Citation
The Adopted son

Material Information

Title:
The Adopted son and other stories
Series Title:
"Little Dot" series
Creator:
Knight
Religious Tract Society (Great Britain) ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
London
Publisher:
Religious Tract Society
Manufacturer:
Knight
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
64, [16] p., [1] leaf of plates : ill. (some col.) ; 16 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Christian life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1892 ( lcsh )
Publishers' catalogues -- 1892 ( rbgenr )
Prize books (Provenance) -- 1892 ( rbprov )
Baldwin -- 1892
Genre:
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Publishers' catalogues ( rbgenr )
Prize books (Provenance) ( rbprov )
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

Abstract:
The adopted son -- Frank's temptation and victory -- The skaters -- The first lie.
General Note:
Date of publication from prize inscription.
General Note:
Frontispiece printed in colors.
General Note:
Publisher's catalogue follows text and on endpapers.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026560039 ( ALEPH )
ALG1173 ( NOTIS )
192021090 ( OCLC )

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John Thompson’s Nursery.
Two Ways to begin Life.
Fithel Ripon.

Litile Gooseberry.

Fanny Ashley.

The Gamekeener’s Daughter.
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THE ADOPTED SON;

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THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY, ©

56, PATERNOSTER Row; 65, St. PauL’s CHURCHYARD ;

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LONDON:
AND 164, PICCADILLY.





CONTENTS.

. PAGE
THE ADOPTED SON :—
1.—AN UNEXPECTED CHARGE. ; 5
11.—VICTOR FINDS HIS FATHER | 17
FRANK’S TEMPTATION AND VICTORY :—
1.—How FRANK WAS TRIED . ieee. 25
11.-—Goop Conpuct REWARDED . , 29
THE SKATERS . . . . 33
THE FIRST LIE :—
I.—THE OLD BROWN Juc. : . at

11.—A USEFUL LESSON. : ° . 52



J HE ADOPTED PON.

CHAPTER I.
An Gnexpected Charge.

wPeAR a secluded hamlet lying
IiXee) among the lofty mountains
Ail | which, in various divisions
’- "and ranges, intersect Switzer-
a (NS land, dwelt, many years since,
NY ON) an honest, hard-working pea-

| sant, by name Moritz Elmer,
and his wife. Moritz was by profession a wood-
carver, and by the sale of the rudely-cut spoons,
dishes, and drinking-cups he manufactured, con-
trived to eke out a scanty subsistence for himself, —
his wife, and his only child Alex. Very few
and simple were the wants of these mountain-
folk. They worked hard, fared plainly and
frugally, and lived in almost total seclusion





J HE ADOPTED PON.

CHAPTER I.
An Gnexpected Charge.

wPeAR a secluded hamlet lying
IiXee) among the lofty mountains
Ail | which, in various divisions
’- "and ranges, intersect Switzer-
a (NS land, dwelt, many years since,
NY ON) an honest, hard-working pea-

| sant, by name Moritz Elmer,
and his wife. Moritz was by profession a wood-
carver, and by the sale of the rudely-cut spoons,
dishes, and drinking-cups he manufactured, con-
trived to eke out a scanty subsistence for himself, —
his wife, and his only child Alex. Very few
and simple were the wants of these mountain-
folk. They worked hard, fared plainly and
frugally, and lived in almost total seclusion





6 | The Adopted Son.

ignorant of all that was passing in the world
outside, and taking interest only in what im-
mediately concerned themselves and their well-
being. In summer the monotony of their
existence was somewhat broken, for tourists and
travellers penetrated into the heart of the little —

Alpine hamlet, and for a few weeks infused new
life into it. Moritz Elmer and his wife always
anticipated with pleasure the coming of: these
summer days, for then Moritz was able to sell .
the various trifles, in the carving of which he
had occupied himself during the long and dreary -
months of winter, and also to add to the scanty
pittance realised by his labours, small sums
which he earned in the capacity of guide to
travellers crossing the mountains. Many of
Klmer’s neighbours who followed the same
calling as himself realised far larger profits than
he had ever been able to do; but Moritz had
but little talent for carving, and wanted both
_ the inventive skill and the delicate workmanship -
indispensable to success in his art. His young
son Alex promised to become in time a far
better workman than his father; but as yet the
boy was not able to do much, so the whole bur-



An Uneapected Charge 7

den of supporting the little househoid fell i
Moritz himself.

It was the close of a warm day late in spring;

the sun, which for many weeks had been in-

creasing in power, had by this time dissolved
the last remains of the broad, deep snow-dritts
which for many months had almost entirely en-

-compassed and shut in the scattered cottages of
_ the lonely hamlet. Elmer and his wife stood at
the low door of their humble dwelling, watching
the reflection of the sun’s last rays fading slowly
from the tops of the opposite mountains. .

“T must finish my work, wife,” said Moritz,
withdrawing his gaze, and fixing it on a partly-
carved drinking-cup that he held in his hand;
‘“‘for summer is very near now, and neighbour
_ Heiter and neighbour Schell have all their store

ready for sale.”

_ The woman sighed involuntarily, thinking how
well both neighbours would be paid for their
work, whilst her husband would be forced to
content himself with far smaller remuneration
for his.

‘ Don’t sigh, Elsé,” said the husband, tenderly,
~ looking at the worn face and poorly-clad figure



8 The Adopted: Son. |

by his side. ‘Why should we grieve because
others are better off than ourselves? I know
that neighbour Heiter will be a rich man before
the summer is out; but I know also that he
would gladly be as poor as we are if he could
but have a boy like our Alex. You see, wife,
_ God has given him one blessing, and us another.”
“Yes, I know you are right, Moritz,” answered
Elsé, still sadly ; “but I can’t forget all that we
have suffered during the long winter. It has —
nearly broken my heart. to hear Alex erying for
food when I have had none to give him, and to
see him shivering in his poor threadbare clothes ;
_ and the summer is so short, and passes so quickly.”

Elmer did not answer, but carved on industri- _
ously at the unfinished cup, pondering, however,
somewhat anxiously the undeniable and 1 increas-
ing difficulties of their position.

Days passed away in quick succession, ial
soon the accustomed stream of visitors set in
towards the village. Little Alex was never
tired of watching the strangers, and attracted a
good share of notice by his bright, intelligent |
face, and simple, frank manners.

One day a well-dressed lady and gentleman,



An Unexpected Charge 9

accompanied by a young boy, stopped at the
entrance to the Elmers’ little dwelling. Alex,
who was playing on the doorstep, ran indoors to
call his mother, thinking that the visitors had
come to purchase some of his father’s handiwork.
- Moritz himself was away. on a mountain ex-
_ pedition; the mother came to receive the
strangers’ orders. |

“We do not come to buy anything, good
woman,” said the gentleman, as Elsé pointed
towards her simple store; “but we wish to
leave this little nephew of ours in your care
whilst we ascend yonder mountain, Come,
Victor,” he added, turning towards the little
boy at his side, “will you stay and play here
until we come to fetch you again ?”

The child ran readily towards Alex, whilst
_ Elsé expressed her willingness to undertake the
charge offered to her. .

“My husband is away on the mountains,”
she continued, rather uneasily. “Would you
not wait for his return, that he may guide you
on your way? ‘The mountain-paths are narrow
and unsafe, and to strangers
_“ Be easy, good woman,” answered the gentle-





10 ‘The Adopted Son.

man, gaily; “this is not our first ¢isit here, and
I am familiar with the dangers you point out,
You need have no fears for us; only be careful
of our child until our return.” |
Elsé promised, not without apprehension, and
the strangers departed, engaging to return to
the village at nightfall. Little Victor, pleased
at having a companion of his own age, and at
the novelty of his position, played happily with
Alex throughout the long summer day. 7
Just after sunset Elmer returned from his
excursion, and sat down, hungry and wearied,
to his simple supper; whilst Elsé recounted. to
him the events of the day, dwelling much on
the uneasiness she still felt respecting the rash |
strangers who had persisted in venturing alone
‘upon the dangerous mountain. Moritz looked |
very grave at the recital, pushed away his
scarcely tasted meal, and rose from the table. __
“T must see after them, wife,” said he,
“moving towards the door. “Don’t be troubled
about me if I am not home to-night. Take
care of the little stranger, and keep him from |
fretting. Good-night, my Else; good-night,
Alex, my son.”



An Unexpected Charge. 11

The father was gone, and the mother, having
watched him from the door until he disappeared
from sight, returned slowly into the house, and
called the boys from their play. That night
Victor shared his little playfellow’s humble bed,
and kind-hearted, motherly Elsé gave him a
good-night kiss as hearty and loving as she
bestowed on her own Alex.

It was late on the following afternoon when
Kimer returned, followed by several of the
neighbours, who had set off early that morning
to assist in the search. Every effort to find the
missing travellers had been unsuccessful, and it
Seemed but too probable that they had perished
among the treacherous abysses of the mountain.
Inquiries were made after them in the neigh-
bouring villages, but in vain, and soon the affair
was almost entirely forgotten by the peasants;
for accidents among the mountains were too
numerous to excite more than passing attention.
But the Elmers had the recollection of the
disaster ever fresh in their minds, for every
sight of little Victor recalled it; and Victor still
remaine1 in their cottage, as he had done since

his first arrival in the village. Many and



120 The Adopted Son. -

anxious were the discussions between Moritz
and his wife touching the forsaken boy. Their
kind hearts were full of compassion for him, —
and they shrank from giving him up to the
magistrate of the nearest town, to be treated
and reared as a pauper child; yet it seemed
impossible for them to provide for him. As
long as the summer lasted they could contrive, —
they thought, by self-denial, to find food and
shelter for the little orphan; but how were they
to manage when winter set in, with its terrible
ice and snow? |

Elsé vividly remembered the miseries she and
her husband had endured during the winter
that had just passed; the lack of fuel, of warm
clothing, even of the coarsest food. The tears
came into her eyes as she heard once again, in
fancy, Alex’s piteous appeal, so often repeated —
and so often necessarily unanswered, for a little
bread; and the yet greater anguish she had
' endured at seeing her husband, when he fancied
himself unnoticed, transfer from his plate to
hers a part of his own scanty and insufficient
portion. Every summer, too Moritz’s earnings
seemed to decrease; the skill of his neighbours



An Unexpected Charge. 13

in carving quite eclipsed his own poor attempts,
and few cared to purchase the rough and almost

clumsy articles at which he had worked so long ~

and patiently. Elsé looked disconsolately at

the slender provision they had laid by, and
thought apprehensively of the long and severe
winter that was fast approaching. If, during
the last one, they had barely escaped starvation,
how could they hope this year to find the means
for providing, not themselves alone, but also the
little stranger, with food? But in the end
affection prevailed over every other considera-
tion, and Moritz and Elsé determined to adopt
the friendless orphan—to treat him as their own
Alex, and to trust to God to find the necessary
means for his support.

Years passed by, and meanwhile changes had
come to the inmates of the humble dwelling on
the mountain-side. The Elmers had faithfully
performed the mutual promise they had made
respecting little Victor, and had denied them-
selves everything save the barest necessaries of
lite, in order that he might want for nothing.
The boy had now passed from childhood to
youth, and was at once the pride and delight of



14 | The Adopted Son.

his adopted parents, and the loved. companion of
their son. |

Poor Alex’s lot was a a hard one. in climbing,
whilst still quite young, among the mountains,

' , he had fallen from a giddy height, and had

barely escaped with his life; so severe indeed
were the injuries he had received, that it seemed
probable he would never rise again from his bed.
His only solace was in carving, and the great
skill he manifested in this work delighted and
astonished his less gifted father.
Moritz carved no longer now. He and Elsé
were rapidly growing old and infirm, and needed
comforts which, however, they were wholly
unable to procure. Victor acted as mountain-—
guide to strangers during the short summer-
time; but in winter the little family fared as _
bully. and experienced almost as great distress, |
as in the old days. .
The weather was now bleak and threatening ;
the little lakes, lying embosomed among the

mountains, were thickly coated with ice, and all

the inhabitants of the lonely hamlet predicted
the near approach of the dreaded snows. Poor
old Moritz sat shivering by the side of. the



An Unexpected Charge. 15

empty and cheerless grate, listening to the
monotonous sound of wood-chipping that came —
from the corner by his son’s bed. Alex lay,
partly propped by pillows, working industriously,
and glancing at intervals, with pardonable satis-
faction, at a large tray by his side, covered with
specimens of his handiwork. The boy could
not help sighing as he reflected how many
weary months must pass before he could hope
for a chance of selling his little stock. Victor,
too, was gazing in turn at the tray of carvings
on the table, and at the bent figure at the fire-
side, as if revolving some plan in his mind.

_ Presently he rose, and took his cap from its
nail on the wall. Moritz, Els, and the invalid
_ all fixed their eyes on him in Inquiring astonish-

ment.

“Victor, my child,” 1 remonstrated the mother,
“you are not going out in this bitter cold on
the treacherous icy paths?”
The boy came over to where she sat, and
bent down to kiss tenderly her wrinkled forehead.
‘Don’t oppose me, mother,” said he, entreat-
ingly. “I must go. I cannot remain inactive
here, and see you and my father slowly perish



16 _ The Adopted Son. |

for want of comforts, There is yet time before |
the snows set in for the accomplishment of my
purpose.” |
He turned towards the sick boy. |
Alex, will you trust your finished work to’
me? Iwill go a into the valley and a to
sell it for you.” 7
“My boy, you will perish ie cold,” remon-

strated Moritz; and Elsé laid her hand on his



shoulder to detain him. « |
But Alex listened eagerly to the proposal,

and stretched out his arm to push his treasures —

_ towards Victor. Finding objection and opposition
useless, the aged father and mother at length _
gave a reluctant consent to the plan, and the
boy, followed by their prayers, started on his

dangerous and self-chosen mission. _ |





17

CHAPTER II.
Bictor Finds his Father.

\ sv ff FTER his friend’s departure Alex
4 carved more industriously than
Ah P ever, and tried to cheer his
Pe Ie \. parents by picturing the change that
Victor’s successful return would

ok make in their poverty-stricken home.
Ke But Moritz and Elsé had borne

y ae privation and want too long to hope for
. any relief; and their hearts misgave
them wienuees they thought of, or
prayed for, the absent boy. |
- Soon the snows came on, and drifted thickly
around the secluded little cottage, and even fell
occasionally through its decaying roof and the

insecure frames of its small narrow windows.
Never had the Elmers felt the pressure of want
BO severely as now; and never before had the

winter seemed so hard, or the cold so piercing.
og #8



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to,
rs



18 ' ‘Lhe Adopted Son.

The half-finished spoon which Alex was carving
dropped repeatedly from his benumbed hands;
tears of weakness and grief coursed tnauiety 7
down old Moritz’s furrowed face; and Elsé —
moved slowly and painfully about the cold and.
dreary room, trying to give it somewhat of a
home-like look. There were no signs of Victor’s
return; but. although the father and mother >
_ dqubted if they should ever see him again, they

never failed to pray for him daily. It was their

greatest comfort to kneel by the bedside of their
sick son, and commit themselves and their wan-_

dering boy into the keeping of Him whose eyes

are in every place, and whose mercies are over
all His works. Moritz and Elsé had preserved,
| through all their trials and hardships, the same
simple piety and faith taught to them in youth, |
and now it was to be their stay and support
when all else was taken from them.
- The distress and want in the little home were
daily felt with increased acuteness, and the
father and mother had reason to fear that soon
food would fail them altogether. But suddenly
the frozen banks of snow began to soften under
the unexpected influence of a mild wind; and



Victor Finds his Father. — 19°

scarcely had the thaw set in, when Victor.
returned. |

Not alone he came. Moritz and Elsé gazed
_ with astonishment at his companion; for in the
handsome bronzed features of the high-born
gentleman they traced a striking likeness to
_ those of their adopted son.

Victor’s tale was soon told. He had, with
much difficulty, made his way down into the
valley, and proceeded, by slow and laborious
journeys, to the largest town in the Canton,
_ where he hoped to obtain a higher price for
Alex’s delicate carvings than the country-people
could afford to give. He paced the streets per-
severingly with his load, insensible to cold or
hunger; the recollection of the dear ones whom
he had left in want and distress at home gave

additional stimulus to his exertions, and he ~ |

resolved not to return to them until he was able
in some degree to raise them from their im-
poverished condition. After much waiting, and
many unsuccessful attempts to dispose advanta-
geously of his wares, he resolved, not without
‘some hesitation, to offer them to the proprietor
of a large business exclusively connected with





20 | The Adopted Son.

carving. Timidly and doubtfully he presented —
himself at the great warehouse, and solicited an —
interview with the owner. He was introduced
to a grave and melancholy-looking gentleman, .

who examined, critically and minutely, the.

delicate and graceful ornaments on which Alex

had bestowed. so much care and attention. The |
result of the scrutiny was more than satisfactory,
and the merchant offered for the goods a far
higher price than even Victor would have dared

to ask. Grateful for so much kindness, the boy

readily answered the questions put to him
respecting the talented carver of the wares, and
related, with touching simplicity, the reasons
that had induced him to leave home, and the
pleasure he anticipated in returning to relieve
the wants of those who were as dear to him as_
father, mother, and brother. The merchant
had understood that he was speaking of his.
parents. Victor, in explanation, related his own —
history, secretly wondering at the great im-
pression it seemed to produce on his hearer.
He was still more astonished when, at its close,
he found himself held in a close and tender
embrace, and felt warm tears dropping on to his





Victor Finds his Father. : 91

face, and learned, by the broken and agitated
utterances of his companion, that he was in his
father’ S arms.

- Elsé lifted her hands in ied amazement and

7 thankfulness at so unexpected a revelation, and
| gazed in bewildered inquiry at the stranger,
- who now spoke.

