Wood said He knew everything; but
perhaps when he said everything he never
meant what children .say in a whisper quite
low. And if He did hear it, wouldn't He be
THE LOST SHEEP.
angry that a poor ragged, stupid lad like Saddie
should think of asking Him anything? Saddle.
felt that he had done a very strange thing; he
was not quite sure whether it was right or
The wind, loud as it blew, did not keep
either of the children awake long. In truth,
they were too well used to it for this to be the
case; but while it was still dark there came
a frightful blast, followed by such a terrific
uproar around them that both woke with a
start, and Essie with a cry of fright.
"What is it ? what can it be, Saddle ?" she
exclaimed, as the sound of the wind died away,
and she could hear her own voice. "There's a
great weight on my feet, and the leaves of a
tree touch my face."
"And there's a heap of something on me,"
said Saddle. "I wish it wasn't so dark. I'll
try and get up and strike a light."
"What a wind there is !" said Essie. "I do
believe the house has tumbled down, it's as c< !d
as cold can be."
With great difficulty, for his left arm was
still bound up, Saddie contrived to get a light.
Several times it merely flickered for a minute,
and then went out, owing to the strong wind
which was blowing through the hut. But at
last, by dint of placing the candlestick in the
shelter of thehearth, Saddle succeeded in making
it light, and then the children saw at once what
The wind had torn up by its roots the fir
tree which grew close to the house; it had fallen
against the ruined chimney, and knocked it
and a great part of the roof down. The chil-
dren's bed was covered with bits of stone and
loose earth, and a broken branch of the tree
had forced its way quite through the roof.
Close to the spot where Essie lay was a huge
stone; and the little girl laid her hand on it,
saying, "I was nearly killed, Saddie. See, if
this had come on my head, it would have
smashed it! "
Saddie stood still and looked. It was cer.
tainly quite plain that such was the case; and
he shuddered as he thought about it. But he
had good reason to shudder from other causes;
through the rent in the roof the wind poured
in gusts; and every fresh blast threatened
THE LOST SHEEP.
to bring more stones and rubbish on their
For a while they cowered under the side of
the hut where the roof was still whole and
sound; but as soon as ever the dawn began to
appear they determined to put on all their
clothes, and to roll themselves up in the old
horse-cloth, and so try to finish their sleep
under the bushes on the hill-side. To go to
sleep again in the house was out of the ques-
tion. It might all tumble down any minute,"
as Essie again and again repeated.
How long those hours seemed, especially to
Saddie! for after a while Essie fell asleep lean-
ing against him, and well wrapped up from the
cold. But Saddie could not sleep. He had so
much to think about, for it was his business to
care for Essie; and what they should both do,
now their home was not fit to live in, he could
They had their breakfast on the hill-side;
and when in due time Nanny made her appear-
ance, great was her astonishment to see the
ruin wrought by the wind; for, as she
remarked, "seeing it had never come down
before, she didn't see what call it had to do
To Saddle's inquiry, "What they had best
do ?" she promptly replied, "Well, you'll just
have to come down to my cottage till so be the
parson can settle what's to be done with you.
It's a biggish walk for you with your bad arm,
but it can't be helped. You'd get your deaths
of cold up here; and I wouldn't stay in that
tumble-down place if you'd pay me pounds to
"Go and live down in the village!" said
Saddie, doubtfully; we never goes there; we're
not fit to be seen."
"Well, that's about the truth; but it can't
be helped, and the sooner we're trudging the
So it came to pass that before long the two
wild-looking children were to be seen walking
very soberly by Nanny's side down the hill.
As they approached the village it must be
confessed that Saddle became most uncomfort-
ably conscious that naked feet and ragged
trousers, a dirty face and uncombed hair, were
not by any means likely to gain him friends,
THE LOST SHEEP.
He heard one woman exclaim to another,
" Ay, but Nanny has found two treasures since
she took to climbing yon hill; they look like
two young cannibals, they does."
And another exclaimed, "My word, Nanny!
I hope soap and water's plentiful with you just
Glad enough he was when he found the door
of Nanny's cottage shut behind him; and when
she bade him and Essie sit down on two low
stools before the hearth, and proceeded to revive
the fire which she had lighted to boil water for
her breakfast, and which had nearly gone out
in her absence, he felt as if he had found his
way into a palace, and that to sit down there
was a liberty he had no right to take.
