A LEAF FROM A LADY'S NOTE-BOOK.
"May I stay in your room a little while, Mrs. Grant?" I was alone in my chamber, enjoying the quiet pleasure of revery. Being an elderly lady, rather solitary in the world, when I choose a summer retreat I prefer one where I can be comfortably on the edge of society, and yet when it pleases me to do so retire into the seclusion of my own thoughts. Maple Mountain had delighted me, and when, a few years ago, I discovered it, and then the company who came there had been select and somewhat aristocratic. Alas! in an evil hour a lovely lady who wrote for the papers found it out, and told the public about it, and this summer it was thronged. The hotel was overflowing, and the neighboring cottages and farm-houses were taking boarders. Still, as I enjoyed the sunset splendor, lying wave on wave of gold, crimson, and opal, on the fair slopes of the hills, on the rich meadows with the tasselled corn in stately ranks, and on the silvery ribbon of a river that wound its way to the sea, I was not the less happy, but rather the more blessed, that I heard the sweet ring of youthful laughter, and saw under the trees the forms of lover and maiden strolling up and down, in the tender light. But while I am talking, little Grace is standing patiently at the door. The child had moved my heart to compassion, and I had taken her into my chamber several times, seeing how much she was left to herself, and now I occasionally was a little inconvenienced by her partiality. Still, I hoped to be of some use to her, as she was one of my Saviour's lambs, the more needing my care that she was a neglected one. I led her in now, her dimpled face breaking into a smile as I gave her permission to come to me. The face was stained and sticky, the little hands were dirty, and the beautiful embroidered white dress was torn and soiled; the stockings were half-way between the ankle and the knee, and the shoes were unbuttoned. As for the golden hair, it was in a tangle, and Gracie looked like what she was, a lady's uncared-for child. I took cool water, fragrant soap, clean towels, and comb and brush, to make her toilet, and soon the discomfort was exchanged for neatness and beauty. Then we went together to her room, and Gracie looked for her night-dress, which hung under a mass of other garments on her mother's closet door. She slipped out of her warm clothing and into the cool sacque, and we returned to my window and easy chair. "What have you been doing to-day, Gracie?" I inquired. "I've been doing the best I could," was the answer, with a mournful little sigh. "Nobody wants me anywhere, and I wish we could leave this place and go home." "Tell me what you do at home," I said. "Well, Mrs. Grant, when I'm at home there is the street to play in, and there are lots of girls on our block, and boys, too. I don't get so tired there. This morning mamma had a headache, and the room had to be dark, and she couldn't even let me sing to my doll, nor move the least little bit; so she told me to go somewhere else. I knocked at your door, but you did not say 'Come in,' so I went over by Elsie and Katie McLure. They were reading the Bible to their mamma, and it looked real pleasant in their room; but their Aunt Laura said, 'Run away Gracie, the girls have no time to play just now.' By and by I went to the laundry, and the women there were cross—it was so hot, and they were so tired, and they scolded me for coming where I had no business; and so at last I saw Jim, the gardener's boy, going a-fishing, and I asked him if I might go, too, and he said, 'Yes, come along.' And I had a nice time by the brook, and Jim was real kind, and I caught three little fishes my own self. Then the dressing-bell rang, and we heard it, and I ran home as fast as ever I could, and when I got here to the hotel papa was sitting on the veranda, and I flew to him to show him my fish. I did not mean to trip, but I did, and the fish spattered his pearl-colored pants, and he said I was a clumsy thing, and told me to go to my mother." This was all spoken without a pause, but now Gracie hesitated. "Now, Mrs. Grant, I had not done anything naughty, I am sure. I tried to be good while I was in the room, and all the time, and I did not think it was any harm to go off with Jim." Nor did I, under the circumstances. "And so I was s'prised when my mamma looked at me so angry, and said, 'Grace, what do you mean by this? Where have you been all the morning? I wanted you a half-hour ago, to dress you.' When I told her, she said I had been a very naughty girl, and could not go down stairs again till five o'clock, and I must dress myself the best I could, for she and papa were going away with a party of friends, and would not be back till late. And I've been so lonesome. All I had for dinner was bread, and meat, and rice pudding. Papa sent it up." "A very sensible dinner, little Grace." "But I had more than that for supper. I ate cake, and berries, and pickles, and had a cup of coffee. I like to order my supper myself." "Did you say your prayers this morning, Grace?" "I'm afraid I forgot. But I always say them at night." "Why at night, dear, and not in the morning?" "I can take care of myself in the daylight, but at night it is dark, and I feel afraid." "Have you taken good care of yourself this day? Have not you trouble, and been lonesome, and perhaps had wrong thoughts in your heart? Are you sure you have been as happy as you would have been if you had asked God, for Jesus' sake, to care for you?" Little Grace had not thought of it in this way before. She knelt beside me now and said her evening prayer, and then sat by me very silent for awhile, as I talked to her of the Lord, who loves little children, and wants them for His own. She repeated a text and a hymn after me, and then lay down on my lounge and fell asleep. It was late when her father and mother returned. They came rather wearily past my door, and I heard them say, as they entered their chamber: "Why, where can that child be, at this time of night?" When they tapped at my door, to inquire for her, I said, "Your little one is fast asleep." And the father thanked me for my care of her, but the mother, incredible as it seems:— "You are a fortunate woman, Mrs. Grant. You have not a child to see to, all day long." "The dear child I once had," I replied, "is not, for she was taken away long years ago. No one who has so precious a gift as this, my friend, should consider it a care, or a burden." Here the manuscript ended. Aunt Sophia, who picked it up the other day in a ferry-boat, does not know whether to think it a true story, or a bit of fiction. Her observation leads her to think, however, that not all the neglected children are to be found in the homes of poverty. There are exquisitely arrayed little ones in sea-side and mountain resorts, and in stately Avenue houses—little ones whose parents are letting them grow up without God in the world, and without the thoughtful care to which every child is entitled while under the guardianship of its father and mother.—Christian at Work.