‘My good people, I cannot express to you in
words the gratitude I feel in my heart for your
unwearied kindness and love to my boy; but I
hope to manifest my thankfulness in a better
way. I think you have the right to know how
_ Victor came to be first brought to your dwelling ;
it is my purpose to tell you this as briefly as.
possibile. When he was a young child, his
mother died suddenly; and my grief at her loss
was at first so great that the sight of the boy
(ior he much resembled her) was insupportable
to me. My brother and his wife were then
setting out on a long travelling expedition, and _
_ they offered to take charge of Victor, hoping |

that, when they returned, the violence and
passion of my sorrow would have in some degree
abated. I willingly acceded to the proposal,
and suffered my boy to go with them, without



29 | The Adopted Son.

making any inquiry into their proposed move-
ments. I never saw them again, and only
heard, incidently, after the lapse of many years,.
that they had perished on a mountain expedition.
Of my son I could learn nothing. It was in
vain that I made incessant inquiries, and paid
repeated visits to every place at which the
travellers had been seen. I offered large re-
wards for his recovery, and set on foot a strict

search, which I fondly hoped would prove —

eventually successful; but every attempt to re-
cover my child was vain. At length I gave up
all hope, and resigned myself to a lonely and
miserable existence. Business prospered with
me; in a few years I was a rich man. But
riches were of little worth in my eyes, and only
valuable as enabling me to relieve suffermg and
want. I looked for no more joy on earth, when

_ suddenly more was given me than I had possessed

for years. In the simple, brave mountain boy —
who came to sell me the ornaments his adopted
brother had made I recognised my Victor, and
his artless recital of the history of his life placed _
his identity beyond a doubt.” |

The speaker paused, trembling with line,



Victor Finds his Father. 23

Moritz lifted his bowed head, and —
thanked God for His wonderful mercies; while
Elsé wept unrestrainedly. Victor seated himaclf
by Alex’s bedside, and clasped his brother’s
hand affectionately. It was long before any of
the party spoke again. There was a thankful-
ness, deep in its very silence, in the hearts of all.
Victor presently described the difficulties that
he and his father had experienced in attempting
to reach the cottage; and the merchant hastened
to assure the Elmers that, after recovering his
_ son, his one desire was to care for the comfort
of those who had acted a father and mother’s
part towards the helpless child for so many
years. | |

Moritz and Elsé were never again now to feel
_ privation or want; Alex was no more to sigh in
vain for the batuid dear to all sufferers; for
the father of their adopted son felt unable to do.
enough for these devoted friends. He would
gladly have removed them into his own magni-
ficent dwelling; but to this neither father nor
mother would consent; their hearts’ affections
_ were fixed in their own humble home, and the
desire | of both, was to die among the mountains





24 The Adopted Son,

they loved so much. , Alex too was: happy | in |
‘the simple life he led, and refused to leave his

parents; so the Elmers still remained in the

midst of their neighbours and friends, having
their every want provided for, and almost their
every wish fulfilled, by the grateful love and
generosity of the youth whom they had cherished,
and the father to whom they had been, in God’s

good providence, the unconscious means of re-
storing him.







FRANK’S TEMPTATION AND VICTORY.
eS

IL.—HOW FRANK WAS TRIED.




NDUSTRIOUS, unselfish, and
obedient, Frank Baldwin was
a son of whom any parent’s
heart might well be proud.
Frank’s home was a humble
one, and when a mere boy he
felt it a delight to be able to
do anything to make lighter
the burden which he saw

rested heavily on his parents.

He had early listened to the voice which says,

“My son, give Me thine heart ;” and when he

expressed a desire to go from home to try his
tortune, his parents consented, for they felt
assured that in all times of trouble and per-

_ plexity he would seek comfort and guidance
from his Father in heaven.

an - \ ay i
NS ie
i Pr







FRANK’S TEMPTATION AND VICTORY.
eS

IL.—HOW FRANK WAS TRIED.




NDUSTRIOUS, unselfish, and
obedient, Frank Baldwin was
a son of whom any parent’s
heart might well be proud.
Frank’s home was a humble
one, and when a mere boy he
felt it a delight to be able to
do anything to make lighter
the burden which he saw

rested heavily on his parents.

He had early listened to the voice which says,

“My son, give Me thine heart ;” and when he

expressed a desire to go from home to try his
tortune, his parents consented, for they felt
assured that in all times of trouble and per-

_ plexity he would seek comfort and guidance
from his Father in heaven.

an - \ ay i
NS ie
i Pr





26 Frank’s Temptation and Voctory.

Frank left home with a brave heart, and
found his way to one of our large western cities.
He immediately began his search for employ-
ment. He met rebuffs, but he was not dis-
couraged. He had no friends to aid him, but —
he asked God to guide him. |

The only position that opened to him J |
this time was one but little above that of a

_ porter. The compensation offered was small,

but Frank did’ not on that account hesi-—
tate. ‘Who knows, ” thought he, “but if the —
duties of this humble office are faithfully per-
formed, the way may thus be paved to some-
thing better ?”? and he cheerfully entered upon -
his duties. His companions were not congenial,
but Frank’s pleasant face and friendly way soon
won their hearts. |
Longing, as he sometimes did, almost to home-
sickness, for a sight of the dear faces far away,
it was hard always to keep up a brave heart;
and he might have been tempted into wrong —
paths but for his precious Bible, with its sweet
‘promises and kindly warnings. |
Soon after Frank entered upon his new duties, :
he was s told oy his employer that he expected





How Frank was Tried. | A

him to be at his post on Sabbath morning, as

usual.

Frank felt a choking in his throat as he an-
~ swered, “I have always been accustomed to
| spend the Sabbath morning in church, and I
So supposed when I entered your service that I
could still enjoy that privilege.”

“You have the evening for that purpose,”
was answered. “I am sorry to take from you
a part of the day that you consider your own;
but the work must be done, and as it properly

belongs to you, I expect you to do it.”

/ He had spoken firmly, and in a moment was
gone. Frank was greatly troubled. His em-
ployer had said that the work must be done,

and that-he would be expected to do it. What

could he do?

When the Sabbath morning came, with a
heavy heart he went to the office and performed
his accustomed tasks. In the evening, he occu-
pied his place in the sanctuary, but he could
- not enter heartily into the services. He felt
that he had robbed God of a part of the day,
and was offering to Him but the remnant.
Through the weeks that followed, the maiter



23 F rank’ s Temptation and Victory.

was much on his mind. He felt that he conld

not retain his position if he insisted that on the —
Lord’s day no work should be required of him; ~
and out of employment, and without friends in
that great city, what could he do? When he

turned to his Bible, this plain command con- _

fronted him: “Remember the Sabbath day to
keep it holy.” | |

But other thoughts came at length, bringing _
gleams of light into the darkness. Had not :
God promised blessings to those who call the |
Sabbath a delight, honourable; not doing their
own ways, nor finding their own pleasure, nor '
speaking their own words. He would not longer |
dishonour God. He would keep holy God’s |
Sabbath, and believe God’s promises. When
he had thus decided, his mind was at rest. a

Before Saturday night came again, he sought i
an interview with his employer. a
“TJ sannot work on the Sabbath,” he sald,
“for I am sure that I am not doing right, and |
[ have been very unhappy about it.” |

It cost him an effort to make this honest state-

ment, but he could not waver, for God, he felt, |

had made. his duty plain.







Good Conduct Rewarded. 99

‘His employer looked at him steadily for a
| moment, and then said, ‘“‘ Come to me on Monday
| morning, and I will then decide your case.” |
} The Sabbath was an anxious day for him;
} and many a prayer was offered up that God
| would help him to bear with the right spirit
| whatever might lie before him.

Il-—GOOD CONDUCT REWARDED.

Ar the appointed time on Monday morning
_ he presented himself at the office. His employer
received him kindly; and after a moment of
silence, he said: |
_ “T have watched you carefully since the first
day that you entered. this office, and I can truly
say that you have been faithful, discharging
with cheerful alacrity every duty that has de-
volved upon you. In nothing have you manifested
a spirit of insubordination, except in the matter
_ of spending a portion of the Sabbath in your
customary employments. But in this I believe
that you have acted conscientiously, and your



80 Frank's Temptation and Victory.

scruples shall be respected. You shall no longer |
be required to work on the Sabbath : but I
cannot longer permit = ~ occupy your Present

position.” :
- Frank’s heart sunk like lead. So he was
after all to lose his situation! |

~“T cannot longer allow you to retain your

present position,” continued his employer ; “but |
you have proved yourself so capable and so
trustworthy that I cannot part with you. One |
week from this day the post of. cashier in this —
office will be vacant. That position I offer to —
you. The post is an important one; but you —

will, I am sure, so discharge your duties as to _

give me no occasion to feel that my confidence
in you has been misplaced. Take your place at —
- the desk this morning. Mr. Clarkson, asI have |
said, will remain one week longer, and you will,
I trust, at the expiration of that time have |
become somewhat familiar with your new duties.”’ |

Frank was bewildered. Had he heard aright?
Yes, it was all true; and there sat his employer,
looking kindly at — and — at his — 7
embarrassment. |
“You may go to ‘the office a, he said, }





Good Conduct Rewarded. a 31.
: presently. = You will find Clarkson there to |
receive you.”
Frank’s heart was too full then to trust hints |

self to thank his employer, but he asked, “ =a
I go to my room for a short time, now ?”’



/ . Certainly you may go,” was the kind answer.
Going hastily out, Frank went quickly to his
- room, and closing the door behind him, threw
_ himself on his knees and poured out his thanks-
- giving to God who had ordered all this. He
. had hoped only that he might retain his place.
F He felt that he could never again doubt God
prbo had so greatly blessed him.

: After offering up a fervent prayer that God
would enable him to discharge well and worthily
“the duties of his new office, and to honour him in
all things, he went, as he had been directed to
do, to the cashier’s desk.

Mr. Clarkson was much interested in the
young man thus unexpectedly called to fill an
important position in the office, and he resolved
to do all in his power to aid him.

_ The week that followed was a very happy
and a very busy one; and at its close, Frank
was left alone with his new duties.









82 Frank’s Temptation and Victory.

In his new position Frank was called to en _
counter new trials. There were several men in
the office who felt that they had claims upon |
the post soon to be made vacant, and each had
secretly hoped that he would be the favoured |
one. What then was the surprise and chagrin
of all, to see a “mere boy,” as they regarded —
Â¥rank, and one, too, who had occupied so humble ~
_ a place, promoted to the coveted position. os

They did not attempt to conceal the nature of
_ their feelings from Frank, and im many ways 7
tried to annoy him. | |

All this Frank bore patiently, never resenting a

_ by word or act any unkindness received. As

he gradually became familiar with his duties, so

that he found it necessary to spend less time at
the desk, he employed his leisure hours in assist-
ing those whose duties occupied more time than
his own; and by his continued and unobtrusive ©
kindness, he won his way to the hearts of those |
who had regarded him with envious feelings.

_ Frank ‘still lives, an honoured man in every
circle where he is known. In all his ways he —
has acknowledged and honoured God, and God
has gremey blessed him. | |





THE SKATERS,

“A CANADIAN STORY.



atte ‘Waees HE Christmas holidays were
- drawing to a close, and the
school-boys of Littleton had,
individually and collectively,
made up their minds to enjoy
to the very utmost the few
that remained. There were
not two opinions as to the
_ means to be used to this end.
It does not often happen in
iis Winter’ s Canadian dominions that the
coming of the bitter frost precedes the coming
_ of the snow; but it was so now, and the mill-
| pond near the village lay glittering in the sun-
light, a firm sheet of crystal. The skating was
perfect. The sky was clear; but there appeared
upon it, here and there, mistv streaks and
bp |





o4 The Skaters,

flakes of clouds, towards which many boyish
eyes were turned knowingly. Betore another :
_ sunrise, the snow might lie deep upon the smooth
surface of the lake; and the pleasure of three
days must be crowded into this one day of sport.
So the village street rang with shout and hallovs,
as the merry lads took their way to the ice. |
Even the mothers of Littleton were content
to-day, and tied on mutters and sought out stray
- mittens, and sent off the merry skaters with good
will, glad to secure the quiet of the house with- —
out disturbance to their own peace of mind. For
not the most timid and anxious of them all

could, with any show of reason, cast a doubt un __

the strength of the ice after two or three such
nights as had just passed. The most reckless
lad of the village could not possibly drown him-
self to-day,—unless, indeed, he went willingly —
into the glade which was always open near the

upper end of the pond, or strayed too far down

past the bridges’ and past the point where the —
Deering Brook falls into the larger stream, just

above the dam. And of course that could never __
happen; for the glade was beyond a sudden

bend of the river, quite out of sight of the very



A Canadian Story. BH

best skating-ground; and the ice was rough
round the mouth of Deering Brook, which was
a warm little stream, and usually broke up more »
than once before it could bring itself to submit

to rest contentedly beneath its icy covering. No:

there could be no possible danger, all agreed ;
and so the enjoyment of the day promised to be
as nearly perfect as it is ever likely to be in this
disappointing world.

Nor was the pleasure to be enjoyed by | the
school-boys alone. This was before ladies gene-
rally had begun to distinguish themselves on the
ice; but still there was here and there among
the groups of rough-coated lads the gleam of a
gay scarf or plume, and more than one pretty
figure made the bright scene brighter, as, with
timid boldness, she ventured alone over the
glittering surface. .
All who could show a passable pair of iaies
“were there, and some who could show none at
all. There were sledges of all sorts and sizes;
and every now and then one of these would come
_ rushing down the steep bank of the pond with a
force that sent it to the other side, amid the
shouts and cheers of all.



36 | The Skaters,

‘The sky clouded as the day wore on, but it
grew milder, too; and some who would not have —
ventured forth in the intense frost of the morning
were beguiled in the afternoon to share the.
limited pleasure of those who, from the bridge,
were watching the skaters on the mill- -pond |
above. ‘The days were at the shortest now, and
there was no moonlight; but, though the dark-
ness was beginning to fall, the skaters showed
no signs of weariness, but every sign that they
would enjoy the pleasure to the very last; for
even now there came silent messengers from the _
~ clouds, bearing the tidings that, for this time at

ies it was the very last. | |
It was pleasant enough on the bridge, too ;
~ not so pleasant, however, but that some of the.
loiterers had turned homeward,—though the
_ greater number lingered still. Nor did they —
_Iinger for nothing. Partly conveyed by shouts,

partly by signs, came up| the news that another —

race—the last and best—we as to come of at |
once.
_ There had been a good many trials of skill
through the afternoon ; but two new competitors
were to take the ice,—lads, almost men, whom



A Canadian Story. 37

office-duties had kept within-doors till now.
One of them had long been acknowledged to be
the best skater in Littleton; the other was a
new-comer, who, though used to the sport, had
_ never tried the ice on that pond; but he seemed -
to accept the challenge with a brave heart.
_ They were to start from the bridge, and make
_ the circuit of the pond twice. The word was to
_ be given by a young lady with a crimson plume ;
_ anda feather from that very plume was to be
- the winner’s prize. |

| _ “Qne—two—three!” and away both flew,
' amid shouts and cheers that made the air ring.
. Both? Nay, there were three; for behind them
1 at first, and then abreast, was a little ragged
- figure in a blue frock and overalls. The frock
7 was fastened round the waist by an old red sash,
, and the overalis were tied at the ankles with
| Ddits of twine, over boots much too large for the
little figure above them. But the skates were
right: there could be no mistake about that.

- “Teddy Lane!” shouted the school- _— from
: the ice.

— “Teddy Lane!” echoed the gazers from the
bridge.

RI eT RET a a ees










38 The Skaters,

“Teddy Lane!. But when, and where, and _
how could he have learned to skate?” is the
question from all. |
_ Who knows? Probably on borrowed skates,
on moonlight nights, or when less fortunate lads
were pining in the school. Skate he did, and
well, too. He was abreast of them when they
disappeared behind the point; he was before
them when they came in sight again. He doffed

his cap to the lady with the crimson plume full |
- five seconds before the other skaters came near;
pausing to start fair with them again, he disap
peared first. beyond the point; and when the
distance could be fairly measured from the
bridge as they came in sight once more, he was
_ full three rods before the foremost. :

With a whoop and a call, he circled round
_ the group at the goal, and, with no pause as the
other lads came up, skimmed away, beneath the _
bridge, and past the mouth of Deering Brook, |
and still farther over the ice beyond. ‘Then —
from the bridge there arose a cry, which echoed _
among the hills like the voice of Death; and
then came a silence as terrible. Then Reis who

did not shut their eyes in horrar saw the



A Canadian Story. 39°

treacherous mass give way,—and Teddy Lane —
was gone! .
No! He rose again, and, clutching, first with
one hand and then with the other, the brittle
edge that broke at his touch, he struggled till a
long, narrow fragment, loosened from the mass
by his frantic efforts and by the pressure of his
weight, sailed slowly away towards the middle
of the stream.

‘He will be over the dam!” cried one.

“No: he may stick at the jutting rock
above!” cried another.
— “God keep him from the jutting rock! The
eddy there would put him beyond all help.”

Poor, ragged, motherless, homeless Teddy
Lane! How many hearts stood still with fear

in that moment so perilous to him! How many

eyes were strained to catch a glimpse of safety
for him. |
Already a score or two of runners had crossed
_ the foot-bridge over Deering Brook, and were
jostling each other on the brink of .the larger
stream. In another minute the gazers on the
_ bridge saw a slender figure, without hat or coat,
advancing rapidly over the ice towards the





40 — «The Skaters.

mnoving mass to which the boy still clung.
Around his waist was fastened a rope, and in.
one hand he carried a pole, with which he
proved the ice before he trusted himself to it.
God give him strength and courage! for he is
trying for a higher prize than a crimson feather
‘now. | | |
Teddy Lane was saved; and of course the lad
who saved him was a hero, from that day, to all
the skaters on the pond, and to all the village
besides. If he were to be my hero, I would tell
you all about Teddy Lane and him,—how,
though Teddy won the crimson feather, the
other won from the fair umpire something that
he valued more, and how he “lived happy ever |
after,” as, in story-books, heroes are supposed
to do. | | | /





THE FIRST LIE

CHAPTER I.
— The OL Brown Sug.

-@ LBERT WALLBROOK was the only
h son of his mother, and she was a
y% widow. No mother and son were |
We ever happier together. They loved
_ NY each other truly ; and what sweetened
_and deepened their natural affection was that
they both loved God, and tried to serve Him.

Thus passed the happy days of childhood
nd youth with Albert Wallbrook, till the time
came when he said he must go out into the
world, and begin life for himself. Mrs. Wall-
brook wept much when she thought of his going, _
but she knew that it was necessary, and gave

her consent readily. |











But it was not so easy to find clvoulak as



THE FIRST LIE

CHAPTER I.
— The OL Brown Sug.

-@ LBERT WALLBROOK was the only
h son of his mother, and she was a
y% widow. No mother and son were |
We ever happier together. They loved
_ NY each other truly ; and what sweetened
_and deepened their natural affection was that
they both loved God, and tried to serve Him.