So he stood watching old Nanny, rubbing one
bare brown foot against the other, wondering
how Essie could make herself so perfectly at
Before long Nanny opened the door of her
cottage, and calling to a boy who was passing
said, "Tim, if you're going to the school, and
the minister should chance to be there, just tell
him as I should be glad if he'd step in here as
he goes home. Tell him as I's summat to tell
"All right," said the lad; and Nanny, shutting
the door again, said, He ought to be for going
up the hill this noon; and it's a pity he should
have the walk for nought."
If Saddle had been glad to see 1Mr. Wood in
his own home on the hill, he was much more
pleased to see him enter this cottage, which
seemed so strange to him from its wonderful
cleanliness, brightness, and tidiness.
What, my little gipsies here ? the clergy-
man exclaimed as he entered; and then, while
Saddle told the story of the night's calamities,and
old Nanny added her explanation, he scanned
the two children with an earnest gaze, which
drew from Essie the remark, You is thinking
how dirty we is;" and he could not but confess
that she had rightly interpreted his thoughts.
Everything else is so clean. Old Nanny's
house is always nice," he said. You must try
and be clean too, if you are to live in it."
Shall we live here ?" said Saddie, anxiously.
"I thought we should go home when the
chimney was mended, shan't we "
THE LOST SHEEP.
Mr. Wood was silent for a minute, then he
said, "Saddie, do you know I have been asking
about your grandfather, and I find that it is not
likely you will see him again for some time to
come. He will be in prison for some months at
least; and during that time it will be better for
you and Essie not to live by yourselves upon
the top of that hill. You would not like it,
would you ?"
But, instead of replying to this question,
Saddle hung his head and bit his nails, and
when pressed for a reply, muttered half mourn-
fully, half sulkily, "I's not fit to live anywhere
else. I's nought but a wild lad."
"Well, you must learn to be tame then,
Saddle," said Mr. Wood; "for I've been talking
to the squire about you, and he says very
kindly that he will pay old Nanny for your
food, if you and Essie are good children and do
as she bids you. It is more than you deserve,
Saddle, for remember he knows what you were
doing among his game the night you hurt your
This was a sobering reflection, and Saddle
knew not what to reply, though his downcast
looks made it evident that the prospect of a
home with old Nanny was not so charming to
him as it seemed to be to Essie.
The little girl was so pleased to hear that
they were not to go back to the tumble-down
house on the hill that her delight knew no
bounds; but her brother still murmured, "I am
a wild lad, and I like to be wild."
Mr. Wood was not altogether surprised to
find how loth he was to give up his freedom;
but at the same time he was grieved and
somewhat puzzled how to make Saddle see
things in the right light.
"You like to spend your days rolling about
on the heather, thinking of nothing but pleasing
yourself," he said at last. "Then, Saddie,
you've no mind to take up my Master's service,
I see! That's not the way His servants serve
I knows nought about Him," said Saddle,
sulkily, except maybe that He cares nought
for me, and I dare say has no mind to be
served by such as me!"
And are you so sure He cares nought about
you, poor boy ?" said his friend, pityingly,
THE LOST SHEEP.
"Then I suppose you have tried Him? You
have asked Him to do something for you, and
He paid no attention; is that it, Saddle ? "
"No," said Saddle, "it ain't that. I doesn't
know that way."
Then how do you know ? I'm inclined to
think, Saddle, that though He knows a great
deal about you, you know nothing at all about
Him, or you would think differently."
"I knows," said Saddle, doggedly, "that
there ain't no reason in the world why He
should care about me; and I doesn't believe
as He does."
"Perhaps I happen to know His reason,
Saddie. Would you care to hear it ?"
The boy looked incredulous, and after a
moment's silence said, "You're always making
believe as He talks to you about me; but I
knows it can't be."
"But He does, Saddle. He talks to me in
His book; I read about you there. I'll tell you
what I read."
