A SIMPLE STORY.

66

CHAPTER V.

JOHN, the woman Sora is very bad; the cancer is spreading, and her only servant ran away and deserted her yesterday. I entreat you, John, to let me go to her.”

'Impossible! the roads are covered with snow, and you could not get there either in a carriage or a sledge." "I know ; but on horseback, let me go on horseback." "What! through this terrible cold, and high wind ?” "John, I must go, especially to-day, to the poor woman," Mary persisted.

'Well, then, God be with you and protect you, my dear sister. Go."

Soon after this conversation, Mary mounted her horse and placed her basket before her; her eyes sparkled with joy, for she liked riding on horseback; she said a good trot always did her good. She was a capital horse-woman, for there was many a cottage on the mountains round about Samari which she could only reach on horseback.

After an hour and a half's good trot, she alighted before the door of Sora's house.

It was the same farmer's wife who had so ill-treated the children after their mother's death. But everything around was changed. The house, the bedrooms, the kitchen, all looked more doleful even than formerly. The farmer was dead, and a servant managed the farm under the mistress's direction. But her eyes could no longer watch the fulfilment of her orders, her hands could work no more.

The woman had long been suffering from a terrible disease; indeed there no longer remained any hope of cure for her, and nothing remained to be done but to pray that the poor sufferer might speedily be released from her pain. But would death deliver her? might it not possibly be but the beginning of sufferings yet more terrible? She does not

believe in Jesus, and what if she should go where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched!

Mary drew near the sick-bed. Love was beaming from her eyes, and lighted up her face as it had done years ago, when, quite a little child, she drew near her mother's dying bed. Yes, both brother and sister loved this woman with a pure and holy love.. In her person, they seemed to be lavishing care on their Saviour, and they struggled hard to save this poor soul ere it should be too late. A pestilential air filled the room. No nurse could withstand it for long together. Mary's first care was to let in fresh air, and then she washed the poor creature and changed her linen and lifted her into a clean bed. Having accomplished all this, she opened her basket, and took out some light and wholesome food; and all the while her hands were busy her lips spoke loving and comforting words to her. Sora seldom answered, and yet it was evident, notwithstanding, that all this loving care was doing her good.

"Do not leave me-oh! stay here,” she cried, in a beseeching tone. "Eliza has gone away and left me too; she said she couldn't stand my groans."

"My dear, I cannot stay; there are so many expecting me at home. But what a dreary scene it is here! Why won't you come nearer to us? we would take care of you, and I could often be with you."

"I'll tell you something," Sora replied, whispering. "I will come, for here every one robs me. I have given the farm into William's charge, and I will set off at once and come to you."

"Oh! how rejoiced I am," cried Mary, heartily. "I assure you your determination is quite like a Christmas present to me."

She was

And what then was the cause of her rejoicing? about to receive into her home an old, cross, avaricious woman, who had never done her any good, who was the victim of a disease so revolting that no one could long remain with her, a sufferer who could not be placed in the

same room with others, and to whom therefore she must give up her own. All this she rejoiced at! How could this be? It was because she loved the Saviour, and for love of Him she also loved this poor old woman!

Mary knelt down by the bedside, and earnestly entreated her Father in heaven for a Christmas gift for this poor sufferer. She besought Him to come and take possession of this dark, empty soul, and dwell therein, and she asked in firm faith, nothing doubting.

"If ever any one can make me good, it will be you,” said the poor woman, sobbing.

"Oh no! not I; but God can and will, if we ask Him," said Mary.

After saying this Mary remounted her horse, for it was near mid-day, and she must hasten homewards. She could not, however, resist going the same road that she had taken four-and-twenty years before with her little brother. Then, all had looked so dark; now, how clearly everything stood out! Then she was only dimly conscious of some distant good; now, she possessed a firm assurance that she had a title to a heavenly city.

She clasped her hands, exclaiming, "O Lord, Thou hast indeed done all things well!" and gave utterance to her overflowing gratitude in a psalm of praise.

Mary went on till she reached Dr. Neuring's house, where she was received with shouts of joy. The father and mother were still hearty and vigorous, and surrounded just then with all their children, whom the Christmas festivities had gathered together in the old home once more.

"Cannot you manage to spend the evening with us?" asked the mother.

"No, dear mother; we cannot possibly disappoint our patients by not being with them."

"Well, then, come early to-morrow, and we will light up the tree once more."

"If God will, we will certainly come to-morrow with great pleasure," said Mary.

No one has any time to waste on Christmas Day, so Mary took leave, and as she went out whispered in her mother's ear:

"Do you remember this day twenty-four years ago?"

"Blessed be that day when God guided your little footsteps hither," replied the mother, with emotion.

Baby's Board.

HAVE just seen a pretty sight—one that suggested pleasant thoughts. This is a world in which so much trouble comes to all, that when a pretty picture is seen and a happy thought awakened, one longs that others should see it.

Come with me, and peep through that cottage door.

It is a neat cottage--pictures on the wall, books piled neatly on the chest of drawers, and little ornaments on the mantelshelf show neatness and refined taste; while the bright fire in the grate, the clean brick floor, and the shining table and chairs assure us that a good housewife reigns in that little abode.

But the prettiest sight, and the one which attracted me, was Baby, a curly-headed, sturdy little fellow of sixteen months, his cheeks full of dimples, and his eyes of roguish fun, as they turned from his work to look at the visitor.

For Baby was indeed at work, and very hard work too. The task he had set himself was to pull down a board which his mother had put up between the kitchen and the back kitchen, where she was washing. Baby was nearly half as tall again as the board, so he could hold himself up by it, and look beyond it, and hammer away with his little fists on the top, or pull and fret against it; but he could not move it, for it was securely fastened with pegs.

He could catch a glimpse of his mother's face now and then, as she turned from her work to look at him, and he could talk to her in his own baby fashion, and listen to her

pleasant voice; and from time to time she would give him some toy or flower to keep him amused and happy.

But Baby was not satisfied with these. The back-kitchen door was open, and through it he could see the brightcoloured flowers in the garden, the red roses and yellow musk, the green leaves fluttering in the wind, and a little path leading onwards to a world unknown, which Baby wanted to explore.

Besides this, he well knew that if he could once get outside that garden door, and turn his little body on its clever hands and feet to the right, he could scramble into a neighbour's cottage, where he would find playfellows, and enjoy more fun and pleasure than was possible in his own room.

No wonder he wanted to pull down the board; for he did not see what his mother saw, that if he passed the barrier she had placed between him and fairyland, he would get into all sorts of mischief, and might seriously hurt himself, perhaps kill himself, when he got beyond her watchful eye.

"Indeed, ma'am, he's been as far as Mrs. Brown's already," said she, relating with pride her boy's adventure. Then she took away the board, and we watched the little fellow scramble with beaming face across the floor, and carefully balance himself as he got down the step and began his travels. But, alas! it is raining a little, and the stones are wet, and he must come in again.

It is well for babies that they cannot reason, or they might soon reason themselves into the belief that their mothers do not love them, just as grown people do with respect to their Father in heaven.

We all know what it is to have a board put up between ourselves and the object of our wishes, and many of us spend a great part of our lives in trying to pull it down. It may be ill-health, or some personal defect-more commonly it is the necessity of toiling for a livelihood that shuts us in; something, we feel, keeps us confined to a little space, and we cannot get beyond it, though we see rich fruit and fair