Thus passed the happy days of childhood
nd youth with Albert Wallbrook, till the time
came when he said he must go out into the
world, and begin life for himself. Mrs. Wall-
brook wept much when she thought of his going, _
but she knew that it was necessary, and gave

her consent readily. |











But it was not so easy to find clvoulak as



42 The First Lie.
Albert expected. He found that the world was
full of young men beginning life like himself;
and whenever he discovered a vacant place that _
he thought he was exactly qualified to fill, some
one else stepped in before him and took posses- —
sion of it. So a year passed, and he was no
nearer a situation than at first, while the neces-.
‘sity for it was greatly increased. a
_ Albert had a friend named Walter Egerton,
who knew of his anxiety 'to obtain a situation,

Walter’s.father, a solicitor, was intimate with -

several men of influence, and he promised to do
what he could for his son’s friend. So. when |
he heard one day that a nobleman, one of b's —
chents, wanted a private secretary, he recum-_

mended Albert so highly that Lord Elmore s

wrote to say he would engage the young man,
provided only he was a member of a Protestant :

church, and was not over twenty years of age.

Walter was greatly delighted when. his father
received this letter, and he set off at once to tell: _
Albert the good news. You.may guess how —
glad and thankful Albert was. God had heard —
his prayers, he thought, and he would now be |
able to help his mother as she had _ hitherto



The Old Brown Jug. 43

| helped him. But when he read the nobleman’s
} letter a second time, his countenance fell, and he
i exclaimed sorrowfully, “I am too old; I was



i twenty-one a few days ago.” |

| -- “No matter for that,” returned Walter. “A. _
few days cannot make much difference ; and
| Lord Elmore will never know.”

_. “But I know.” |

| : os Oh, nonsense! You seit not throw away a
chance like this for such a scruple. Lord EI-

more is.a man of great influence, and his private













secretary may rise to be anything.”

- “T know that, and I am “7 SOrry that Iam
not qualified for the situation.”

~ “But ‘you are qualified, if you will ae say
you are twerity instead of twenty-one. Such
hings are done every day. People would never
et on in the world if they did not strain their
nsciences a little.” a
“Then better not to get on atall. It is more
mecessary that we should have a conscience void
of offence than prosper in the world.”

= But this is such a slight matter. It is not
like saying you belonged to’a Protestant church
if you didn’t: it will do no one the least harm: ©



4A The First Lie:

for what difference can it make to Lord Elmore?
and it will do you a great deal of good.”

“No, Walter; it would do me only harm : |
for it would come like a cloud between God val |
my soul. I told a lie once, and by God’s help I
shall never tell another. There are no little |
false. words in His sight.” ?

“T never knew. you tell a lie, old fellow.”

“No, I hope not; it was long ago, when I
was a very little soe yet I recollect it as dis-
_ tinctly as if it had happened yesterday.”
| “Tell me all about it.” 3

“Tt would take me too long to do that; you
would be tired of listening.”
~ “No, I shall not.’ I want to hear its and |
perhaps your story may convince me that you.
are right in ruining your prospects. At present _
I cannot help thinking you altogether wrong.”

Now, my dear young readers, before you hear
Albert’s story, I must say a word or two about
Walter, who appears as tempting him to do
wrong. He was not wholly bad, or he would
not have been the friend of Albert. But he had
_ not been traimed in the same careful and prayer-_

_ ful way; and his conscience was not so tender,







The Old Brown Jug. 45

; or scrupulous, as he called it, as that of his

companion. He did not really believe there
was sin in what he advised, saying that Albert

was not twenty-one when the situation was
heard of. I am not giving this narrative to

injure Walter, but to approve the conscientious
and truthful character of Albert. So now for
the story, as told by him, of his first and only he.

The first thing I ever remember seeing was

my dear mother’s face; the next was an old-
fashioned brown jug, covered with white raised —
- hunting figures, and having a white handle
twisted like a rope. It used to be on a small
q round table in the nursery, and I have often lain
— looking at it for hours at a time, waiting for the ©
, men to mount their horses, and for the hunts-
man to loose his hounds from their leashes, and
wondering why they never moved.

My mother prized the jug, because it had

: been in the family for a long time ; and when-
ever Bridget, my nurse, let me go to it for the
1 milk that was always kept in it for my use, she.
; would warn me to take care of breaking my
‘ mamma’s jug. Since so much store was set by



46 "The First Lie.

this jug, it seems strange that it was left exposed
todaily peril. I never thought of that then; but
as nothing happens by chance, I can see now
why it all was, as you shall soon hear. — So

When I was about five years old, my constant
playfellow was Topsy, a little black terrier, that
I loved a little less than my mother, and a little |
more than my nurse Bridget. One summer -
evening I was playing with a ball in the
nursery. Suddenly there was a crash ; and to my
dismay I saw the beautiful white rope handle of
the jug lying in two pieces on the table, and the
jug itself on the floor, with part of the. rim eS
broken. Topsy ‘sat at my teet, looking up in
my face as if asking who was to. pay the
damage.

Bridget, hearing the noise, ran into the r room ;

: and when she saw the mischief, she iilialtaade |
angrily, “There! you have broken yourmam- |

ma’s jug. I knew you would do some harm |
with that nasty ball: it shall be taken from you,

and thrown into the fire.’ She made a snatch

_at the ball as she spoke; but I caught it up
from the table before she could reach if, and
held it ently, saying, “Tt-was not I broke the q





The Old Brown Jug. — 47

| Jug; it was Topsy ;” but I felt my face grow very
red, and knew I did not look like a truth-teller.
“You bad, wicked boy! You know you are
telling a falsehood. Come along to your mam-
ma, and see what she’ll do to you,” said Bridget,
laying hold of my arm.
“T don’t want to go to mamma,” J said,
flinging away from her; but Bridget caught
me again, and dragged me to the drawing-room
Although I did not want to go to my mother,
I had yet some hope that she would rescind
Bridget’s dreadiul edict for the burning of the
ball. She looked very much surprised to see me
thus brought before her, sobbing tearless sobs; _
while Bridget still held my arm, as if I were a
prisoner wanting to run away. | 4
“Why, Bertie, what is the matter?” she
asked, holding out her hand to me. |
_“He’s a bad, wicked boy, ma’am,” answered
* nurse, still clutching my arm. ‘He has broken ©
the milk-jug with that nasty ball; and then
_ told a lie to hide it, and said it was Topsy.”
‘So it was Topsy ; and it’s you that 1s wicked
to say that it was I, and to want to burn my

ball » T sobbed.



48 — The First Lie.

~ “ Bertie, Bertie!” my mother remonstrated ;
and Bridget exclaimed, |
‘Well I never did hear the like of that!”
“That will do, nurse. Leave Bertie to me
for a little while,” said my mother. | |
As soon as Bridget left the room, she took me ©
on her knee, and kissed me, saying, “ Now, my
boy, tell me what is the matter.”’ |
' T would have been glad enough to have ine |
so: but having once told the lie, something ©
seemed to impel me to stick to it. Besides,

es -nurse’s threats still held me in terror, and :

mamma might be persuaded by her that the
ball ought to be burned if she knew the damage
I had done with it. So, instead of confessing
what I had done, I made up the most plausible
_ story I could think of to deceive her, saying that.
Topsy jumped up on the table, when I was
playing with him and the ball, and knocked 4
‘down the jug.
“ Well, love, I am very sorry, but it cannot
be helped ; and I do not see that you were to —
blame, except in being so rude with Bridget.”
‘Not to blame!” I thought, and sobbed
harder than ever. ,



The Old Brown Jug. 49

‘ Hush! Bertie dear. | Tears will not mend

“it, and there is really nothing to cry about.”

“She said you would burn the ba-all,” I

, sobbed, feeling that my grief might seem sus-

_ picious if not accounted for.

_ “Burn your ball for Topsy’s fault? Nurse

j ought to have known I would not do that. You
, are quite certain it was Topsy did bP”
_ “Oh yes, mamma.”

‘Then there 1s nothing more to cry about.

_ We cannot punish poor little Topsy, who did
; not know he was doing any harm, can we P—
. unless we keep his bone from him to-night.
| Shall we do that?”

“Qh no, mamma.”
The meanness and ingratitude of laying the

7 blame on Topsy had not struck me till then;
_ and I felt that if he were to be punished for it,
: I must tell the truth at any cost. Mamma, I
4 knew, was only joking; but there was no say-
. ing what punishment Bridget might inflict on
} Topsy if she really believed that he broke the
| jug; so I sobbed harder than ever.

‘ Bertie darling,” said mamma, “stop crying

now, like a good little boy, and run out into the

xz 4



50 The First Lie.

garden, and have a game before bed-time.”
She dismissed me with a kiss; and, slipping
down from her knee, I ran to the garden, with

Topsy at my heels, and the ball in my hand. -
I had never told a lie before, but I knew

quite well how sinful it was, and it lay very —

heavy on my conscience. Still, I was not really
sorry; for I rejoiced more at having saved the
ball, than I grieved at having saved it at the
cost of a falsehood. “If nurse does say any-

thing more about it, mamma will not believe _
her,” I thought, as Topsy and I began running © |

races along the garden walks; and in the fun
and excitement I soon forgot all about the lie.

But the sun went down while we played;
and a grey mist crept over the sky, and the tall
yew-trees at the garden gate began to look
grim and spectral in the uncertain light. A
strange wierd feeling took possession of me; I
felt as if every one was far away out of reach,
and only Topsy and I were left in the world. I — |
began to wish that Bridget would come and —
take me to bed; but the light grew dimmer, _

and the yew-trees grew dimmer, and still shedid |

not come. ‘Topsy had slunk away as if he found 2





The Old Brown Jug. ‘61

my company no longer pleasant. At last-I was
alraid to stay out any longer. Just as I
reached the door, and was going to run in, I
remembered that it would not be safe to take
my ball into the house; if Bridget was too
angry with me to put me to bed she might de-
stroy the ball if it fell into her hands. |

I must hide it outside, that was plain ; and I
paused to think where I should put it. There
was an old nest in the very heart of one of the
bushes. I would deposit it there, if only I
could muster courage to put in my hand, and if
nothing would j jump out and bite me as I did it.
_ I shpped up to the bush, and laid the ball
securely in the nest. Just then a bird in the
next bush, disturbed by this unusual visit, and
from its first sleep, flew away Soong, and
‘scared me by its noise.
How guilt makes cowards of us! That poor
— little bird, frightened out of its wits, probably,
did certainly irighten me out of mine. It
_ seemed as if it had been a witness of what I
_ was about and had gone to tell, as little birds
_ of the air are said to do. I took to heels,
_ fleeing, though none pursued.



oe

CHAPTER II.
A Aseful Desgon.

oME, Walter, you must be
_ tired of this long tale. But —
you asked to hear it all.”
“Not a bit, old fellow.
It is as good as a story out
of a book. Besides, it is
worth your trouble to tell,
for you have more than half



convinced me already that I was in the wrong.
Go on. What is it that Dr. Watts, or one of
those old poets, says,

‘A verse may find him who a sermon flies ?’

And if a verse, much more a story.”

“Well, I agree with you, that a story or a
parable may point a moral as well as can be
done by a sermon or a poem: and for the
young, better. I must write out this tale some
day. But, by the way, it was George Herbert
who wrote the line you quoted just now. But
I will go on. Where was IP”



A Useful Lesson. — BS
‘You were running back to the house when
the bird flew out of the bush.”

Well, I never stopped till I got to the door.
Nurse was not in the parlour, nor in the nursery,
so I went to look if she were in the drawing-
room with mamma. I was not afraid of her
now that my ball was safe, and I was very
tired, and wanted her to put me to bed.

When I got to thedrawing-room door I heard
her talking with mamma. I did not hear what

she was saying; but just as I was going to turn
the handle, mamma said, “ You must be mis-
taken, nurse; it would break my heart if I
thought Bertie would tell me a lie.”

“He did then, ma’am, you may depend upon
it. TI wouldn’t have told you to-night, only you ©
_ got it from me before I knew.”

I waited to hear no more, but slunk away
like the culprit I was, and slipped quietly up
_ stairs to my own bedroom. I undressed my-

self as quickly as I could, and crept under the
bed-clothes.

After a while, Bridget came in with a candle
- in her hand, and pulled down the quilt.



54 The First Lie.

“Oh, you are there!” she said, “and I’ve
been looking for you all over the place. Why
didn’t you wait for me to'put you to bed?”

_ “Tecan go to bed without you,” I answered,
plunging round so as to turn my back to her.

‘“‘T dare say you can. - Little boys that are
old enough 1 to tell lies are old enough to undress
themselves, But I am sure you didn’t say your |

prayers.”

_ “Iwill say them to mamma when she ‘comes
to bid me good night.” | |
_“ Your mamma won’t come to- sight; ; ‘She 18

very ill”

I felt stunned with grief and terror wie :
she told me that, for I thought I had really
broken my mother’s heart, and that she would.

die. The very word “broken” called up afresh -

“» the scene of my guilt.

«Can it ever be mended again, nurse?” I

said, sobbing. } | | |
“Oh yes, dear. I kept the a and itis

not so badly broken. But you shouldn't =

told a lie about it.” |

, “T don’t mean the Jug, iI mean mamma's
heart.”





:,

A Useful Lesson | 55
- Why, the child is dazed! exclaimed

Bridget, while I sat up in bed, sobbing. “Lie

down like a good boy; ask God to forgive you,

and to make dear mamma well, and then g° to

F sleep.”

I lay down as she bade me, and she tucked

_ the clothes in well at my back and then went

away ; ‘telling me again to go to sleep.

But I could not sleep; whenever I closed my

eyes I saw my mother’s face, pale as death,
- before me; and once when I dozed off for a

- minute, I hasialal I saw her standing by my

bed, reproaching | me for having broken her heart.

I sat up in bed again, listening—oh so eagerly !

—for any sound from her room; but though I

_ strained my ears, and held my breath, I could

hear nothing. I could see the light streaming
faintly under the door from where I lay, for

her room was directly opposite mine, at the

_ further end of the lobby; but all was still.

The agony of those hours I shall - never

forget. My mother had always taught me that

God would hear and answer prayer; but I

dared not pray, because I had been so wicked.
_ Had it been possible, I would have hid myself



«56 The First Ive. .
Irom sight. I was afraid to sleep, although I
could scarcely keep awake, lest I should waken
in the place where liars have their portion. |
Early in the morning I heard a man’s step in
the lobby, and soon knew the doctor was come
He and Bridget whispered together at the head
of the stairs for several minutes, and as he :
was going away I heard him say,
“We can tell nothing for a few days.”
“Then Bridget came into my room for some-
thing, and I asked eagerly,
“How is she?”

“Very ul; go to sleep,” she annie look-

- Ing very grave.

_ IT rose long before my _— time, and leoinal
myself, intending to go at once to mamma and
ask her to forgive me. But Bridget would not
let me go near her; the doctor said she was to —
be kept perfectly quiet, and would be very angry
with her if she disobeyed him. -

In a few hours the doctor came again. 1 —
waited till I thought he was gone, and then
ran upstairs to mamma’s room. I had heard ~
Bridget in the kitchen, and meant to go in to
mamma without her knowing.







A Useful Lesson. =.

But the doctor was not gone as I supposed ;
and just as I got to the door he came out.
“ You must not come in here, little man,” he
said; “mamma must not be disturbed.”
_ He spoke kindly ; but he, too, looked so grave
_ that I feared he had not been able to mend
mamma’s heart ; and I wondered if they had
told him that it was I had broken it. | |
| The doctor saw I looked wretched, and patted —
- my_head, saying “Poor child!” with such
kindness that I could not keep from crying.
“You must not ery, but ask God to make
poor mamma better soon,” he said, when he saw
my tears. |
~ But I dared not ask; I thought God was too
much displeased to heed anything I might say.
_ I moped in the house all day. Topsy won- |
dered what ailed me; and leaped round me,

barking, to try to coax me to have a game with

her; but after a while she seemed to discover
_ that I was in trouble, and getting on my knee,
she licked my hands and face all over, and then
curled herself up and went to sleep. Bridget
gave me my meals, as usual; but she was too
- busy attending mamma to take any further



58s he. First Lice.

notice of me; and no one heeded me till. the |
doctor paid his visit in the evening. a

I was standing on the steps, feeling very miser-
able and forlorn when he was leaving the housa
and he stopped to speak to me.

“Why don’t you run and amuse yourself, my -
boy ? Mamma will not know you when ~
gets up again if you mope about in this way.”

. He spoke as if he expected her to get better ;
but his looks were not so hopeful as his words,



and I got no comfort from them. I did not gO

out to play, but went upstairs and stood in the
lobby, hoping to get a glimpse of my mother |
when nurse should open the door. It was a
long time before she came out; but I waited —
patiently, and at last the door opened and I
saw .namma lying, looking very flushed, with —
her eyes very bright ; not at all like what I had
imagined her. And yet I was more frightened
by her appearance than if she had been pale, —
and her eyes closed. |
She saw me as soon as I saw her; but some-
how she did not seem to know me. |
‘Bertie never told me a lie. Bertie would
not deceive me,” she said, speaking in a strange



A Useful Lesson. 59

loud voice, quite-unlike her usual sweet low
tones; and looking at me as if I were a stranger.

Bridget turned hastily back into the room,
and closed the door, so that I could see no more ;

_ but I still heard my mother’s voice, pitched in a
high excited key, and I felt as if my own heart
were breaking.

My ball still lay in the green linnet’s nest,
where I had hid it the previous night ; I could
not bear to look at it or play with it, yet
through all my misery it had been a comfort to

~ think that it was safe. But now I felt as if I

hated it, because for its sake I had broken my
mother’ s heart with a li.

I rushed downstairs, sobbing, and out into the
garden; Topsy running after me in delight,
thinking that at last we were going to have a
game. He watched me put my hand into the :
yew-tree and get the ball. When I saw him
stand with open mouth, ready to spring aiter

_ and catch it as soon as I threw it, my purpose

was shaken fora moment. But the thought of
my mother strengthened me; and without ven-
turing another look at the dog, I ran back to
_ the house and threw the ball into the nursery



60 | | The First Tne.

fire, champing it down with the thie ‘and.
watching it consume with much satisfaction.
_ But poor Topsy whined piteously as he stood
with his fore paws on the fender, making little
leaps at the grate as if he meant to rescue > his
plaything from the flames. |
When it was all burned, and I could see |
nothing left of it, except a shrivelled bit of
leather, I sat down and grieved that my beau-
tiful ball was gone. Some natural tears I shed,
yet I felt happier than I had done sinceI told
the le; and I was no longer afraid to ask God —
to ales me and to mend my mother’s broken |
heart. | |
At the ond of a wook, the fever a left
her, I was told I might go to her if I would
promise to be very quiet.
Of course I promised; but as soon as I saw
_ her I sprang upon the bed in a way that was
not at all quiet. )
‘Poor little Bertie—poor little man! has he
missed mamma, sadly?” she asked caressing —
me. | -
“Qh mamma! is your heart mended?” I
cried, as I kissed her face all over.