"Yes, I'd like to hear it; but all that was
written long before I was born; it can't be
"There were many people just like you when
the Lord was on the earth ; and people often
wondered then why He cared so much about
them. They used to think that He ought to
care more about the people who were respect-
abl and tidy, and went to church regularly;
and one day when they said that, He told them
a little story. He said He was like a shepherd
who had a hundred sheep to mind. Ninety-nine
were good, and stayed in the fold, but one sheep
wandered away, and got lost. And then what
did He do ? Why, He did what a good shep-
herd would do. He thought more about that
one sheep than all the others, just because it
was lost. And so He went off up the hills and
down the valleys to look for the poor lost
sheep; and when at last He found it, He
brought it home on His shoulders rejoicing;
and He felt as if He cared more about that one
sheep than all the others, just because it was
lost and in danger. And when I read that
story now it tells me a great deal about you,
Saddle; it tells me that my Master loves you,
and it tells me too why He loves you."
"I doesn't think it," said Saddle, his lips
THE LOST SHEEP.
quivering. Nobody ever cared that much for
"You are right there, Saddle. But then
nobody but God knows how dreadful it is to
live in sin and to die in sin; nobody but God
knows how beautiful heaven is, and how sad
it will be if you are shut out from heaven;
nobody but He knows perfectly how much
your soul is worth."
"Please, sir"- Saddle's face had grown
suddenly very grave, and his eyes were glisten-
ing,-" are you quite sure as He knows how
bad I be?"
"Far better than you do; that is the very
reason why He is sorry for you."
"Because I's lost !" Saddie said, thoughtfully.
"I's got into the wrong road that '11 never lead
"And He wants to lead you in the right
I'd be very glad if He would; I'd love Him
ever so much, if so be He'd not take it amiss;
but in course it's nothing to Him whether I
loves Him-a dirty, bad boy. He'd not want
the love of such as me."
Indeed, but you are wrong, Saddle. He not
only lets you love Him, but He asks you to do
so; only the love that He expects and prizes is
a love that does not waste itself in words, but
shows itself in deeds. And so, my boy, I do
not want you to talk about your love for the
Good Shepherd who died for you, but rather to
think what you can do to please Him. Don't
tell me now; wait till I see you again."
FOLLOWING HIS STEPS.
Swas not a trifling change which Saddle's
and Essie's life underwent when they
settled in the village under the care of
old Nanny. The wild hill-side children, like
the Bedouins in the desert, found the confine-
ment of village life irksome in the extreme.
To run about the livelong day bareheaded
and barefooted seemed perfectly natural to
Essie, but marvellously improper and un-
FOLLOWING HIS STEPS.
natural to old Nanny; while to Saddle the
regularity and monotony of school-going was at
times almost unbearable.
So it came to pass that the task which the
old woman had undertaken when she gave
the neglected children a home beneath her roof
was by no means the easy one which she had
"Whist! you're that ungrateful, there's no
bearing yel" she would say at times, when
Essie's fretfulness and Saddie's bursts of pas-
sion had been even more trying than usual;
and then she would remind them of all their
blessings in a comfortable home, good clothing,
first-rate schooling, till Saddle would turn
sulky, and mutter that that was just what he
hated and couldn't bear.
Such was the state of things when Saddie,
returning from school one day with a scratched
and bleeding face, a black eye, and sundry
other pigns that his day had not been a peace-
ful one, would return no other, answer to all
Nanny's questions than that, I'll never go to
school no more; no, that I won't!"
It was useless to ask why, she could draw
nothing further from him; and with a sigh the
old woman relinquished the attempt, saying to
herself, Other folk's bairns were ill to guide."
But she was not easy in her mind about the
matter. For what if he should mean what he
says, and refuse to go to the school ? he's too
big to be driven, and what will the minister
say if he doesn't go ?" and so thinking, she
was by no means sorry to see Mr. Wood
passing her door, and to call him in, with the.
remark, "I'd be glad, sir, if you'd speak to,
Saddie, and tell him what you think of his.
"Saddle ? why, what has he been doing?"
said the clergyman; but a glance at the boy's
face was a sufficient answer. "I see," he said;
"you feel quite ashamed of him, don't you,
Nanny ? That's not a pleasant face to have in
one's house, is it ?"
Indeed it isn't, sir; and to hear him talk,
too; why, he says as he'll never go to school
again, and after all your kindness too, and the
"Very disagreeable kind of talk,: certainly,
Nanny; but you mustn't disturb yourself about
FOLLOWING HIS STEPS.
it. Saddie is only a child, and as a child must
do as he is bid."
"Ay, sir, I knew as you'd talk sensible like
to him. -Then, if you'll excuse me, I'll go on
hanging out my clothes-it's a fine drying day."
She disappeared into the garden, and some
of Saddle's scowls disappeared with her; still
enough remained to make his swollen and
discoloured face look even more disagreeable
than it need have done.
Mr. Wood looked at him with a half-smile,
and said, "So you don't like black eyes,
"Sir!" said Saddie, astonished.
"You don't like black eyes, it seems; since,
from what Nanny tells me, I conclude that is
why you say you won't go to school any
"It ain't 'cause of my eye. I don't care for
that a bit; but it's them boys as I can't
"Why ? because they give you black eyes ?"
"No, it's their cheek-the things they says.
As for the thumps, I give them as good as I
"I dare say you are as great a coward as
they. I can see that plain enough, Saddie."
"A coward, sir!"
"Yes, a coward, Saddle, a contemptible
coward! A boy who says he won't go to
school because he meets with troubles there,
and a boy who gives back a blow, is, I say, a
perfect coward !"
Saddle looked amazed. "I can't see that,
sir," he said, sullenly.
"What makes people fight and quarrel,
Saddle?" asked Mr. Wood.
"I doesn't know, sir; I suppose it's 'cause
"And which is the hardest, -to keep
quiet and say nothing when boys say horrid,
cruel things, when they hit you hard blows,
or to up with your fists and hit them
"It's a deal the hardest to keep quiet, sir. I
doesn't see how it can be done."
"Which did our Master do, Saddie? I have
told you all about His cruel death, how they
mocked Him, spit on Him, and smote Him,"
"You said He stood like a lamb,"
FOLLOWING HIS STEPS.
"Was He, was my Master a coward, Sad-
"Nay, nay, sir. He was terrible brave."
"Then you, Saddle, are a coward, since, by
your own confession, you gave back those blows
that you got."
"I couldn't help it, sir; and I can't go to
school if I mustn't."
Why not, Saddic ?"
"Because they will say horrid things about
grandfather and mother and Essie and me."
"Why do they say them, Saddle ?"
"Just to plague me; I know that's it. I
know it's nought else."
"Then that makes it all easy. If they see
you don't care what they say, it isn't likely
they'll go on. Just answer them never a word
and see if they don't give over. Try it, Saddle,
and see if it doesn't succeed."
Saddle looked downcast. "And must I go
to school then ? I does get so mortal tired of
sitting still; and the words won't get into my
head, and my fingers won't write, and I's sure
I'll never learn!"
Whose servant are you to be, Sadde ?"
`Saddie hung his head.
Perhaps you wish to give up His ser-
"No, no, I don't; but does He care for my
doing these small things ?"
If they are small, why make such a fuss
about them ? I thought you said you wouldn't
"But they must seem small to Him. Does
He care about them ?"
He counts you one of His small servants, a
very weak one, and so He gives you small
things to do for Him; but He expects them to
be done, Saddle. He will have no idle, lazy
servants, who cannot be troubled to do the
little tasks that He gives them to do, but are
always waiting till He gives them something
bigger and of more consequence to accomplish."
"I never thought He could care about such
things as these !" said Saddie, thoughtfully.
" Then I'll try-; but it 'll be terrible hard, for all
they seem such-little things."
CH APTER VL
ALONG THE NARROW ICAD.
ND it was hard. Boys who live in decent
homes,and have been trained to do as they
are bid, and go to school regularly, have
no idea how hard it was for Saddle to be good.
"Other boys," he pleaded, "can sit still and
read and write all the morning without getting
the headache and the leg-ache, and other boys
don't get it flung at them that their grand-
fathers are in jail, and that their mothers have
run away and left them; and other lads don't
know how jolly the life on the top of yon
hill was, or happen they wouldn't plague a
Yes, I am quite sure it was hard; and I
think you will not be surprised to hear that
the fight I told you. about in the last chapter
was repeated more than once in the first few
months of Saddie's new life; and the sullen
"I'll not go to school any more," passed his
lips so often that at last old Nanny ceased to
notice it. Once or twice, indeed, he did absent
himself from school, and spent the day roam-
ing about the woods; but the evening generally
found him sorry and ashamed, and the next day
he would be back in his place again. The old
service plainly had not the charms for him
that it once had; and if he was but a faltering
servant of the Master whose service is perfect
freedom, we may be sure that Master did not
despise his feeble efforts; for poor Saddle,
though he was not very clever, had taken firm
hold of one idea-it is an idea that never seems
to enter the head of some boys much cleverer,
much cleaner, and much better taught than
ever he had been. Shall I tell you what this
idea was ? It was just this. That since the
Son of God had thought of him, had cared for
him, had died for him, it would be shamefully
mean, shockingly ungrateful, if he, Saddie, had
no thought of pleasing Him. Sometimes, it is
true, he wished that he might have some great
thing to do for his Master; but then he remem-
bered that after all he had no right to expect
such an honour, and that it was scarcely likely
anything great would be given him to do until
he had proved that he would do the little
ALONG THE NARROW ROAD.