A Useful Lesson. | 61

“Ts what mended, darling p»
‘Your heart. You said it would break if I

told a lie, and I did. It was not lopsy that

broke the jug; I did it myself with my ball, '
and I have been wanting to tell you all this
week, but they wouldn’t let me near you; and —
I thought your heart was too broken | ever to be
mended.”

“My poor little boy, why did you tell me a
lie?” she asked, with a sorrowful face.

‘““Nurse said she would burn my ball, and I
was afraid, and said it was Topsy. But I
_ burned it myself when I saw you look so strange ;
only poor Topsy was so lonely without it, I had
to roll up an old pair of socks for him to play
with—they do for him just as well—and you
know it wouldn’t have been fair to have taken
his plaything from him because I told a lie,
would it mamma?” |

“No, love!” |

And then she shut her eyes and looked so

white, I feared she was going to die. |
_ But after a little she opened them -“, and
I saw they were full of tears.
7 Poor little boy!” she repeated, sailed me



62 | The fir st Ine.

| tenderly, and then she said, “ ‘Tt me break
my heart, Bertie, if you sinned, and were not
- sorry for it. I think your burning the ball
shows you repented of the lie; but have you ~
asked the Lord of Truth to forgive you ? ”
“T did, mamma, afterwards. I was afraid to.
do it at first.” ’
“Shall we ask Him, now, to keep you from >

ever telling a falsehood again, no matter how a

you are tempted ?” |

I said “ Yes,” and knelt down on the bed, —
while she prayed that I might, through all my :
_aiter life, love truth as my own soul, and, never
swerve from it even one hair’s breadth. If I.
were to live a thousand years I would not for-.

- _ get that prayer. When it was ended I promised

my mother that my first le should be my last.
_ By God’s grace I have kept my promise up till ©

now; and by His continued help shall keep it to

the end. | |

“Well, old fellow,” Walter said, when Albert
had finished, ‘I am convinced you are right,
although, for your own sake, I wish it were
otherwise.’



| A Useful Lesson. 7 63
“Do not say that,” replied Albert. “ God’s

Jove is better than silver or gold. Something

else will turn up. for me. Thank your father
_ from me, very heartily , and tell him how it is |
_ that I cannot profit by his kindness.”’
"Walter went home very much cast down, wl
- told his father all that had passed. Mr. Egerton,
_ too, thought Albert was over-scrupulous. Yet
he could not help thinking the more highly of
— him for it. He wrote to Lord Elmore, regret-
ting that Albert was too old for the situation,
telling him how he had refused to conceal his
| age, though very little over what was required.
The next day he had the following letter
from Lord Elmore :
“Dear Egerton,—I made a stupid blunder :
when I said not over twenty, I meant not under;
and even had I not, I think, for once, I would
have changed my mind for your high-minded
_ young friend. Will you kindly ask him to call
upon me at his earliest convenience, that we
may settle as to salary, etc.; and the sooner he |

ean enter on his new duties, the better I shall

be pleased. I am, dear ae, yours truly,
‘EcMors.



64 = The First Lie.
I need not tell you, my young realers, how |
grateful Albert was when he heard the good

-news. And the best of it was that there were —
eight months of the year when he was able to

see his mother every day ; for Lord Elmore only _

spent the winter in London, and Albert could
often find time to go to see her. |

He lived to occupy a high official position,
and every one admired -him for his talents, but |
still more for the unswerving truth and honour
that never ceased to distinguish him all his days. _
_ Walter Egerton never bantered him again about
‘scruples ”’ of conscience ; and when, sometimes, |
he remembered the story of the first lie, and the |
curious blunder about the age required, his
heart warmed to his old friend. It was not.
_ merely that he knew that honesty is the best
policy, but he had learned that the fear of the |
Lord is the beginning of wisdom, and them that
honour God, He will honour. This was cer-
tainly true in the life of Albert Wallbrook. |



: RC ETT COLELLO LE AOA TOL ITAL eta Ea eeainScnaEttES
_ LONDON: KNIGHT, PRINTER, MIDDLE STREET, E.G.



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44 The Raven’s Feather.

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76 Little Tenpenny.
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78 His Own Enemy.
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80 Empty Jam pot.
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86 Hubert’s Temptation.
87 Pretty Miss Violet.
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91 Daisy’s Trust. By E.S. Pratt
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TRETTON

Author of
** Jessica's Furst Prayer.”






‘s
i ~ mA ee
The whole of the books forming this |
most popular Library are now re-issued in a |
new and greatly improved style. New type.

and new Illustrations, with specially attractive binding, will make these |

books more than ever suitable for prizes, birthday gifts, etc.
The Children of Cloverley. Illus- The King’s Servants. 1s. 6d. cloth.

trated. 2s. cloth. Lest Gip. Illus. 1s. 6d. cloth.
Little Meg’s Children. Iliustrated, Max Kromer. A Story of the

Is, 6d. cloth. - Siege of Strasburg. Is. 6d. cl.
oe London. Illustrated. Michel Lorio’s Cross. Illus. 6d.
i ee ae No Placel.ke Home. Illus. 1s. cl.

Qs bd. Ae ve lustrated. Pilgrim Street. A Story of Man-

hester Life. 2s. cloth.
Carola. Illustrated. 3s. 6d. cloth. dake as as Iilus. ls. 6d. cl.

Cassy. Illustrated. Is. 6d. cloth. A Thorny Path. Illus. 2s. cloth.

Cobwebs and Cables. Illustrated. Under the Old Roof. Illustrated
ds. cloth, gilt. ls. cloth

The Crew of the Dolphin. Illus- A Night and a Day. 9d. cloth. |

trated. Is. 6d. cloth. ° .
Enoch Roden’s Training. Illus- : oe woe ne ee :

trated. 2s. cloth. : ,
Fern’s Hollow. Illus Qs. cloth. Aa ee ee eetd eeneous |

Fishers of Derby H ee
trated. 56 ik aven, Illus The Christmas Child. 6d. cloth.

Friends till Dea: h. 9d. cloth. Only a Dog. 6d. cloth.
Jessica’s First Prayer. Illus- How Apple-Tree Court was Won.
trated. 1s. cloth. 6d. cloth.



Sam Franklin’s Savings Bank. The Sweet Story of Old. Col-
6d. cloth. | oured Pictures, 3s. 6d. cloth. 2









REE SETA







mt

ILLUSTRATED BOOKS BY

Mas. 0. I. WAIN.

i

-Angel’s Christmas.

tA : \) 16mo. 6d. cloth.
HINA | Christie's Old Organ ;
NG i ON or, Home, Sweet
. NOV Home. ls. cloth.
Launch the Lifeboat.

With 44Coloured Pic.
tures or Vignettes.
| | gto. 3s. col. cover.

| ittle Dot. Coloured

{ Frontispiece. 6d. cl.

Little Faith; or, the
Child of the ‘loy-stall.
1s. cloth.

Nobody Loves Me.
1s. cloth.



2]

Olive’s Story; or, Life
at Ravenscliffe. 2s.6d.

Man \\\\K 4) cloth, gilt edges.

Caras 01) 1 ARM .
> NN a3 Ve ("JA Peep Behind the
ae aes py . | Scenes. Imp. 16mo.
s Bu ee rece x 3s. 6d. cloth, gilt
(IN " eae | edges

a N EEE eS ava Poppie’s Presents.
NNN Sy > i Crown 8vo. 1s. cloth.
Saved at Sea. A Light-
house Story. Is.cloth.

Shadows. Scenes in the
Life of an Old Arm-
Chair. Imp. 16mo.
4s. cloth, gilt edges.

Taken or Left. Crown
8vo. Is. cloth.

iy , Bo ik . : X ) eu yn
fs Wee SSE Da Was I Right? 3s. Gd.
Ee 7 4 & S



\ cloth, gilt edges.
Our Gracious Queen:
eo, Ly Pictures and Stories
! Z = (WE-A\ from Her Majesty’s
2 oe WA Life. With many En-
oe me eee. YHA. v| gravings. New and
) Revised Edition. Is.

Reduced from “ CHRISTIE'S OLD OKGAN.” cloth boards.

eee ae eee eee a ne ee te eee tea a

Suee





my

1/-BOOKS in LARGE TYPE
FOR YOUNG READERS.

Each in very large type with Engravings. Small 4to, Ils. with pretty
coloured covers, or Is. 6d. cloth boards, gilt edges. ©

When Jesus was Here among Men. By Mrs. E. M.
Waterworth. Large type. With illustrations.
| The Name above every Name. By ‘Mrs. EM,
_ Waterworth. Large type. With illustrations.
Stories of Bible Children: A Sunday Book for very
Little Children. By Mrs. E:; M. Water worth.
Listening to Jesus) A Sunday. Book for the Little Ones.
| By Mrs. E..M. Waterworth. —_:
Sunday Afternoons at Rose’ Cottage. Bible T alks |
with Mamma. By Mrs. E. M. Waterworth. | ens:
| Blessings for the Little Ones. ee
| Walking with Jesus. A Sunday E Sle foe Children.

The Three Brave Princes, and othér Bible Stories.

The Beautiful House and ‘its. Seven. Pillars... . By. ;






. Frances M. Savill.
| Readings with the Little Ones. By Agnes Gibéthe.

The Children’ 8 King, and.oth er Readings for. the ‘Young.




oe ot
INS PRADA DADRA



Picture Stories for Children, With. ‘a picture on every
opening, and with letterpress in large ayeee: Cou eve. 1s. |
attractively bound in cloth boards... ‘ |

Picture Book for vite





With a picture on every
Be type, well printed. Crown

= “i

TH p ROYAL PICTURE § 300KS
The First of a New Series of Picture: Books for very Little Children. A

Picture’on every page; the : Letterpress i in very. large type, and in

words of one and two syllables. PeteNtles by the best Artists.
Imperial 16mo. 6d, each i in. cloth.

-1—Our Queen, and other pictures. Sc
-2,—Charlie and his Pet, and other pictures.
3.—Little Kittens, and other pictures,

bX 4.—Mamma’s Darling, and Sie DiS x







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: F< \\& 22 IN CLOTH BOARDS,

; Sw |

IK ay % q SS SSS> : :

\ Ses Lach with Illustra- —
wt NESS tion. Well printed, |
S W SS = SS .
R s&s. and tastefully bound
i Se cloth boards, and

CL
Se

inks. 4d. each.





LLL LI











1. Short and Sweet. 18. Lily’s Adventure.

_ 2. I Never Thought of it. 19. Made on Purpose. A Story of
3. Father's Joy, and other Stories. Kus-ian Life. By Salem
4. A Sprig of Holly. | Hall.

3». Barbara’s Revenge. 20. ‘The White Rosebud, and the
6. Shrimp. | Birthday Present.
7, Edith’s Second Thought, and | 21. Carl’s Secret.
other Stories. 22. Made a Man of. |
8. Jack and Shag. 23. Winnie’s Golden Key; or,
9. ‘LhePrincess in the Castle,and The Right of Way. By J.
other Stories. With many Saxby.
Engravings. 24. Trapped on the Rocks; or,
10. Andy and his Book; or, the Only a Word.
Orphan Friends. 25. Susie Wood’s Charge. By
li. Jessie’s Roses, and _ other Mary E. Ropes.
_ Stories. 26. Fisherman Niels. By Mrs. G.
12. The Village Shoemaker. Gladstone. | |





13. The Message of the Bells, and | 27. Katy’s Resolution.
other Stories. 28. Watchman Halfdan, and _ his
“14. The Lily of the Valley, and Little Granddaughter. By
other Stories. Mrs. George Gladstone.
15. Tony the Tramp; or, Good for | - In Golden London. By Mary







bo
Co







Nothing. By Mary E. Ropes. EF. Ropes.

16. Made Clear at Last; or, The 30. Sprats Alive Oh! By Harriette
Story of a Ten-Pound Note. E. Burch. |
By Mary E. Ropes, Author dl. The Lady Elfrida’s Escape.
of “Tony the Tramp,”’ etc. By Alice King.

17. Chrissy’s Glad News; or, A | 382. Job and Viper. By Mrs.




Little Child shall lead them. Cooper.










| ny

e of
es

ter

eae ; be i ° 5

a (NS School Rewards, ete.

Threepenny Reward Books.
A Series of 2Amo Books for the Young. With Covers Printed,

back and front, tu Colours, on silver ground. Each book tn clear ty pe,
with a Frontispiece Engraving. 7



1 Phil Harvey’s Fortune. _, 18 Trixie and Her Cousin.
2 His Little Hetty. | 14 Kitty’s Concertina.
3 Jock the Shrimper. 15 In Father’s Place.

4 My Master’s Business. [Found | 16 Hilda and Her Pet.
9 How Charlie was Lost and | 17 The Way to Win.

6 Bessie Morton’s Legacy. 18 The Story of Nika.

7 Johan’s Christmas Eve. 19 Addie’s Children.

8 Johnny’s Dream. 20 How Tom Gained the Victory.
9 Old Bagnall’s Ricks. 21 Gaspard’s Promise. —
10 Widow Martin's Son. 22 Lucy of the Hall.
1l The Soldier’s Legacy. | 23 The Oatcake Man.

12 ‘The Flat Iron.
Lwopenny Reward Books.

Lich containing 48 pages of clearly-printed Le:ter-fress, in simple.
languayze for Children. With numerous Engravings, and inattractive
coloured Covers. 2d. each. |

24 Squat and his Friends.

1 Children’s Stories. 13 The Round Robin.
2 Little Stories. 14 Elsie in the Snow.
3 Pretty Stories. | 15 Mabel’s Mistake.
4 Pretty Stories. 16 The Jackdaw’s Christmas Tree
S A Mother's Stories. 17 Angel Rosie.
6 A Sister’s Stories. 18 Faithful Andrew.
7 A Friend’s Stories. 19 Tim's Little Garden. |
8 Pleasant Stories. 20 Between Sickle and Scythe.
9 Simple Stories. - 21 Freddie’s New Home.
10 True Stories. 22 Kit and his Violin.
11 Useful Stories. _ 23 Flip, Mish, and Another.

12 Farewell Stories. 24 Jenny Wren’s Mite,

Aunt Mary's Packet of oD Aunt Mary's Pretty Pages
Picture Stories a for Little People.
Lach Packet contains Twelve Books with Glazed Covers,in Gold. Ful
of Pictures. Crown 8vo. 1s. the Packet.





New Penny Story-Books.

A New Series of Twelve attractively got-up Reward Books, each com-

paPrising 32 pages, with Cover in Colours, and Illustration. 1s: the Packet y,







- How Tilly found a Friend.

. Charity’s Birthday Text.

. The Rescue. |
. Little Nellie’s Days in India.
. The Young Hop-Pickers.

. Motherless Bairns.

. George Wayland. |
. The Cinnamon Island and _ its

« Caleb Gaye’s Success.
. Dark Days of December.
. The Big House and the Little

. Tim and his Friends.

. Ned the Barge-boy. -- °

- Ragged Robin. By Mary E.
Ropes. |



J -hnny.

. Tiger Jack. By Mrs. Prosser.
. Alice Benson’s Trials.
. Charlie Scott ;

or, There’s

Time Enough.

. The Peacock Butterfly.
. Where.a Penny went to.
- The Young Folks of Haze!-

brook.

- Miss Grey's Text ; and How

it was Learned.

- Basil; or, Honesty and In-

dustry.

. Ben Holt’s Good Name.

. Lisa Baillie’s Journal.

» Northcliffe Boys.

. The Little Orange Sellers.
. Georgie’s Prayer.

. Saddie’s Service.

. Nils’ Revenge.

Tale of Swe-
dish Life. .

. Harry Blake’s Trouble.
- Cousin Jack’s Adventures.

Hungering and Thirsting.

. The China Cup; or, Ellen’s

Trial.

Captives.

House; or, The Two Dreams.

INEPENNY |
SERIES.

Coloured Frontispiece and Wood Engravings.
Attractively bound with Medallion on side. -

- Pessie Mason’s Victories.
- Dame Buckle and her Pet

36.
37.

38,
39.

51

53.

D4,
5).

o9.
60.



‘Story of 1745. By Frances

.- Billy the Acorn Gatherer. By
» The Banished Family, and the
- The Golden Street; or, The
. The First of the African Dia-
. The
. Brave Archie.
. There’s a Friend for Little
_ Children. ByCharlotteMason,
. Michael the Young Miner.
- Bob’s Trials and ‘Yests.

. Tim Peglar’s Secret ; or, The

- Reuben Minton’s Service.

57.
58.






























The Gable House.

The Dangerous Guest. Browne.

Fruits of Bible I ands.
Mary K. Martin.
May’s Cousin.. By Author of
*“Reuben ‘Touchett’s Grand-
daughter. ’

By

Fiorence E. Burch.
Bohemian Confessor.
Fisherman’s Orphans.

monds. By Frances Browne.
Royal Banner; Or,
Dragged in the Dust.

By
Mary E. Ropes.

Wonderful Egg.

Under the Snow.

The Lost Baby. A Story of
the Floods. By Emma Leslie.
Squirrel; or, Back from a Far
Country. By F. E. Burch.
Rescued from the Burning
Ship.

James Barton’s Pleasure Boat.
Bennie, the Little Singer.

Heartsease. By I. M. Hig-
ginson.
The Broken Strap; or, Her

Great Reward. By Florence
EK. Burch.

Missionary Rabbits.

Hilda; or, The Golden Age.
By Emma Leslie.

26










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AN TAUSTRATED MAGAZINE for
—— Kittle Bous and Gils.
OUR LIL DOYS.
| PENNY
MONUHLY.

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. “* Parents in search of a Mon-
thly Magazine for infants will

E Purze

NNN EN AUR ORe Se cern,

{ not find a better than ‘Our Little
Dots.’ —English Churchman.
“Just what children will
like.’"—Chuich Sunday School
Magazine, |
‘‘Good pictures and reading.”
Spectator. |
“ Delightful.” —£eclesiastical

SS Gazette.

es

UF dee YUR LITTLE DOTS PleTUR ;

- of the family-—full of engravings, little tales in large type and small words,
~ the ‘Little Dots’ could wish jor nothing better.’—Somerset County
Herald. . | |



PLLPPLPDPLI OM

OUR LITTLE DOTS?