things which fell to his lot every day. And
alas, poor boy, these little things were ofttimes
too strong for him! quick-tempered as he was,
his schoolfellows' teasing ways often broke
down all his resolutions to ruPl his spirit and
curb his tongue, and, naturally indolent, the
daily lessons tried him sorely. And so matters
went on for months.
"It would be better by far," said old Nanny
to herself one day, "if the minister would give
up sending that lad to school, and set him to
work in the fields, or maybe in the gardens; he'll
never make a scholar of him, and them boys
at the school seem bent on tormenting him."
Saddie was not present when she said this to
herself; he and Essie had just left the cottage
for a ramble in the woods, it being Sunday
afternoon, and school and church being both
Now it so chanced that Saddle had en-
joyed little peace that day, though he had
gone to school very proud and happy in a
new suit made out of some old clothes that Mr.
Wood had given him, which made him
feel thoroughly respectable for the first time in
his life. But to see Saddle in tidy clothes was
such an astounding event that all eyes were
turned on him when he entered the school
and the words, "Charity boy," "Where did you
buy them fine clothes ? soon reached his ears.
And so all pleasure in his new things was
taken away. If I'm to be decent I must first
earn my clothes," he had said to old Nanny
when he came in; "I'll not have folks saying
as I stole my coat." And, much to her indigna-
tion, the new suit was pulled off and the old
rags put on again ere he went out to walk with
Essie. The little sister was disappointed.
Saddie looked so nice in his smart clothes,
she would have been so proud to walk by his
side; and now half the pleasure of the walk was
gone, for Saddle was vexed and unhappy, and
all through those horrid boys at the school.
She tried to comfort him, but it was not easy;
for all Saddie's feelings were strong and deep,
and once roused it was not easy for him to
forget or forgive.
"They'll have forgotten all about it afore
next Sunday, Saddle; you'll wear them then,
won't you ?" said the little one, piteously eying
ALONG THE NARROW ROAD.
*the big holes in the sleeves, and the large
patches that kept the trousers together.'
"Nay, not I; that Tom Green''ll neverdstop
jibing and jeering; and I can't never keep my
fists out of his eyes when his tongue's a-
wagging; and I've promised not to do that
sort of fighting, you know."
You're not to fight at all. I know that the
master said he'd flog you if he caught you at it
again, and Mr. Wood, he said you mustn't,
too; and I was glad, 'cause I allers think you'll
be killed. There's no sort of fighting you may
"Yes, there is; there's one boy I may fight
with all day long, if I like."
"One boy-who ? Bob Jones? He's bigger
nor you, Saddie."
"No, 'tain't Bob Jones; and 'tain't a boy
bigger nor me; you're out there, Essie."
"Well, I don't care; you hadn't ought to
fight at all, and I wish you wouldn't. I'll tell
Mr. Wood what you say."
"Mr. Wood told me to fight this boy- as
I'm talking about; so it's of no use your
telling him," said Saddle, with a smile.
"Saddie, you're a real bad boy; how dare
you say as Mr. Wood tells you to fight 1 I
know he doesn't."
He has told me twenty times as there's one
boy I may fight as much as ever I like, and
that's just my own self; and when I keeps my
hands off other boys, that's just what I have to
do; and precious hard I have to fight myself, I
can tell you."
Oh, I see, I's so glad, Saddie! and did you
fight yourself to-day, when those boys said those
nasty things ?"
"I just think I did. I's not your quiet sort,
Essie; and if I was to put them things on again
I mightn't be able to stand their cheek,
"And you think you must wait till you can
buy your clothes your own self, Saddle ? Isn't
that what Nanny calls pride? And maybe
you ought to fight that too."
"I couldn't, Essie; and besides, folks ought
to pay for their own clothes; and so I must be
right not to wear them till I can."
"You'll wait a long time, Saddie; and
what'll Mr. Wood think ? won't he be vexed ?
ALONG THE NARROW ROAD.
I'm feared he will. 'Twill be like saying as
you won't take his kindness."
Saddie looked gloomy. I'll tell him why,"
Hell think you a bad lad, as don't like to
have folks kind to you."
"Nay, nay, he knows better nor that. I
bain't ungrateful, he can't say that of me."
"I'd put on the things, and say nought
about it, and let them lads call you what names
they like ; you needn't mind what they say."
But I do mind; it's horrid to be told you
let other folks give you your food, and your
clothes too. They call me a beggar, and what
"What then? By-and-by you'll be able to
work, and then you can pay it all back."
Saddie walked along with a troubled look on
his face. The thought had flashed through his
mind that it would be better to bear anything
than grieve his kind friend; but he could not
help mistrusting his own strength. Little
Esther said no more. She knew that what
would be no trouble to her was a real difficulty
to Saddle, and she let him think his thoughts
out. They walked on in silence, Saddie vent-
ing his troubled feelings by cutting off the
heads of nettles with a stick, Essie quietly
making up a bunch of wild flowers for old
Nanny. Not a word more was spoken between
them until the cottage was in sight, then
Saddie began in low but resolute tones: "Essie,
you're a better child nor I, and you're very
wise like for such a little one. I'll try and do
as you say, for I wouldn't like Mr. Wood to
think as I was too proud to wear his old.
clothes; and the boys may say what they like
I am a charity boy, and though it's hard to bear,
I'll keep myself, and you too, as soon as ever
I can; I didn't make myself what I be; and so
I must bear it as well as I can."
"It ain't a very bad thing to bear, having a
good friend, is it, Saddle ?"
"Nay, I didn't mean that. I was talking
of being called names for what I can't help.
That's bad, Essie; but it's all a bit of the
service, I see; it'll be something if I manage
to keep in the bad words; maybe some time
I'll learn myself to stop the bad thoughts."
And Saddie, who was learning now that the
ALONG THE NARROW ROAD.
motto of his service should be, "Watch and
pray," did not forget that night to add to the
short prayer he had been taught to use, the
words that he had learnt that day in school:
"Let the words. of my mouth, and the medita-
tion of my heart, be acceptable in Thy sight,
0 Lord, my strength and my Redeemer !"
WILLIAM RIDER AND SON, I'RINTERS, 1,OND;QN
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book as a mere ornament of the drawing-
this purpose, and give a pleasing occu-
sytion to any who may listlessly turn over
t leaves ht io the reader who takes it I A
more seriously, it will onvey lso a N
large amount of solid information?'- R s C;TIJRv S
diu.a ".t T '- (%Es PICT URES
Russian Pictures. Drawn with
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Handbodt to Ruslsa," etc. With e
npwards of one hundred engravings. i'
Ig aerial 8vo. s. cloth boards, gilt 'S
The "Pen and Pencil" volume for ''e
1889. It is written by a gentleman who
Ilas spent a great part of hie life in
oassia, and who Is familiar with the
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empi re. It is, of course, impossible in ufB
such limited space to give anything
beyond the brleeat sketch of mayparts
of the enormous area covered by uala
in Europe and Bussla in Asia But the
effort has been made to compress into T
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Caucasus, eto., all that the intelligent
general reader is likely to need; while
such eontres as St. Petersbnrgh and -
Moscow are much more fully desorihed. -
The maps and the numerous engravings 7 3gIS /
render it possible for any careful rode ,
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of the many lands and peoples that are
combined under the Oaur s sway
THB RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY. LONDON.
ILLUSTRATED TABLE BOOKS.
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"The author's endeavour
qualities in the personal
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W,: 1 f h.
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oo \ With many Engravings. Quarto.
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Ai', to t a W '' yt0 1*,'y t
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THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY, LONDON.
~ h Xtisure Vaur.
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Behold in these what leisure hours demand.
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C t (id's ton gnnu:al
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9Ge #qy's @tun Annual
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Fishers of Derby Haven. Illustrated. 2s.
Friends Till Death. Illustrated. 6d. cloth.
ItHrellolq Jessica's First Prayer. Illustrated. Is.