- ANNUATI. ——
The Yearly Volume of
“Our ore Biot

Full of Pretty Pictures and Little Stories
in Large Type. Is. 6d. attractive col-
-oured boards; 2s. neat cloth; 2s. 6d.

handsome cloth gilt.
ly ?



OUVRLITTLE OoTy



a A valuable little magazine, which is just the thing for the small folk

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AR i aE tlhe tN i ati lie



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ONE PENNY MONTHLY.

LOWS OY BSS PST SA Rp

AND

| JUVENILE INSTRUCTOR.

NS NIRS NIN INN LN NI a RON PP



| “A pretty little illustrated periodical,
DN especially noticeable for the Editor’s
sensible practice of giving children credit for
being able to understand something better than
mere jingles and childish things.” The Daily
News.

“‘A pervect treasury of interesting articles
and poetical pieces.” — Bookseller.

Gasgette.



ONAN LOLOL



AR PRETTY PRESENT

FOR Boys & GIRLS.





CHILDS COMPANION
AND :
Juvenile Instructor Annual.



It is full of nice pictures and interesting
reading for young folks, with a coloured frontispiece.
Is. 6d. attractive coloured boards ; 2s. neat cloth; 2s. 6d.
p) handsome cloth, fu] gilt. | G

‘“As charming as~ ever.”——Ecclestastical



LONDON: KNIGHT, PRINTER, MIDDLE STREET, ALDERSGATE, E.G.







Setma, the Turkish Captive.
Show Your Colours.

True and False Friendship.
Always too Late.

School Pictures drawn from
Life.

Soldier Sam. » |
Stephen Grattan’s Fuith.
David the Scholar.
Tired of Home.



















¥ 4 : = ' a ‘s
| Setting Out for Heaven. pees
Sey The Stolen Money. area

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=f Pat Riley’s Friends. | ao
Olive Crowhurst. oe ==
Lie White Feather, £9 a OS
Stecenie Alloway’s Adventure 8. el We Oe =
Angels Christmas. NY =

Cottage Life: ¢és Lights and
| Skhadous.

The Raven’s Feather.
Aunt Milly’s Diamonds and











Our Cousin from India. ————

My Lady’s Prize and hijjie’s
Letter.

How the Golden Eagle was
Caught.

Emily’s Trouble and what it
taught her.

Phe Adopted Son.











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St. Mark’s. Boys’ School,

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SPREE IEEE PERLE DS ET SEE TOOLS DALI EISELE CE
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__—s—«ST he Midland Educational Co. Lim., The City Books

















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The Book of Books.
Springfield Stories.
Little Dot. .
John Thompson’s Nursery.
Two Ways to begin Life.
Fithel Ripon.

Litile Gooseberry.

Fanny Ashley.

The Gamekeener’s Daughter.
Fred Kenny.

Old Humphrey's Study Table.
Jenny’s Waterproof.










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The Three Flowers. os a vs ur es

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Lost and Rescued.

Lightbearers and Beacons.
Little Lottie.







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7 A fsaac Gould the Waggoner. Fae Ne ————
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Boys. Lo
Dreaming and Doing. eS ee
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Rachel Rivers,
Lessons out of School.









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THE ADOPTED SON;

Aud Other Stunies,



















RLS PAL OASYS STN ETN TENE ROCESS PETA TOIT AI: UNS SRA A Gn CSRS ASE OOP ESS ISSN RSet nner esr

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY, ©

56, PATERNOSTER Row; 65, St. PauL’s CHURCHYARD ;

/
LONDON:
AND 164, PICCADILLY.


CONTENTS.

. PAGE
THE ADOPTED SON :—
1.—AN UNEXPECTED CHARGE. ; 5
11.—VICTOR FINDS HIS FATHER | 17
FRANK’S TEMPTATION AND VICTORY :—
1.—How FRANK WAS TRIED . ieee. 25
11.-—Goop Conpuct REWARDED . , 29
THE SKATERS . . . . 33
THE FIRST LIE :—
I.—THE OLD BROWN Juc. : . at

11.—A USEFUL LESSON. : ° . 52
J HE ADOPTED PON.

CHAPTER I.
An Gnexpected Charge.

wPeAR a secluded hamlet lying
IiXee) among the lofty mountains
Ail | which, in various divisions
’- "and ranges, intersect Switzer-
a (NS land, dwelt, many years since,
NY ON) an honest, hard-working pea-

| sant, by name Moritz Elmer,
and his wife. Moritz was by profession a wood-
carver, and by the sale of the rudely-cut spoons,
dishes, and drinking-cups he manufactured, con-
trived to eke out a scanty subsistence for himself, —
his wife, and his only child Alex. Very few
and simple were the wants of these mountain-
folk. They worked hard, fared plainly and
frugally, and lived in almost total seclusion


6 | The Adopted Son.

ignorant of all that was passing in the world
outside, and taking interest only in what im-
mediately concerned themselves and their well-
being. In summer the monotony of their
existence was somewhat broken, for tourists and
travellers penetrated into the heart of the little —

Alpine hamlet, and for a few weeks infused new
life into it. Moritz Elmer and his wife always
anticipated with pleasure the coming of: these
summer days, for then Moritz was able to sell .
the various trifles, in the carving of which he
had occupied himself during the long and dreary -
months of winter, and also to add to the scanty
pittance realised by his labours, small sums
which he earned in the capacity of guide to
travellers crossing the mountains. Many of
Klmer’s neighbours who followed the same
calling as himself realised far larger profits than
he had ever been able to do; but Moritz had
but little talent for carving, and wanted both
_ the inventive skill and the delicate workmanship -
indispensable to success in his art. His young
son Alex promised to become in time a far
better workman than his father; but as yet the
boy was not able to do much, so the whole bur-
An Uneapected Charge 7

den of supporting the little househoid fell i
Moritz himself.

It was the close of a warm day late in spring;

the sun, which for many weeks had been in-

creasing in power, had by this time dissolved
the last remains of the broad, deep snow-dritts
which for many months had almost entirely en-

-compassed and shut in the scattered cottages of
_ the lonely hamlet. Elmer and his wife stood at
the low door of their humble dwelling, watching
the reflection of the sun’s last rays fading slowly
from the tops of the opposite mountains. .

“T must finish my work, wife,” said Moritz,
withdrawing his gaze, and fixing it on a partly-
carved drinking-cup that he held in his hand;
‘“‘for summer is very near now, and neighbour
_ Heiter and neighbour Schell have all their store

ready for sale.”

_ The woman sighed involuntarily, thinking how
well both neighbours would be paid for their
work, whilst her husband would be forced to
content himself with far smaller remuneration
for his.

‘ Don’t sigh, Elsé,” said the husband, tenderly,
~ looking at the worn face and poorly-clad figure
8 The Adopted: Son. |

by his side. ‘Why should we grieve because
others are better off than ourselves? I know
that neighbour Heiter will be a rich man before
the summer is out; but I know also that he
would gladly be as poor as we are if he could
but have a boy like our Alex. You see, wife,
_ God has given him one blessing, and us another.”
“Yes, I know you are right, Moritz,” answered
Elsé, still sadly ; “but I can’t forget all that we
have suffered during the long winter. It has —
nearly broken my heart. to hear Alex erying for
food when I have had none to give him, and to
see him shivering in his poor threadbare clothes ;
_ and the summer is so short, and passes so quickly.”

Elmer did not answer, but carved on industri- _
ously at the unfinished cup, pondering, however,
somewhat anxiously the undeniable and 1 increas-
ing difficulties of their position.

Days passed away in quick succession, ial
soon the accustomed stream of visitors set in
towards the village. Little Alex was never
tired of watching the strangers, and attracted a
good share of notice by his bright, intelligent |
face, and simple, frank manners.

One day a well-dressed lady and gentleman,
An Unexpected Charge 9

accompanied by a young boy, stopped at the
entrance to the Elmers’ little dwelling. Alex,
who was playing on the doorstep, ran indoors to
call his mother, thinking that the visitors had
come to purchase some of his father’s handiwork.
- Moritz himself was away. on a mountain ex-
_ pedition; the mother came to receive the
strangers’ orders. |

“We do not come to buy anything, good
woman,” said the gentleman, as Elsé pointed
towards her simple store; “but we wish to
leave this little nephew of ours in your care
whilst we ascend yonder mountain, Come,
Victor,” he added, turning towards the little
boy at his side, “will you stay and play here
until we come to fetch you again ?”

The child ran readily towards Alex, whilst
_ Elsé expressed her willingness to undertake the
charge offered to her. .

“My husband is away on the mountains,”
she continued, rather uneasily. “Would you
not wait for his return, that he may guide you
on your way? ‘The mountain-paths are narrow
and unsafe, and to strangers
_“ Be easy, good woman,” answered the gentle-


10 ‘The Adopted Son.

man, gaily; “this is not our first ¢isit here, and
I am familiar with the dangers you point out,
You need have no fears for us; only be careful
of our child until our return.” |
Elsé promised, not without apprehension, and
the strangers departed, engaging to return to
the village at nightfall. Little Victor, pleased
at having a companion of his own age, and at
the novelty of his position, played happily with
Alex throughout the long summer day. 7
Just after sunset Elmer returned from his
excursion, and sat down, hungry and wearied,
to his simple supper; whilst Elsé recounted. to
him the events of the day, dwelling much on
the uneasiness she still felt respecting the rash |
strangers who had persisted in venturing alone
‘upon the dangerous mountain. Moritz looked |
very grave at the recital, pushed away his
scarcely tasted meal, and rose from the table. __
“T must see after them, wife,” said he,
“moving towards the door. “Don’t be troubled
about me if I am not home to-night. Take
care of the little stranger, and keep him from |
fretting. Good-night, my Else; good-night,
Alex, my son.”
An Unexpected Charge. 11

The father was gone, and the mother, having
watched him from the door until he disappeared
from sight, returned slowly into the house, and
called the boys from their play. That night
Victor shared his little playfellow’s humble bed,
and kind-hearted, motherly Elsé gave him a
good-night kiss as hearty and loving as she
bestowed on her own Alex.

It was late on the following afternoon when
Kimer returned, followed by several of the
neighbours, who had set off early that morning
to assist in the search. Every effort to find the
missing travellers had been unsuccessful, and it
Seemed but too probable that they had perished
among the treacherous abysses of the mountain.
Inquiries were made after them in the neigh-
bouring villages, but in vain, and soon the affair
was almost entirely forgotten by the peasants;
for accidents among the mountains were too
numerous to excite more than passing attention.
But the Elmers had the recollection of the
disaster ever fresh in their minds, for every
sight of little Victor recalled it; and Victor still
remaine1 in their cottage, as he had done since

his first arrival in the village. Many and
120 The Adopted Son. -

anxious were the discussions between Moritz
and his wife touching the forsaken boy. Their
kind hearts were full of compassion for him, —
and they shrank from giving him up to the
magistrate of the nearest town, to be treated
and reared as a pauper child; yet it seemed
impossible for them to provide for him. As
long as the summer lasted they could contrive, —
they thought, by self-denial, to find food and
shelter for the little orphan; but how were they
to manage when winter set in, with its terrible
ice and snow? |

Elsé vividly remembered the miseries she and
her husband had endured during the winter
that had just passed; the lack of fuel, of warm
clothing, even of the coarsest food. The tears
came into her eyes as she heard once again, in
fancy, Alex’s piteous appeal, so often repeated —
and so often necessarily unanswered, for a little
bread; and the yet greater anguish she had
' endured at seeing her husband, when he fancied
himself unnoticed, transfer from his plate to
hers a part of his own scanty and insufficient
portion. Every summer, too Moritz’s earnings
seemed to decrease; the skill of his neighbours
An Unexpected Charge. 13

in carving quite eclipsed his own poor attempts,
and few cared to purchase the rough and almost

clumsy articles at which he had worked so long ~

and patiently. Elsé looked disconsolately at

the slender provision they had laid by, and
thought apprehensively of the long and severe
winter that was fast approaching. If, during
the last one, they had barely escaped starvation,
how could they hope this year to find the means
for providing, not themselves alone, but also the
little stranger, with food? But in the end
affection prevailed over every other considera-
tion, and Moritz and Elsé determined to adopt
the friendless orphan—to treat him as their own
Alex, and to trust to God to find the necessary
means for his support.

Years passed by, and meanwhile changes had
come to the inmates of the humble dwelling on
the mountain-side. The Elmers had faithfully
performed the mutual promise they had made
respecting little Victor, and had denied them-
selves everything save the barest necessaries of
lite, in order that he might want for nothing.
The boy had now passed from childhood to
youth, and was at once the pride and delight of
14 | The Adopted Son.

his adopted parents, and the loved. companion of
their son. |

Poor Alex’s lot was a a hard one. in climbing,
whilst still quite young, among the mountains,

' , he had fallen from a giddy height, and had

barely escaped with his life; so severe indeed
were the injuries he had received, that it seemed
probable he would never rise again from his bed.
His only solace was in carving, and the great
skill he manifested in this work delighted and
astonished his less gifted father.
Moritz carved no longer now. He and Elsé
were rapidly growing old and infirm, and needed
comforts which, however, they were wholly
unable to procure. Victor acted as mountain-—
guide to strangers during the short summer-
time; but in winter the little family fared as _
bully. and experienced almost as great distress, |
as in the old days. .
The weather was now bleak and threatening ;
the little lakes, lying embosomed among the

mountains, were thickly coated with ice, and all

the inhabitants of the lonely hamlet predicted
the near approach of the dreaded snows. Poor
old Moritz sat shivering by the side of. the
An Unexpected Charge. 15

empty and cheerless grate, listening to the
monotonous sound of wood-chipping that came —
from the corner by his son’s bed. Alex lay,
partly propped by pillows, working industriously,
and glancing at intervals, with pardonable satis-
faction, at a large tray by his side, covered with
specimens of his handiwork. The boy could
not help sighing as he reflected how many
weary months must pass before he could hope
for a chance of selling his little stock. Victor,
too, was gazing in turn at the tray of carvings
on the table, and at the bent figure at the fire-
side, as if revolving some plan in his mind.

_ Presently he rose, and took his cap from its
nail on the wall. Moritz, Els, and the invalid
_ all fixed their eyes on him in Inquiring astonish-

ment.

“Victor, my child,” 1 remonstrated the mother,
“you are not going out in this bitter cold on
the treacherous icy paths?”
The boy came over to where she sat, and
bent down to kiss tenderly her wrinkled forehead.
‘Don’t oppose me, mother,” said he, entreat-
ingly. “I must go. I cannot remain inactive
here, and see you and my father slowly perish
16 _ The Adopted Son. |

for want of comforts, There is yet time before |
the snows set in for the accomplishment of my
purpose.” |
He turned towards the sick boy. |
Alex, will you trust your finished work to’
me? Iwill go a into the valley and a to
sell it for you.” 7
“My boy, you will perish ie cold,” remon-

strated Moritz; and Elsé laid her hand on his



shoulder to detain him. « |
But Alex listened eagerly to the proposal,

and stretched out his arm to push his treasures —

_ towards Victor. Finding objection and opposition
useless, the aged father and mother at length _
gave a reluctant consent to the plan, and the
boy, followed by their prayers, started on his

dangerous and self-chosen mission. _ |


17

CHAPTER II.
Bictor Finds his Father.

\ sv ff FTER his friend’s departure Alex
4 carved more industriously than
Ah P ever, and tried to cheer his
Pe Ie \. parents by picturing the change that
Victor’s successful return would

ok make in their poverty-stricken home.
Ke But Moritz and Elsé had borne

y ae privation and want too long to hope for
. any relief; and their hearts misgave
them wienuees they thought of, or
prayed for, the absent boy. |
- Soon the snows came on, and drifted thickly
around the secluded little cottage, and even fell
occasionally through its decaying roof and the

insecure frames of its small narrow windows.
Never had the Elmers felt the pressure of want
BO severely as now; and never before had the

winter seemed so hard, or the cold so piercing.
og #8



we
/ 4

to,
rs
18 ' ‘Lhe Adopted Son.

The half-finished spoon which Alex was carving
dropped repeatedly from his benumbed hands;
tears of weakness and grief coursed tnauiety 7
down old Moritz’s furrowed face; and Elsé —
moved slowly and painfully about the cold and.
dreary room, trying to give it somewhat of a
home-like look. There were no signs of Victor’s
return; but. although the father and mother >
_ dqubted if they should ever see him again, they

never failed to pray for him daily. It was their

greatest comfort to kneel by the bedside of their
sick son, and commit themselves and their wan-_

dering boy into the keeping of Him whose eyes

are in every place, and whose mercies are over
all His works. Moritz and Elsé had preserved,
| through all their trials and hardships, the same
simple piety and faith taught to them in youth, |
and now it was to be their stay and support
when all else was taken from them.
- The distress and want in the little home were
daily felt with increased acuteness, and the
father and mother had reason to fear that soon
food would fail them altogether. But suddenly
the frozen banks of snow began to soften under
the unexpected influence of a mild wind; and
Victor Finds his Father. — 19°

scarcely had the thaw set in, when Victor.
returned. |

Not alone he came. Moritz and Elsé gazed
_ with astonishment at his companion; for in the
handsome bronzed features of the high-born
gentleman they traced a striking likeness to
_ those of their adopted son.

Victor’s tale was soon told. He had, with
much difficulty, made his way down into the
valley, and proceeded, by slow and laborious
journeys, to the largest town in the Canton,
_ where he hoped to obtain a higher price for
Alex’s delicate carvings than the country-people
could afford to give. He paced the streets per-
severingly with his load, insensible to cold or
hunger; the recollection of the dear ones whom
he had left in want and distress at home gave

additional stimulus to his exertions, and he ~ |

resolved not to return to them until he was able
in some degree to raise them from their im-
poverished condition. After much waiting, and
many unsuccessful attempts to dispose advanta-
geously of his wares, he resolved, not without
‘some hesitation, to offer them to the proprietor
of a large business exclusively connected with


20 | The Adopted Son.

carving. Timidly and doubtfully he presented —
himself at the great warehouse, and solicited an —
interview with the owner. He was introduced
to a grave and melancholy-looking gentleman, .

who examined, critically and minutely, the.

delicate and graceful ornaments on which Alex

had bestowed. so much care and attention. The |
result of the scrutiny was more than satisfactory,
and the merchant offered for the goods a far
higher price than even Victor would have dared

to ask. Grateful for so much kindness, the boy

readily answered the questions put to him
respecting the talented carver of the wares, and
related, with touching simplicity, the reasons
that had induced him to leave home, and the
pleasure he anticipated in returning to relieve
the wants of those who were as dear to him as_
father, mother, and brother. The merchant
had understood that he was speaking of his.
parents. Victor, in explanation, related his own —
history, secretly wondering at the great im-
pression it seemed to produce on his hearer.
He was still more astonished when, at its close,
he found himself held in a close and tender
embrace, and felt warm tears dropping on to his


Victor Finds his Father. : 91

face, and learned, by the broken and agitated
utterances of his companion, that he was in his
father’ S arms.