Pilgrim Street. A Story of Manchester Life.
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The Sweet Story of Old. A Sunday Book
for Little Children. Coloured Pictures.
3s. 6d. cloth.
The King's Servants. Illustrated. Under the Old Roof. Illustrated.
Is. 6d. Is. cloth.
Lost Gip. Illustrated. Is. 6d cloth. A Night and a Day. 9d. cloth.
Max Kromer. A Story of the Siege Left Alone. 6d. cloth.
of Strasbourg. is. 6d. cloth. A Miserable Christmas and a
No Place Like Home. Illus- Happy New Year. 9d. cloth.
treated. Is. cloth. The Worth of a Baby. 6d. cloth.
The Storm of Life. Illustrated. Sam Franklin's Savings Bank.
Is. 6d. cloth. 6d. cloth.
A Thorny Path. Illustrated. 2s. Michel Lorio's Cross. Illustrated.
cloth. 6d. cloth.
By Mrs. O. F. WALTON.
Winter's Folly. 18 illustrations. Crown 8vo.
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Golden Threads for Daily Weaving.
A Text, Meditation, and Verse for each Morning and
Evening of a Week. 6d., with floral design on cover, L
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Christie's Old Organ; or, Home, Sweet ,
Home. Is. cloth.
Angel's Christmas. 16mo. 6d cloth.
Launch the Lifeboat. With 44 Coloured
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Little Dot. Coloured Frontispiece. 6d. cloth.
Little Faith; or, The Child of the Toy-Stall .
Nobody Loves Me. Royal 16mo Is. cloth.
Olive's Story; or, Life at Ravensoliffe. 2s. d. -"
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Was I Rght P Fine Engravings. Imp. 16mo.
3s. 6d. cloth, gilt edges.
Our Gracious Queen: Pictures and Stories
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A Peep Behind the Scenes. Imp. 16mo.
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Poppie's Presents. Crown sve. Is. cloth.
Saved at Sea. A Lighthouse Story. New and cheaper Edition. Is. cloth.
Shadows. Scenes in the Life of an Old Arm-Chair. Imp. 16mo. 4s. cloth,
Taken or Left. Crown Svo. Is. cloth.
TaE RELIGIOus TRAOT SO(CETY LONDON
f69915( PDR E(Ih2 9--
Our fittlet not's lirttre
( PICTUKRj FIRsT InDS SECOND SERIES.
'0a IK Royal Quarto, 2s. 6d. cach Series, in hand-
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COMPLETE in ONE Volume, 5s. cloth.
Each series contains a large number of Pictures by
well-known Artists, with just enough descriptive letter-
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u icture. A most useful book for parents and others who
have the care of young children.
SBible Stories and Pictures. with
1,0o Twenty-four Coloured page Pictures and Forty
Vignettes. With simple letterpress in large type.
4s. handsomely bound, cloth gilt,
Stories from Genesis. (The first volume
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The Happiest Half-Hour; or, Sunday
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BRIDGE', M.A. With many Illustrations. Small
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Harrison Weir's Pictures of Birds
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with side in Gold and Coloens. t l
Storyland. By SYNExr GBlI. With !, HALF- OU S
Thirty-two Illustrations by ROBERT BARNESB
Engraved and Printed in Colour by Edmund
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Our Pets and Companions: Pictures
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By MARn K. MArsTI. Profusely Illustrated by 1-
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Revised, with additional Engravings. as. cloth
Talkative Friends in Field, Farm,
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Author of Tom's Bennie," Till the Sugar
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Bible Tales for Children. With Forty
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ATTRACTIVE SHILLING BOOKS.
In very large type, with Engravings. Is. each in attractive coloured boards; also Is. Sd. each in
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When Jesus was here among Listening to Jesus. A New Sun-
Men. By Mrs. B. M. WATER- day Book for the Little Ones.
WORTH. Large type. With Illustrations. The Beautiful House with its
The Name above every Name. Seven Pillars.
By rs. E. WATsawoTuE. Large type. Readings with the Little Ones.
With Illustrations. By AoNEs GIBEaNE. author of Charity's
Stories of Bible Children. By Birthday Text," etc.
Mrs. E. M. WATERnwon, author of The Children's King.
Walking with Jesus," etc. The Lilies of the Field, and
Blessings for the Little Ones. other Readings.