- Elsé lifted her hands in ied amazement and

7 thankfulness at so unexpected a revelation, and
| gazed in bewildered inquiry at the stranger,
- who now spoke.

‘My good people, I cannot express to you in
words the gratitude I feel in my heart for your
unwearied kindness and love to my boy; but I
hope to manifest my thankfulness in a better
way. I think you have the right to know how
_ Victor came to be first brought to your dwelling ;
it is my purpose to tell you this as briefly as.
possibile. When he was a young child, his
mother died suddenly; and my grief at her loss
was at first so great that the sight of the boy
(ior he much resembled her) was insupportable
to me. My brother and his wife were then
setting out on a long travelling expedition, and _
_ they offered to take charge of Victor, hoping |

that, when they returned, the violence and
passion of my sorrow would have in some degree
abated. I willingly acceded to the proposal,
and suffered my boy to go with them, without
29 | The Adopted Son.

making any inquiry into their proposed move-
ments. I never saw them again, and only
heard, incidently, after the lapse of many years,.
that they had perished on a mountain expedition.
Of my son I could learn nothing. It was in
vain that I made incessant inquiries, and paid
repeated visits to every place at which the
travellers had been seen. I offered large re-
wards for his recovery, and set on foot a strict

search, which I fondly hoped would prove —

eventually successful; but every attempt to re-
cover my child was vain. At length I gave up
all hope, and resigned myself to a lonely and
miserable existence. Business prospered with
me; in a few years I was a rich man. But
riches were of little worth in my eyes, and only
valuable as enabling me to relieve suffermg and
want. I looked for no more joy on earth, when

_ suddenly more was given me than I had possessed

for years. In the simple, brave mountain boy —
who came to sell me the ornaments his adopted
brother had made I recognised my Victor, and
his artless recital of the history of his life placed _
his identity beyond a doubt.” |

The speaker paused, trembling with line,
Victor Finds his Father. 23

Moritz lifted his bowed head, and —
thanked God for His wonderful mercies; while
Elsé wept unrestrainedly. Victor seated himaclf
by Alex’s bedside, and clasped his brother’s
hand affectionately. It was long before any of
the party spoke again. There was a thankful-
ness, deep in its very silence, in the hearts of all.
Victor presently described the difficulties that
he and his father had experienced in attempting
to reach the cottage; and the merchant hastened
to assure the Elmers that, after recovering his
_ son, his one desire was to care for the comfort
of those who had acted a father and mother’s
part towards the helpless child for so many
years. | |

Moritz and Elsé were never again now to feel
_ privation or want; Alex was no more to sigh in
vain for the batuid dear to all sufferers; for
the father of their adopted son felt unable to do.
enough for these devoted friends. He would
gladly have removed them into his own magni-
ficent dwelling; but to this neither father nor
mother would consent; their hearts’ affections
_ were fixed in their own humble home, and the
desire | of both, was to die among the mountains


24 The Adopted Son,

they loved so much. , Alex too was: happy | in |
‘the simple life he led, and refused to leave his

parents; so the Elmers still remained in the

midst of their neighbours and friends, having
their every want provided for, and almost their
every wish fulfilled, by the grateful love and
generosity of the youth whom they had cherished,
and the father to whom they had been, in God’s

good providence, the unconscious means of re-
storing him.




FRANK’S TEMPTATION AND VICTORY.
eS

IL.—HOW FRANK WAS TRIED.




NDUSTRIOUS, unselfish, and
obedient, Frank Baldwin was
a son of whom any parent’s
heart might well be proud.
Frank’s home was a humble
one, and when a mere boy he
felt it a delight to be able to
do anything to make lighter
the burden which he saw

rested heavily on his parents.

He had early listened to the voice which says,

“My son, give Me thine heart ;” and when he

expressed a desire to go from home to try his
tortune, his parents consented, for they felt
assured that in all times of trouble and per-

_ plexity he would seek comfort and guidance
from his Father in heaven.

an - \ ay i
NS ie
i Pr


26 Frank’s Temptation and Voctory.

Frank left home with a brave heart, and
found his way to one of our large western cities.
He immediately began his search for employ-
ment. He met rebuffs, but he was not dis-
couraged. He had no friends to aid him, but —
he asked God to guide him. |

The only position that opened to him J |
this time was one but little above that of a

_ porter. The compensation offered was small,

but Frank did’ not on that account hesi-—
tate. ‘Who knows, ” thought he, “but if the —
duties of this humble office are faithfully per-
formed, the way may thus be paved to some-
thing better ?”? and he cheerfully entered upon -
his duties. His companions were not congenial,
but Frank’s pleasant face and friendly way soon
won their hearts. |
Longing, as he sometimes did, almost to home-
sickness, for a sight of the dear faces far away,
it was hard always to keep up a brave heart;
and he might have been tempted into wrong —
paths but for his precious Bible, with its sweet
‘promises and kindly warnings. |
Soon after Frank entered upon his new duties, :
he was s told oy his employer that he expected


How Frank was Tried. | A

him to be at his post on Sabbath morning, as

usual.

Frank felt a choking in his throat as he an-
~ swered, “I have always been accustomed to
| spend the Sabbath morning in church, and I
So supposed when I entered your service that I
could still enjoy that privilege.”

“You have the evening for that purpose,”
was answered. “I am sorry to take from you
a part of the day that you consider your own;
but the work must be done, and as it properly

belongs to you, I expect you to do it.”

/ He had spoken firmly, and in a moment was
gone. Frank was greatly troubled. His em-
ployer had said that the work must be done,

and that-he would be expected to do it. What

could he do?

When the Sabbath morning came, with a
heavy heart he went to the office and performed
his accustomed tasks. In the evening, he occu-
pied his place in the sanctuary, but he could
- not enter heartily into the services. He felt
that he had robbed God of a part of the day,
and was offering to Him but the remnant.
Through the weeks that followed, the maiter
23 F rank’ s Temptation and Victory.

was much on his mind. He felt that he conld

not retain his position if he insisted that on the —
Lord’s day no work should be required of him; ~
and out of employment, and without friends in
that great city, what could he do? When he

turned to his Bible, this plain command con- _

fronted him: “Remember the Sabbath day to
keep it holy.” | |

But other thoughts came at length, bringing _
gleams of light into the darkness. Had not :
God promised blessings to those who call the |
Sabbath a delight, honourable; not doing their
own ways, nor finding their own pleasure, nor '
speaking their own words. He would not longer |
dishonour God. He would keep holy God’s |
Sabbath, and believe God’s promises. When
he had thus decided, his mind was at rest. a

Before Saturday night came again, he sought i
an interview with his employer. a
“TJ sannot work on the Sabbath,” he sald,
“for I am sure that I am not doing right, and |
[ have been very unhappy about it.” |

It cost him an effort to make this honest state-

ment, but he could not waver, for God, he felt, |

had made. his duty plain.




Good Conduct Rewarded. 99

‘His employer looked at him steadily for a
| moment, and then said, ‘“‘ Come to me on Monday
| morning, and I will then decide your case.” |
} The Sabbath was an anxious day for him;
} and many a prayer was offered up that God
| would help him to bear with the right spirit
| whatever might lie before him.

Il-—GOOD CONDUCT REWARDED.

Ar the appointed time on Monday morning
_ he presented himself at the office. His employer
received him kindly; and after a moment of
silence, he said: |
_ “T have watched you carefully since the first
day that you entered. this office, and I can truly
say that you have been faithful, discharging
with cheerful alacrity every duty that has de-
volved upon you. In nothing have you manifested
a spirit of insubordination, except in the matter
_ of spending a portion of the Sabbath in your
customary employments. But in this I believe
that you have acted conscientiously, and your
80 Frank's Temptation and Victory.

scruples shall be respected. You shall no longer |
be required to work on the Sabbath : but I
cannot longer permit = ~ occupy your Present

position.” :
- Frank’s heart sunk like lead. So he was
after all to lose his situation! |

~“T cannot longer allow you to retain your

present position,” continued his employer ; “but |
you have proved yourself so capable and so
trustworthy that I cannot part with you. One |
week from this day the post of. cashier in this —
office will be vacant. That position I offer to —
you. The post is an important one; but you —

will, I am sure, so discharge your duties as to _

give me no occasion to feel that my confidence
in you has been misplaced. Take your place at —
- the desk this morning. Mr. Clarkson, asI have |
said, will remain one week longer, and you will,
I trust, at the expiration of that time have |
become somewhat familiar with your new duties.”’ |

Frank was bewildered. Had he heard aright?
Yes, it was all true; and there sat his employer,
looking kindly at — and — at his — 7
embarrassment. |
“You may go to ‘the office a, he said, }


Good Conduct Rewarded. a 31.
: presently. = You will find Clarkson there to |
receive you.”
Frank’s heart was too full then to trust hints |

self to thank his employer, but he asked, “ =a
I go to my room for a short time, now ?”’



/ . Certainly you may go,” was the kind answer.
Going hastily out, Frank went quickly to his
- room, and closing the door behind him, threw
_ himself on his knees and poured out his thanks-
- giving to God who had ordered all this. He
. had hoped only that he might retain his place.
F He felt that he could never again doubt God
prbo had so greatly blessed him.

: After offering up a fervent prayer that God
would enable him to discharge well and worthily
“the duties of his new office, and to honour him in
all things, he went, as he had been directed to
do, to the cashier’s desk.

Mr. Clarkson was much interested in the
young man thus unexpectedly called to fill an
important position in the office, and he resolved
to do all in his power to aid him.

_ The week that followed was a very happy
and a very busy one; and at its close, Frank
was left alone with his new duties.






82 Frank’s Temptation and Victory.

In his new position Frank was called to en _
counter new trials. There were several men in
the office who felt that they had claims upon |
the post soon to be made vacant, and each had
secretly hoped that he would be the favoured |
one. What then was the surprise and chagrin
of all, to see a “mere boy,” as they regarded —
Â¥rank, and one, too, who had occupied so humble ~
_ a place, promoted to the coveted position. os

They did not attempt to conceal the nature of
_ their feelings from Frank, and im many ways 7
tried to annoy him. | |

All this Frank bore patiently, never resenting a

_ by word or act any unkindness received. As

he gradually became familiar with his duties, so

that he found it necessary to spend less time at
the desk, he employed his leisure hours in assist-
ing those whose duties occupied more time than
his own; and by his continued and unobtrusive ©
kindness, he won his way to the hearts of those |
who had regarded him with envious feelings.

_ Frank ‘still lives, an honoured man in every
circle where he is known. In all his ways he —
has acknowledged and honoured God, and God
has gremey blessed him. | |


THE SKATERS,

“A CANADIAN STORY.



atte ‘Waees HE Christmas holidays were
- drawing to a close, and the
school-boys of Littleton had,
individually and collectively,
made up their minds to enjoy
to the very utmost the few
that remained. There were
not two opinions as to the
_ means to be used to this end.
It does not often happen in
iis Winter’ s Canadian dominions that the
coming of the bitter frost precedes the coming
_ of the snow; but it was so now, and the mill-
| pond near the village lay glittering in the sun-
light, a firm sheet of crystal. The skating was
perfect. The sky was clear; but there appeared
upon it, here and there, mistv streaks and
bp |


o4 The Skaters,

flakes of clouds, towards which many boyish
eyes were turned knowingly. Betore another :
_ sunrise, the snow might lie deep upon the smooth
surface of the lake; and the pleasure of three
days must be crowded into this one day of sport.
So the village street rang with shout and hallovs,
as the merry lads took their way to the ice. |
Even the mothers of Littleton were content
to-day, and tied on mutters and sought out stray
- mittens, and sent off the merry skaters with good
will, glad to secure the quiet of the house with- —
out disturbance to their own peace of mind. For
not the most timid and anxious of them all

could, with any show of reason, cast a doubt un __

the strength of the ice after two or three such
nights as had just passed. The most reckless
lad of the village could not possibly drown him-
self to-day,—unless, indeed, he went willingly —
into the glade which was always open near the

upper end of the pond, or strayed too far down

past the bridges’ and past the point where the —
Deering Brook falls into the larger stream, just

above the dam. And of course that could never __
happen; for the glade was beyond a sudden

bend of the river, quite out of sight of the very
A Canadian Story. BH

best skating-ground; and the ice was rough
round the mouth of Deering Brook, which was
a warm little stream, and usually broke up more »
than once before it could bring itself to submit

to rest contentedly beneath its icy covering. No:

there could be no possible danger, all agreed ;
and so the enjoyment of the day promised to be
as nearly perfect as it is ever likely to be in this
disappointing world.

Nor was the pleasure to be enjoyed by | the
school-boys alone. This was before ladies gene-
rally had begun to distinguish themselves on the
ice; but still there was here and there among
the groups of rough-coated lads the gleam of a
gay scarf or plume, and more than one pretty
figure made the bright scene brighter, as, with
timid boldness, she ventured alone over the
glittering surface. .
All who could show a passable pair of iaies
“were there, and some who could show none at
all. There were sledges of all sorts and sizes;
and every now and then one of these would come
_ rushing down the steep bank of the pond with a
force that sent it to the other side, amid the
shouts and cheers of all.
36 | The Skaters,

‘The sky clouded as the day wore on, but it
grew milder, too; and some who would not have —
ventured forth in the intense frost of the morning
were beguiled in the afternoon to share the.
limited pleasure of those who, from the bridge,
were watching the skaters on the mill- -pond |
above. ‘The days were at the shortest now, and
there was no moonlight; but, though the dark-
ness was beginning to fall, the skaters showed
no signs of weariness, but every sign that they
would enjoy the pleasure to the very last; for
even now there came silent messengers from the _
~ clouds, bearing the tidings that, for this time at

ies it was the very last. | |
It was pleasant enough on the bridge, too ;
~ not so pleasant, however, but that some of the.
loiterers had turned homeward,—though the
_ greater number lingered still. Nor did they —
_Iinger for nothing. Partly conveyed by shouts,

partly by signs, came up| the news that another —

race—the last and best—we as to come of at |
once.
_ There had been a good many trials of skill
through the afternoon ; but two new competitors
were to take the ice,—lads, almost men, whom
A Canadian Story. 37

office-duties had kept within-doors till now.
One of them had long been acknowledged to be
the best skater in Littleton; the other was a
new-comer, who, though used to the sport, had
_ never tried the ice on that pond; but he seemed -
to accept the challenge with a brave heart.
_ They were to start from the bridge, and make
_ the circuit of the pond twice. The word was to
_ be given by a young lady with a crimson plume ;
_ anda feather from that very plume was to be
- the winner’s prize. |

| _ “Qne—two—three!” and away both flew,
' amid shouts and cheers that made the air ring.
. Both? Nay, there were three; for behind them
1 at first, and then abreast, was a little ragged
- figure in a blue frock and overalls. The frock
7 was fastened round the waist by an old red sash,
, and the overalis were tied at the ankles with
| Ddits of twine, over boots much too large for the
little figure above them. But the skates were
right: there could be no mistake about that.

- “Teddy Lane!” shouted the school- _— from
: the ice.

— “Teddy Lane!” echoed the gazers from the
bridge.

RI eT RET a a ees







38 The Skaters,

“Teddy Lane!. But when, and where, and _
how could he have learned to skate?” is the
question from all. |
_ Who knows? Probably on borrowed skates,
on moonlight nights, or when less fortunate lads
were pining in the school. Skate he did, and
well, too. He was abreast of them when they
disappeared behind the point; he was before
them when they came in sight again. He doffed

his cap to the lady with the crimson plume full |
- five seconds before the other skaters came near;
pausing to start fair with them again, he disap
peared first. beyond the point; and when the
distance could be fairly measured from the
bridge as they came in sight once more, he was
_ full three rods before the foremost. :

With a whoop and a call, he circled round
_ the group at the goal, and, with no pause as the
other lads came up, skimmed away, beneath the _
bridge, and past the mouth of Deering Brook, |
and still farther over the ice beyond. ‘Then —
from the bridge there arose a cry, which echoed _
among the hills like the voice of Death; and
then came a silence as terrible. Then Reis who

did not shut their eyes in horrar saw the
A Canadian Story. 39°

treacherous mass give way,—and Teddy Lane —
was gone! .
No! He rose again, and, clutching, first with
one hand and then with the other, the brittle
edge that broke at his touch, he struggled till a
long, narrow fragment, loosened from the mass
by his frantic efforts and by the pressure of his
weight, sailed slowly away towards the middle
of the stream.

‘He will be over the dam!” cried one.

“No: he may stick at the jutting rock
above!” cried another.
— “God keep him from the jutting rock! The
eddy there would put him beyond all help.”

Poor, ragged, motherless, homeless Teddy
Lane! How many hearts stood still with fear

in that moment so perilous to him! How many

eyes were strained to catch a glimpse of safety
for him. |
Already a score or two of runners had crossed
_ the foot-bridge over Deering Brook, and were
jostling each other on the brink of .the larger
stream. In another minute the gazers on the
_ bridge saw a slender figure, without hat or coat,
advancing rapidly over the ice towards the


40 — «The Skaters.

mnoving mass to which the boy still clung.
Around his waist was fastened a rope, and in.
one hand he carried a pole, with which he
proved the ice before he trusted himself to it.
God give him strength and courage! for he is
trying for a higher prize than a crimson feather
‘now. | | |
Teddy Lane was saved; and of course the lad
who saved him was a hero, from that day, to all
the skaters on the pond, and to all the village
besides. If he were to be my hero, I would tell
you all about Teddy Lane and him,—how,
though Teddy won the crimson feather, the
other won from the fair umpire something that
he valued more, and how he “lived happy ever |
after,” as, in story-books, heroes are supposed
to do. | | | /


THE FIRST LIE

CHAPTER I.
— The OL Brown Sug.

-@ LBERT WALLBROOK was the only
h son of his mother, and she was a
y% widow. No mother and son were |
We ever happier together. They loved
_ NY each other truly ; and what sweetened
_and deepened their natural affection was that
they both loved God, and tried to serve Him.

Thus passed the happy days of childhood
nd youth with Albert Wallbrook, till the time
came when he said he must go out into the
world, and begin life for himself. Mrs. Wall-
brook wept much when she thought of his going, _
but she knew that it was necessary, and gave

her consent readily. |











But it was not so easy to find clvoulak as
42 The First Lie.
Albert expected. He found that the world was
full of young men beginning life like himself;
and whenever he discovered a vacant place that _
he thought he was exactly qualified to fill, some
one else stepped in before him and took posses- —
sion of it. So a year passed, and he was no
nearer a situation than at first, while the neces-.
‘sity for it was greatly increased. a
_ Albert had a friend named Walter Egerton,
who knew of his anxiety 'to obtain a situation,

Walter’s.father, a solicitor, was intimate with -

several men of influence, and he promised to do
what he could for his son’s friend. So. when |
he heard one day that a nobleman, one of b's —
chents, wanted a private secretary, he recum-_

mended Albert so highly that Lord Elmore s

wrote to say he would engage the young man,
provided only he was a member of a Protestant :

church, and was not over twenty years of age.

Walter was greatly delighted when. his father
received this letter, and he set off at once to tell: _
Albert the good news. You.may guess how —
glad and thankful Albert was. God had heard —
his prayers, he thought, and he would now be |
able to help his mother as she had _ hitherto
The Old Brown Jug. 43

| helped him. But when he read the nobleman’s
} letter a second time, his countenance fell, and he
i exclaimed sorrowfully, “I am too old; I was



i twenty-one a few days ago.” |

| -- “No matter for that,” returned Walter. “A. _
few days cannot make much difference ; and
| Lord Elmore will never know.”

_. “But I know.” |

| : os Oh, nonsense! You seit not throw away a
chance like this for such a scruple. Lord EI-

more is.a man of great influence, and his private













secretary may rise to be anything.”

- “T know that, and I am “7 SOrry that Iam
not qualified for the situation.”

~ “But ‘you are qualified, if you will ae say
you are twerity instead of twenty-one. Such
hings are done every day. People would never
et on in the world if they did not strain their
nsciences a little.” a
“Then better not to get on atall. It is more
mecessary that we should have a conscience void
of offence than prosper in the world.”

= But this is such a slight matter. It is not
like saying you belonged to’a Protestant church
if you didn’t: it will do no one the least harm: ©
4A The First Lie:

for what difference can it make to Lord Elmore?
and it will do you a great deal of good.”

“No, Walter; it would do me only harm : |
for it would come like a cloud between God val |
my soul. I told a lie once, and by God’s help I
shall never tell another. There are no little |
false. words in His sight.” ?

“T never knew. you tell a lie, old fellow.”

“No, I hope not; it was long ago, when I
was a very little soe yet I recollect it as dis-
_ tinctly as if it had happened yesterday.”
| “Tell me all about it.” 3

“Tt would take me too long to do that; you
would be tired of listening.”
~ “No, I shall not.’ I want to hear its and |
perhaps your story may convince me that you.
are right in ruining your prospects. At present _
I cannot help thinking you altogether wrong.”

Now, my dear young readers, before you hear
Albert’s story, I must say a word or two about
Walter, who appears as tempting him to do
wrong. He was not wholly bad, or he would
not have been the friend of Albert. But he had
_ not been traimed in the same careful and prayer-_

_ ful way; and his conscience was not so tender,




The Old Brown Jug. 45

; or scrupulous, as he called it, as that of his

companion. He did not really believe there
was sin in what he advised, saying that Albert

was not twenty-one when the situation was
heard of. I am not giving this narrative to

injure Walter, but to approve the conscientious
and truthful character of Albert. So now for
the story, as told by him, of his first and only he.

The first thing I ever remember seeing was

my dear mother’s face; the next was an old-
fashioned brown jug, covered with white raised —
- hunting figures, and having a white handle
twisted like a rope. It used to be on a small
q round table in the nursery, and I have often lain
— looking at it for hours at a time, waiting for the ©
, men to mount their horses, and for the hunts-
man to loose his hounds from their leashes, and
wondering why they never moved.

My mother prized the jug, because it had

: been in the family for a long time ; and when-
ever Bridget, my nurse, let me go to it for the
1 milk that was always kept in it for my use, she.
; would warn me to take care of breaking my
‘ mamma’s jug. Since so much store was set by
46 "The First Lie.

this jug, it seems strange that it was left exposed
todaily peril. I never thought of that then; but
as nothing happens by chance, I can see now
why it all was, as you shall soon hear. — So

When I was about five years old, my constant
playfellow was Topsy, a little black terrier, that
I loved a little less than my mother, and a little |
more than my nurse Bridget. One summer -
evening I was playing with a ball in the
nursery. Suddenly there was a crash ; and to my
dismay I saw the beautiful white rope handle of
the jug lying in two pieces on the table, and the
jug itself on the floor, with part of the. rim eS
broken. Topsy ‘sat at my teet, looking up in
my face as if asking who was to. pay the
damage.

Bridget, hearing the noise, ran into the r room ;

: and when she saw the mischief, she iilialtaade |
angrily, “There! you have broken yourmam- |

ma’s jug. I knew you would do some harm |
with that nasty ball: it shall be taken from you,

and thrown into the fire.’ She made a snatch

_at the ball as she spoke; but I caught it up
from the table before she could reach if, and
held it ently, saying, “Tt-was not I broke the q


The Old Brown Jug. — 47

| Jug; it was Topsy ;” but I felt my face grow very
red, and knew I did not look like a truth-teller.
“You bad, wicked boy! You know you are
telling a falsehood. Come along to your mam-
ma, and see what she’ll do to you,” said Bridget,
laying hold of my arm.
“T don’t want to go to mamma,” J said,
flinging away from her; but Bridget caught
me again, and dragged me to the drawing-room
Although I did not want to go to my mother,
I had yet some hope that she would rescind
Bridget’s dreadiul edict for the burning of the
ball. She looked very much surprised to see me
thus brought before her, sobbing tearless sobs; _
while Bridget still held my arm, as if I were a
prisoner wanting to run away. | 4
“Why, Bertie, what is the matter?” she
asked, holding out her hand to me. |
_“He’s a bad, wicked boy, ma’am,” answered
* nurse, still clutching my arm. ‘He has broken ©
the milk-jug with that nasty ball; and then
_ told a lie to hide it, and said it was Topsy.”
‘So it was Topsy ; and it’s you that 1s wicked
to say that it was I, and to want to burn my

ball » T sobbed.
48 — The First Lie.

~ “ Bertie, Bertie!” my mother remonstrated ;
and Bridget exclaimed, |
‘Well I never did hear the like of that!”
“That will do, nurse. Leave Bertie to me
for a little while,” said my mother. | |
As soon as Bridget left the room, she took me ©
on her knee, and kissed me, saying, “ Now, my
boy, tell me what is the matter.”’ |
' T would have been glad enough to have ine |
so: but having once told the lie, something ©
seemed to impel me to stick to it. Besides,

es -nurse’s threats still held me in terror, and :

mamma might be persuaded by her that the
ball ought to be burned if she knew the damage
I had done with it. So, instead of confessing
what I had done, I made up the most plausible
_ story I could think of to deceive her, saying that.
Topsy jumped up on the table, when I was
playing with him and the ball, and knocked 4
‘down the jug.
“ Well, love, I am very sorry, but it cannot
be helped ; and I do not see that you were to —
blame, except in being so rude with Bridget.”
‘Not to blame!” I thought, and sobbed
harder than ever. ,
The Old Brown Jug. 49

‘ Hush! Bertie dear. | Tears will not mend

“it, and there is really nothing to cry about.”

“She said you would burn the ba-all,” I

, sobbed, feeling that my grief might seem sus-

_ picious if not accounted for.

_ “Burn your ball for Topsy’s fault? Nurse

j ought to have known I would not do that. You
, are quite certain it was Topsy did bP”
_ “Oh yes, mamma.”

‘Then there 1s nothing more to cry about.

_ We cannot punish poor little Topsy, who did
; not know he was doing any harm, can we P—
. unless we keep his bone from him to-night.
| Shall we do that?”

“Qh no, mamma.”
The meanness and ingratitude of laying the

7 blame on Topsy had not struck me till then;
_ and I felt that if he were to be punished for it,
: I must tell the truth at any cost. Mamma, I
4 knew, was only joking; but there was no say-
. ing what punishment Bridget might inflict on
} Topsy if she really believed that he broke the
| jug; so I sobbed harder than ever.

‘ Bertie darling,” said mamma, “stop crying

now, like a good little boy, and run out into the

xz 4
50 The First Lie.

garden, and have a game before bed-time.”
She dismissed me with a kiss; and, slipping
down from her knee, I ran to the garden, with

Topsy at my heels, and the ball in my hand. -
I had never told a lie before, but I knew

quite well how sinful it was, and it lay very —

heavy on my conscience. Still, I was not really
sorry; for I rejoiced more at having saved the
ball, than I grieved at having saved it at the
cost of a falsehood. “If nurse does say any-

thing more about it, mamma will not believe _
her,” I thought, as Topsy and I began running © |

races along the garden walks; and in the fun
and excitement I soon forgot all about the lie.

But the sun went down while we played;
and a grey mist crept over the sky, and the tall
yew-trees at the garden gate began to look
grim and spectral in the uncertain light. A
strange wierd feeling took possession of me; I
felt as if every one was far away out of reach,
and only Topsy and I were left in the world. I — |
began to wish that Bridget would come and —
take me to bed; but the light grew dimmer, _

and the yew-trees grew dimmer, and still shedid |

not come. ‘Topsy had slunk away as if he found 2


The Old Brown Jug. ‘61

my company no longer pleasant. At last-I was
alraid to stay out any longer. Just as I
reached the door, and was going to run in, I
remembered that it would not be safe to take
my ball into the house; if Bridget was too
angry with me to put me to bed she might de-
stroy the ball if it fell into her hands. |

I must hide it outside, that was plain ; and I
paused to think where I should put it. There
was an old nest in the very heart of one of the
bushes. I would deposit it there, if only I
could muster courage to put in my hand, and if
nothing would j jump out and bite me as I did it.
_ I shpped up to the bush, and laid the ball
securely in the nest. Just then a bird in the
next bush, disturbed by this unusual visit, and
from its first sleep, flew away Soong, and
‘scared me by its noise.
How guilt makes cowards of us! That poor
— little bird, frightened out of its wits, probably,
did certainly irighten me out of mine. It
_ seemed as if it had been a witness of what I
_ was about and had gone to tell, as little birds
_ of the air are said to do. I took to heels,
_ fleeing, though none pursued.
oe

CHAPTER II.
A Aseful Desgon.

oME, Walter, you must be
_ tired of this long tale. But —
you asked to hear it all.”
“Not a bit, old fellow.
It is as good as a story out
of a book. Besides, it is
worth your trouble to tell,
for you have more than half



convinced me already that I was in the wrong.
Go on. What is it that Dr. Watts, or one of
those old poets, says,

‘A verse may find him who a sermon flies ?’

And if a verse, much more a story.”

“Well, I agree with you, that a story or a
parable may point a moral as well as can be
done by a sermon or a poem: and for the
young, better. I must write out this tale some
day. But, by the way, it was George Herbert
who wrote the line you quoted just now. But
I will go on. Where was IP”
A Useful Lesson. — BS
‘You were running back to the house when
the bird flew out of the bush.”

Well, I never stopped till I got to the door.
Nurse was not in the parlour, nor in the nursery,
so I went to look if she were in the drawing-
room with mamma. I was not afraid of her
now that my ball was safe, and I was very
tired, and wanted her to put me to bed.

When I got to thedrawing-room door I heard
her talking with mamma. I did not hear what

she was saying; but just as I was going to turn
the handle, mamma said, “ You must be mis-
taken, nurse; it would break my heart if I
thought Bertie would tell me a lie.”

“He did then, ma’am, you may depend upon
it. TI wouldn’t have told you to-night, only you ©
_ got it from me before I knew.”

I waited to hear no more, but slunk away
like the culprit I was, and slipped quietly up
_ stairs to my own bedroom. I undressed my-

self as quickly as I could, and crept under the
bed-clothes.

After a while, Bridget came in with a candle
- in her hand, and pulled down the quilt.
54 The First Lie.

“Oh, you are there!” she said, “and I’ve
been looking for you all over the place. Why
didn’t you wait for me to'put you to bed?”

_ “Tecan go to bed without you,” I answered,
plunging round so as to turn my back to her.

‘“‘T dare say you can. - Little boys that are
old enough 1 to tell lies are old enough to undress
themselves, But I am sure you didn’t say your |

prayers.”

_ “Iwill say them to mamma when she ‘comes
to bid me good night.” | |
_“ Your mamma won’t come to- sight; ; ‘She 18

very ill”

I felt stunned with grief and terror wie :
she told me that, for I thought I had really
broken my mother’s heart, and that she would.

die. The very word “broken” called up afresh -

“» the scene of my guilt.

«Can it ever be mended again, nurse?” I

said, sobbing. } | | |
“Oh yes, dear. I kept the a and itis

not so badly broken. But you shouldn't =

told a lie about it.” |

, “T don’t mean the Jug, iI mean mamma's
heart.”


:,

A Useful Lesson | 55
- Why, the child is dazed! exclaimed

Bridget, while I sat up in bed, sobbing. “Lie

down like a good boy; ask God to forgive you,

and to make dear mamma well, and then g° to

F sleep.”

I lay down as she bade me, and she tucked

_ the clothes in well at my back and then went

away ; ‘telling me again to go to sleep.

But I could not sleep; whenever I closed my

eyes I saw my mother’s face, pale as death,
- before me; and once when I dozed off for a

- minute, I hasialal I saw her standing by my

bed, reproaching | me for having broken her heart.

I sat up in bed again, listening—oh so eagerly !

—for any sound from her room; but though I

_ strained my ears, and held my breath, I could

hear nothing. I could see the light streaming
faintly under the door from where I lay, for

her room was directly opposite mine, at the

_ further end of the lobby; but all was still.

The agony of those hours I shall - never

forget. My mother had always taught me that

God would hear and answer prayer; but I

dared not pray, because I had been so wicked.
_ Had it been possible, I would have hid myself
«56 The First Ive. .
Irom sight. I was afraid to sleep, although I
could scarcely keep awake, lest I should waken
in the place where liars have their portion. |
Early in the morning I heard a man’s step in
the lobby, and soon knew the doctor was come
He and Bridget whispered together at the head
of the stairs for several minutes, and as he :
was going away I heard him say,
“We can tell nothing for a few days.”
“Then Bridget came into my room for some-
thing, and I asked eagerly,
“How is she?”

“Very ul; go to sleep,” she annie look-

- Ing very grave.

_ IT rose long before my _— time, and leoinal
myself, intending to go at once to mamma and
ask her to forgive me. But Bridget would not
let me go near her; the doctor said she was to —
be kept perfectly quiet, and would be very angry
with her if she disobeyed him. -

In a few hours the doctor came again. 1 —
waited till I thought he was gone, and then
ran upstairs to mamma’s room. I had heard ~
Bridget in the kitchen, and meant to go in to
mamma without her knowing.




A Useful Lesson. =.

But the doctor was not gone as I supposed ;
and just as I got to the door he came out.
“ You must not come in here, little man,” he
said; “mamma must not be disturbed.”
_ He spoke kindly ; but he, too, looked so grave
_ that I feared he had not been able to mend
mamma’s heart ; and I wondered if they had
told him that it was I had broken it. | |
| The doctor saw I looked wretched, and patted —
- my_head, saying “Poor child!” with such
kindness that I could not keep from crying.
“You must not ery, but ask God to make
poor mamma better soon,” he said, when he saw
my tears. |
~ But I dared not ask; I thought God was too
much displeased to heed anything I might say.
_ I moped in the house all day. Topsy won- |
dered what ailed me; and leaped round me,

barking, to try to coax me to have a game with

her; but after a while she seemed to discover
_ that I was in trouble, and getting on my knee,
she licked my hands and face all over, and then
curled herself up and went to sleep. Bridget
gave me my meals, as usual; but she was too
- busy attending mamma to take any further
58s he. First Lice.

notice of me; and no one heeded me till. the |
doctor paid his visit in the evening. a

I was standing on the steps, feeling very miser-
able and forlorn when he was leaving the housa
and he stopped to speak to me.

“Why don’t you run and amuse yourself, my -
boy ? Mamma will not know you when ~
gets up again if you mope about in this way.”

. He spoke as if he expected her to get better ;
but his looks were not so hopeful as his words,



and I got no comfort from them. I did not gO

out to play, but went upstairs and stood in the
lobby, hoping to get a glimpse of my mother |
when nurse should open the door. It was a
long time before she came out; but I waited —
patiently, and at last the door opened and I
saw .namma lying, looking very flushed, with —
her eyes very bright ; not at all like what I had
imagined her. And yet I was more frightened
by her appearance than if she had been pale, —
and her eyes closed. |
She saw me as soon as I saw her; but some-
how she did not seem to know me. |
‘Bertie never told me a lie. Bertie would
not deceive me,” she said, speaking in a strange
A Useful Lesson. 59

loud voice, quite-unlike her usual sweet low
tones; and looking at me as if I were a stranger.

Bridget turned hastily back into the room,
and closed the door, so that I could see no more ;

_ but I still heard my mother’s voice, pitched in a
high excited key, and I felt as if my own heart
were breaking.

My ball still lay in the green linnet’s nest,
where I had hid it the previous night ; I could
not bear to look at it or play with it, yet
through all my misery it had been a comfort to

~ think that it was safe. But now I felt as if I

hated it, because for its sake I had broken my
mother’ s heart with a li.