A new Sunday Book. By the Author of Th hr rav r a
Walking with Jesus," etc. The Three Brave Princes, and
other Readings for the Little Ones.
Sunday Afternoons at Rose Wunday
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Tedig oRIOU TAT r theO Little Ones.
'THE RLIGIOUs TRACT SOCIETY, LONoN.
4hbit' s companionn
Juvenile Instructor Annual
192 pages. 8j by 6h.
Contains a Story
in twelve chapters
by Mrs. 0. WAr-
TON, Author of
C"hristie's Old Or-
gun," &C., and a
S variety of interest-
ing reading for
young olks, with a
S3 Coloured Frontis-
iece and many
S lustrations. Is. d.
hoard; 2s. neat
cloth; 2s. 6d. hand-
some cloth full gilt.
(O r ittlt ]Pat's
Annual for 1889.
192 pages. 8I by 61.
The Yearly Volume o 0 the Monthly Magazine
Pull of Pretty Pie Ou
turesandLittle Storie- OTS
in Large Type. Is. 6d
boards; 2. neat cloth ;
2s 6d. handsome cloth
Just wht children
will lie." 'hurch
Sunday School Maga-
9t Cottager anb Artisan annual.
THE VOLUME FOR 1889.
contains 144 pages of A6 D Al "TtDingpcturesondpc-
res1ingreadingndill. 1i ^tical articles. We only wish
etisg readingndill As-. A ftG \ that any praise of ours might
ons. A most suitable increase the circulation of a
to present to the Work- most valuable periodical."-
s Institute, Club, or The Timei.
Reading Room, and for th,
Home Reading of Work-
ing People in Town and
Country. Many Large Pic-
scrap-book. Much of the
letterpress is in large type.
Is. 6d. in pretty coloured
cover; 2s. 6d. cloth boards
Size of page 131 by 10.
9he gract tagainte
Annual for 1889.
240 pages. 8i by 5.
Politics by M. E.
RoPes, and oontri-
N butions by Mrs.
S nSutnL M OODALL,
S TNAY, JOHN TEL-
coR o, ADOLPer
EVERAnR, W. .
BLAIKTE, W. PARK,
W. b. LwIs. P. B.
R. R. THOM, Lucy
With numerous En-
gravings. Is. 6d.
Tag RIEL1GTOuS TRA
l "A large amount of good
reading for those who have
little time or opportunity.
The type is large and clear,
and the lustrations nume-
ous and good."-8cofish
"A welcome addition to
the homes of the working
oeJ claes."-Wetern Morning
ILLUSTRATED READINGS FOR
M3agazlne Is bound
VO. ft "olumea. Filled
with Pictures and
short anecdotal pa-
pera. Each half-
complete in itself,
l cloth boards.
S" Lively, enter-
0SS W taking readings.
,ta The illustrations
S are also very
CT SOCIETY, LONDON
rHI vr at m mre sTr on rsama_^ SIXP
71 ttavEMisa tprieS axxt
poor, old and
1OME isyet w
-N -BEn.li. Chu
srlXoECE MONTHLY. ONE PoNNY WaLKLY
It appeals directly to every youth,
whether heloves fition or field sports, and
hasa charm even for boys of mruturer age." ,
new Volume commenced with Yovember
FOR EVERY HOUSEHOLD.
day magazine for rich and
young, the SUrDAY AT
without a successful rivl."
me commenced with
SeXPNOEio MOmmr.r Out PENtNY WnKy.
"It bears the reflection on eve age
of that taimitable character, the rht
ontlr. lady-like Britishi girl" -he
New Volume commenced viith Noembter
NEW SXR I. SIXPrNCE MOnTaLY.
A ronthy Magine far A*ilv and
One of the moat readable of the
"Quality and quantit are alike aut
A New Volume commenced with the
LONDON: 56, PATERNOSTEB Row, AND OF ALL NEWSAGENTS.
WiTtj 'CL3LFGEO FRONTISPIECE & WOO[JFNGRAVINGS.
F r t r it -
T ri 1, ci f h r, ri J
I ~ r jI I
Sr r T i i c ii r
16 h ~ .1 1 l- *, I r iM, n -r
i i 2 -
THE RLLICCIU-S-TRAc-r SWfETY,
5'b PAT'f ,L N~R k 317 E