I rushed downstairs, sobbing, and out into the
garden; Topsy running after me in delight,
thinking that at last we were going to have a
game. He watched me put my hand into the :
yew-tree and get the ball. When I saw him
stand with open mouth, ready to spring aiter

_ and catch it as soon as I threw it, my purpose

was shaken fora moment. But the thought of
my mother strengthened me; and without ven-
turing another look at the dog, I ran back to
_ the house and threw the ball into the nursery
60 | | The First Tne.

fire, champing it down with the thie ‘and.
watching it consume with much satisfaction.
_ But poor Topsy whined piteously as he stood
with his fore paws on the fender, making little
leaps at the grate as if he meant to rescue > his
plaything from the flames. |
When it was all burned, and I could see |
nothing left of it, except a shrivelled bit of
leather, I sat down and grieved that my beau-
tiful ball was gone. Some natural tears I shed,
yet I felt happier than I had done sinceI told
the le; and I was no longer afraid to ask God —
to ales me and to mend my mother’s broken |
heart. | |
At the ond of a wook, the fever a left
her, I was told I might go to her if I would
promise to be very quiet.
Of course I promised; but as soon as I saw
_ her I sprang upon the bed in a way that was
not at all quiet. )
‘Poor little Bertie—poor little man! has he
missed mamma, sadly?” she asked caressing —
me. | -
“Qh mamma! is your heart mended?” I
cried, as I kissed her face all over.
A Useful Lesson. | 61

“Ts what mended, darling p»
‘Your heart. You said it would break if I

told a lie, and I did. It was not lopsy that

broke the jug; I did it myself with my ball, '
and I have been wanting to tell you all this
week, but they wouldn’t let me near you; and —
I thought your heart was too broken | ever to be
mended.”

“My poor little boy, why did you tell me a
lie?” she asked, with a sorrowful face.

‘““Nurse said she would burn my ball, and I
was afraid, and said it was Topsy. But I
_ burned it myself when I saw you look so strange ;
only poor Topsy was so lonely without it, I had
to roll up an old pair of socks for him to play
with—they do for him just as well—and you
know it wouldn’t have been fair to have taken
his plaything from him because I told a lie,
would it mamma?” |

“No, love!” |

And then she shut her eyes and looked so

white, I feared she was going to die. |
_ But after a little she opened them -“, and
I saw they were full of tears.
7 Poor little boy!” she repeated, sailed me
62 | The fir st Ine.

| tenderly, and then she said, “ ‘Tt me break
my heart, Bertie, if you sinned, and were not
- sorry for it. I think your burning the ball
shows you repented of the lie; but have you ~
asked the Lord of Truth to forgive you ? ”
“T did, mamma, afterwards. I was afraid to.
do it at first.” ’
“Shall we ask Him, now, to keep you from >

ever telling a falsehood again, no matter how a

you are tempted ?” |

I said “ Yes,” and knelt down on the bed, —
while she prayed that I might, through all my :
_aiter life, love truth as my own soul, and, never
swerve from it even one hair’s breadth. If I.
were to live a thousand years I would not for-.

- _ get that prayer. When it was ended I promised

my mother that my first le should be my last.
_ By God’s grace I have kept my promise up till ©

now; and by His continued help shall keep it to

the end. | |

“Well, old fellow,” Walter said, when Albert
had finished, ‘I am convinced you are right,
although, for your own sake, I wish it were
otherwise.’
| A Useful Lesson. 7 63
“Do not say that,” replied Albert. “ God’s

Jove is better than silver or gold. Something

else will turn up. for me. Thank your father
_ from me, very heartily , and tell him how it is |
_ that I cannot profit by his kindness.”’
"Walter went home very much cast down, wl
- told his father all that had passed. Mr. Egerton,
_ too, thought Albert was over-scrupulous. Yet
he could not help thinking the more highly of
— him for it. He wrote to Lord Elmore, regret-
ting that Albert was too old for the situation,
telling him how he had refused to conceal his
| age, though very little over what was required.
The next day he had the following letter
from Lord Elmore :
“Dear Egerton,—I made a stupid blunder :
when I said not over twenty, I meant not under;
and even had I not, I think, for once, I would
have changed my mind for your high-minded
_ young friend. Will you kindly ask him to call
upon me at his earliest convenience, that we
may settle as to salary, etc.; and the sooner he |

ean enter on his new duties, the better I shall

be pleased. I am, dear ae, yours truly,
‘EcMors.
64 = The First Lie.
I need not tell you, my young realers, how |
grateful Albert was when he heard the good

-news. And the best of it was that there were —
eight months of the year when he was able to

see his mother every day ; for Lord Elmore only _

spent the winter in London, and Albert could
often find time to go to see her. |

He lived to occupy a high official position,
and every one admired -him for his talents, but |
still more for the unswerving truth and honour
that never ceased to distinguish him all his days. _
_ Walter Egerton never bantered him again about
‘scruples ”’ of conscience ; and when, sometimes, |
he remembered the story of the first lie, and the |
curious blunder about the age required, his
heart warmed to his old friend. It was not.
_ merely that he knew that honesty is the best
policy, but he had learned that the fear of the |
Lord is the beginning of wisdom, and them that
honour God, He will honour. This was cer-
tainly true in the life of Albert Wallbrook. |



: RC ETT COLELLO LE AOA TOL ITAL eta Ea eeainScnaEttES
_ LONDON: KNIGHT, PRINTER, MIDDLE STREET, E.G.
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PUBLISHED BY ,
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY,


a ANS cn

aera nares
AOSTA) GIFT BOOKS FOR CHILDREN |









Gis \ eu Pets and Companions:
at YN} Pictures and Stories Ilus-
f- —_ trative of Kindness to Animals.

By MARY K, MARTIN.
Author of “ Fruits of Bible Lands,” etc.

Profusely Illustrated by Weir, Stacey,
Whymper, M. E. Edwards, I. G. Brittain,
and others. Quarto. 2s. cloth boards,

i
‘A delightful book of anecdotes of Animals, very
well illustrated, and interesting to all, old or young,
M Gea ==. who are happy enough to have a genial love for
Apes ie == birds and beasts.’ —Guaratan. r
= “Interesting anecdotes, illustrated by spirited
pictisres, make up a pleasant book. a) ‘pec tator.
‘‘ Amusing as well as instructive.”—Axelish Churchman.
|



““* A first-rate book for children.’ Presbyterian Messenger.



ALKATIVE FRIENDS

IN FIELD,
FARM, AND FOREST.

By MARY E. ROPES.

Author of “* Tom's Bennie,” “ Titl
the Sugar Melts,’ etc.

Profusely Illustrated. A simi-
lar Volume to ‘*‘Our Pets and
Companions.” Small 4to. 2s.
cloth boards.

“The juveniles always like to read about
animals talking, especially when they say
what is worth hearing. ’-—— 7%e CHret:

** A capital book, full of illustrations.”’
| British Weekly.
‘ Quite enticing for the little people.” —Szszday School Chronicle.
6 : =




ie

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=. Sees
LL}



1 The Book of Books : The Story
of the English Bible.
2 Springfield Stories.
3 Little Dot. By Mrs. Watton,
4 John Thomson’s Nursery.
5 ‘lwo Ways to begin Life. |
6 Ethel Ripon. By G. E. Sar-
GENT.
7 Little Gooseberry.
8 Fanny Ashley,and other Stories
9 ‘he Gamekeeper’s Daughter.
10 Fred Kenny; or, Out in the
World.

11 Old Humphrey’s Study Table.

12 Jenny’s Waterproof.

13 ‘The Holy Well. An Irish
Story.

14 The Travelling Sixpence.

15 The Three Flowers.

16 Lost and Rescued.

17 Lightbearers and Beacons.

18 Little Lottie ; or, the Wonder-
fil Clock.

19 The Dog of St. Bernard.

20 Isaac Gould, the Waggoner.

21 Uncle Rupert’s Stories for Boys

gee Dreaming and Doing.

ev
























40 The White Feather, | |



In Pretty Cloth Covers

with COLOURED
FRONTISPIECE.

ZSERIES:
| of Books for
Children.

23 Many Ways of being Useful, |
24 Rachel Rivers; or, What a
Child may Do.

25 Lessons out of School.

26 Setma, the Turkish Captive.

27 Show your Colours.

28 ‘True and False Friendship. 7

29 Always Too Late, and other |
Stories.

30 School Pictures drawn from
Life,

31 Soldier Sam.

32 Stephen Grattan’s Faith. By |
the Author of ‘‘ Christie Red- |
fern’s Troubles.’’

33 David the Scholar,

34 Tired of Home.

30 Setting out for Heaven. 3

36 The Stolen Money, and other
Ballads.

37 Helen’s Stewardship,

38 Pat Riley’s Friencs.

39 Olive Crowhurst. A Story for
Girls.

m _ .

Seana em aa




O8 Lisetta and the Brigands,

on

45 Aunt Milly's Diamonds,
Our Cousin from India.

46 My Lady’s Prize, and Effie’s

| Letter. |

47 How the Golden Eagle was
Caught.

48 Emily’s Trouble, and what it
taught her.

49 Adopted Son,and other Stories

50 ‘Till the Sugar Melts. By M.
E.. Ropes.

51 Story of a Geranium; or, The
Queen of Morocco.

52 The Flying Postman.

53 The Money in the Milk.

54 C..wslip Ball, and other Stories.

- 55 Little Model, and other Stories.

56 Mary Sefton. By the Author
of ‘‘ The Two Roses.”

57 Tales from over the Sea.
Saved by a Mule. °

59 Bessie Graham.

60 In his Father’s Arms.
side Story.

61 Cosmo and his Marmoset.

62 Talks with Uncle Morris.

63 The Patched Frock.

64 Herbert and his Sister ;

“Not in One Shoe.

65 Lucy Miller's Good Work.

66 Little Andy’s Legacy.

67 Howthe Gold Medal was Won,
and The Young Drovers.

A Sea-

or,

68 Master Charles’s Chair, and
How it was Filled.
69 Little Kittiwake; or, The

Story of a Lifeboat.
70 Squire Bentley’s Treat.
71 Jessie’s Visit tothe Sunny Bank
72 Amy’sSecret. By Lucy ByYER-
LEY.
73 The Children in the Valley.
74 Florence and her Friends.

a) 7) The ‘Two Roses.

Dor

SERIES—continued.



41 Steenie Alloway’s Adventures.
42 Angel’s Christmas.
43 Cottage Life; its Lights and Shadows.
44 The Raven’s Feather.

and |

By Mrs. WALTON.

76 Little Tenpenny.
77 Six China Teacups.
78 His Own Enemy.
79 ‘Three Firm Friends.
80 Empty Jam pot.
81 Patty and Brownie; cr, The
Lord will Provide.
82 Two Weeks with the Greys.
&3 A Tale of Three Weeks.
ECLANTON THORNE, ©
84 My Brother.and I.
85 ‘Lhe Blessed Palm.
86 Hubert’s Temptation.
87 Pretty Miss Violet.
88 ‘The Queen’s Oak.
89 Story of a Yellow Rose. Told
by Itself. By JESSE PAGE.
90 The Blacksmith’s Daughter.
91 Daisy’s Trust. By E.S. Pratt
92 The Runaways.
93 Jack Silverleigh’s Temptation.
94 May Lynwocd.
95 Tom’s Bennie. By M. E. Roprs
96 The Captain of the School.
97 Miss Pris.
98 The Story he was Told.
99 Gerty’s Triumph.
100 The Missing Jug.
101 Granny’s Dariing.
102 cota Peter’s New Year's
iit
103 A True Story of Long Ago.
104 The Little Midshipman.
105 How Arthur Found out the
Secret.
106 The Pilgrim Boy, and other
Stories. By the Author of
**T think when I read that
Sweet Story of Old.”
107 Mabel’s White Kitten.
108 Keziah Taylor's Donkey.

By

By |

109 Sallie, a Little Sister.
EpirH CORNFORTH. 7
110 Willie Wills’ Wings. By

Mrs. G. S. REANEY. n¢




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= Little Dots’ Picture eran

Book. With Illustrations from
Drawings by Robert Barnes, S. T..
Dadd, M. E. Edwards, G. Cc. Kil:
burne, Miss Miles; W. Rainey, W. ° |
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‘4to. 5s. cloth boards, handsomely —
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The Sweet Story of Old. A Sunday |
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STRETTON, author of ‘* Jessica’s First
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twelve coloured pictures. 3s. 6d. cloth
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My Own Picture Book. /2rst and Second Series: Each

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, Holiday Picture Book. Comprising : Holiday. time

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Author of
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eee ae eee eee a ne ee te eee tea a

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Listening to Jesus) A Sunday. Book for the Little Ones.
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LLL LI











1. Short and Sweet. 18. Lily’s Adventure.

_ 2. I Never Thought of it. 19. Made on Purpose. A Story of
3. Father's Joy, and other Stories. Kus-ian Life. By Salem
4. A Sprig of Holly. | Hall.

3». Barbara’s Revenge. 20. ‘The White Rosebud, and the
6. Shrimp. | Birthday Present.
7, Edith’s Second Thought, and | 21. Carl’s Secret.
other Stories. 22. Made a Man of. |
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of “Tony the Tramp,”’ etc. By Alice King.

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1 Phil Harvey’s Fortune. _, 18 Trixie and Her Cousin.
2 His Little Hetty. | 14 Kitty’s Concertina.
3 Jock the Shrimper. 15 In Father’s Place.

4 My Master’s Business. [Found | 16 Hilda and Her Pet.
9 How Charlie was Lost and | 17 The Way to Win.

6 Bessie Morton’s Legacy. 18 The Story of Nika.

7 Johan’s Christmas Eve. 19 Addie’s Children.

8 Johnny’s Dream. 20 How Tom Gained the Victory.
9 Old Bagnall’s Ricks. 21 Gaspard’s Promise. —
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1 Children’s Stories. 13 The Round Robin.
2 Little Stories. 14 Elsie in the Snow.
3 Pretty Stories. | 15 Mabel’s Mistake.
4 Pretty Stories. 16 The Jackdaw’s Christmas Tree
S A Mother's Stories. 17 Angel Rosie.
6 A Sister’s Stories. 18 Faithful Andrew.
7 A Friend’s Stories. 19 Tim's Little Garden. |
8 Pleasant Stories. 20 Between Sickle and Scythe.
9 Simple Stories. - 21 Freddie’s New Home.
10 True Stories. 22 Kit and his Violin.
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. The Young Hop-Pickers.

. Motherless Bairns.

. George Wayland. |
. The Cinnamon Island and _ its

« Caleb Gaye’s Success.
. Dark Days of December.
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. Ned the Barge-boy. -- °

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J -hnny.

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. Charlie Scott ;

or, There’s

Time Enough.

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. Where.a Penny went to.
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brook.

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it was Learned.

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dustry.

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» Northcliffe Boys.

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Tale of Swe-
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Hungering and Thirsting.

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Trial.

Captives.

House; or, The Two Dreams.

INEPENNY |
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Coloured Frontispiece and Wood Engravings.
Attractively bound with Medallion on side. -

- Pessie Mason’s Victories.
- Dame Buckle and her Pet

36.
37.

38,
39.

51

53.

D4,
5).

o9.
60.



‘Story of 1745. By Frances

.- Billy the Acorn Gatherer. By
» The Banished Family, and the
- The Golden Street; or, The
. The First of the African Dia-
. The
. Brave Archie.
. There’s a Friend for Little
_ Children. ByCharlotteMason,
. Michael the Young Miner.
- Bob’s Trials and ‘Yests.

. Tim Peglar’s Secret ; or, The

- Reuben Minton’s Service.

57.
58.






























The Gable House.

The Dangerous Guest. Browne.

Fruits of Bible I ands.
Mary K. Martin.
May’s Cousin.. By Author of
*“Reuben ‘Touchett’s Grand-
daughter. ’

By

Fiorence E. Burch.
Bohemian Confessor.
Fisherman’s Orphans.

monds. By Frances Browne.
Royal Banner; Or,
Dragged in the Dust.

By
Mary E. Ropes.

Wonderful Egg.

Under the Snow.

The Lost Baby. A Story of
the Floods. By Emma Leslie.
Squirrel; or, Back from a Far
Country. By F. E. Burch.
Rescued from the Burning
Ship.

James Barton’s Pleasure Boat.
Bennie, the Little Singer.

Heartsease. By I. M. Hig-
ginson.
The Broken Strap; or, Her

Great Reward. By Florence
EK. Burch.

Missionary Rabbits.

Hilda; or, The Golden Age.
By Emma Leslie.

26







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AN TAUSTRATED MAGAZINE for
—— Kittle Bous and Gils.
OUR LIL DOYS.
| PENNY
MONUHLY.

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{ not find a better than ‘Our Little
Dots.’ —English Churchman.
“Just what children will
like.’"—Chuich Sunday School
Magazine, |
‘‘Good pictures and reading.”
Spectator. |
“ Delightful.” —£eclesiastical

SS Gazette.

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UF dee YUR LITTLE DOTS PleTUR ;

- of the family-—full of engravings, little tales in large type and small words,
~ the ‘Little Dots’ could wish jor nothing better.’—Somerset County
Herald. . | |



PLLPPLPDPLI OM

OUR LITTLE DOTS?

- ANNUATI. ——
The Yearly Volume of
“Our ore Biot

Full of Pretty Pictures and Little Stories
in Large Type. Is. 6d. attractive col-
-oured boards; 2s. neat cloth; 2s. 6d.

handsome cloth gilt.
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OUVRLITTLE OoTy



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| “A pretty little illustrated periodical,
DN especially noticeable for the Editor’s
sensible practice of giving children credit for
being able to understand something better than
mere jingles and childish things.” The Daily
News.

“‘A pervect treasury of interesting articles
and poetical pieces.” — Bookseller.

Gasgette.



ONAN LOLOL



AR PRETTY PRESENT

FOR Boys & GIRLS.





CHILDS COMPANION
AND :
Juvenile Instructor Annual.



It is full of nice pictures and interesting
reading for young folks, with a coloured frontispiece.
Is. 6d. attractive coloured boards ; 2s. neat cloth; 2s. 6d.
p) handsome cloth, fu] gilt. | G

‘“As charming as~ ever.”——Ecclestastical



LONDON: KNIGHT, PRINTER, MIDDLE STREET, ALDERSGATE, E.G.




Setma, the Turkish Captive.
Show Your Colours.

True and False Friendship.
Always too Late.

School Pictures drawn from
Life.

Soldier Sam. » |
Stephen Grattan’s Fuith.
David the Scholar.
Tired of Home.



















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Angels Christmas. NY =

Cottage Life: ¢és Lights and
| Skhadous.

The Raven’s Feather.
Aunt Milly’s Diamonds and











Our Cousin from India. ————

My Lady’s Prize and hijjie’s
Letter.

How the Golden Eagle was
Caught.

Emily’s Trouble and what it
taught her.

Phe Adopted Son.











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