Earlier text: Discussion at Rochester Colony, Mich

Mrs. Deacon Gray’s Bonnet; and What It Cost.

Poor little Lettie, how tired she was; and yet there was no break in the stream of ladies all the afternoon. Madame La Vert has just returned from the East with a superb stock of millinery; and Lettie was so pretty and obliging, and withal was noted for such excellent taste and skill in combining and blending, that her counter was constantly thronged with ladies, whose pretty, explosive comments over the fresh beauty of each new love of a bonnet, or hat, had grown so tiresome to the tired nerves of the weary little milliner, that she felt desperate enough to rush forth into the bright, free sunshine, and leave the chattering group to help themselves. But a glance at the tired face of her kind mistress gave her new endurance. And so all the bright afternoon she stood upon her tired, aching feet, and talked over and over, to each successive group, the same weary nothings.

But at length the gathering night brought a lull, and she was permitted to run home to her tea.

“Madame, need I come back to-night?”

“Why, yes, to be sure, Lettie; just see that pile of goods; they must all be marked before we sleep, for the rush to-morrow will be much greater than to-day.”

Poor Lettie went home with a heavy heart, and the way seemed longer and more dreary as she reflected upon her speedy return, so that not even the nicely prepared tea or gentle endearments of her kind mother could coax a smile upon the sad little face.

“You staid late, Lettie; do n’t you intend going to church to-night?”

“Oh! mother, I did want to go so bad, but Madame says I must go back to the shop. The new goods have just come to-day, and as usual we will all have to work night and day.”

“I’m real sorry, daughter; but I hope, dear, you will not lose your serious impressions in the midst of so much talk and fashion.”

“I haven’t a moment to think, mother; it’s just fashion, and flowers, shade and color, laces and ribbons, over and over, until I’m so tired I can hardly stand upon my feet.”

Lettie hurried back to the shop, and as she was the only one of the shop girls who was familiar enough with the business to assist in marking, she and the Madame had the room to themselves.

Lettie was a great favorite with Madame, and she ventured in the course of the evening to speak of the meetings that had been in progress during her absence.

“Yes, Mrs. Deacon Gray was speaking of it. She says a great many of our young people have united with the church. I was surprised that such girls as Delia Shaw and Hattie Holcomb were among the converts; they were so fond of dress and society, I did n’t think they ever gave a thought to their souls.”

“If you had been to the meetings, dear Madame, you would wonder how any one could come away without feeling that eternal life is the only thing in this weary world worth striving for.”

Madame turned and looked into the earnest face of the young speaker, and then, with a queer little sigh, said, “I see you, too, are thinking about these things, and I’m glad of it. I’m no Christian; but once, when I was about your age, I was deeply impressed with my state as a lost sinner; and looking back now I believe, if I had been permitted to remain under the Christian counsel of my sainted mother a few weeks longer, I should have led a different life. But suddenly placed in a crowded shop, with no companions save the thoughtless, giddy girls, I lost the true path, and have ever since been too constantly in this busy whirl to find time to change. Ah, me! I shall have to take time to die, some day, and what then? I wish I had my life to live over again, Lettie.”

“Oh, Madame, our pastor said Sunday, that while it was better, safer, and easier, to come to Jesus while we were young, yet that it was infinitely better to come late than never.”

A silence fell upon the two, each busy with her own thoughts. Lettie looked up from her work after a while, and asked Madame if she thought she could spare her to-morrow evening to go to the inquiry meeting.

“I hope so, Lettie, if we can finish marking to-night. There will be a great deal to do to-morrow, but we will crowd pretty close rather than have you miss another night.”

Lettie went home feeling more hopeful and less tired than she was at tea-time, and as she listened to her mother’s glowing account of the good meeting she thought, “To-morrow night, ah, to-morrow night, I, too, may find peace and joy in believing.”

Poor Lettie, like too many others, felt that she could make but little progress outside of the meetings. She never dared to pray, “Lord, save now; right here may I believe in thee;” but as she would bend busily over her work, her thought would be, “Perhaps God will hear his people pray for me to-night. Perhaps I shall be the next to be blessed. Oh, if it would be; but I’m so wicked.”

The next day matters moved on in the old groove at the shop. There was more trimming and showing, but Lettie comforted her tired little self with the soft whisper, “To-night, yes, to-night, the good pastor is going to tell us so plainly just how to go to Jesus. And then, it seems to me, I’ll not care for hard work and the many things that worry me so now. I wonder if Christians ever do feel real sad, or if they ever hate folks, or want to do any wrong thing. I guess not, for mother says to be a Christian is to be like Christ.” Just here her reverie was broken off by the entrance and hearty greeting of Mrs. Deacon Gray.

“How do, Lettie? Busy as a bee, as usual, but where is the Madame?”

Lettie pointed to the work-room, and Mrs. Gray hurried on. “Oh, Madame La Vert, I’ve just taken a letter out of the office that has put me in a perfect flurry. You see the folks down at Lee have heard about our good meetings, and Doctor James and wife, and Deacon and Mrs. Stoaks are coming on the evening train to stay over Sunday. You know how stylish those ladies are, and I would n’t have them see me wear that old spring bonnet I fixed over myself for anything. I was reading in Madame Demorest of the sweetest thing, and I want you to get it up for me.”

“But my dear Mrs. Gray, do you know this is Saturday afternoon, and ‘opening time,’ too? Why, bless me, it’s quite impossible.”

“Now, do n’t say so, Madame. I know you can crowd it in some way. Now, do pray, oblige me, and you shall lose nothing by it, I assure you.”

Madame bent her head over the pattern presented by Mrs. Gray, and took in, item by item, the pretty, French design for a spring bonnet.

“Sweet, is n’t it?”

“Yes, very; it will make up elegantly,” said the demure little artiste, mentally estimating the effect such a novel, yet beautiful, design would have upon her reputation. “Mrs. Gray, I’d say we would attempt it, if it were not for one thing. You know Lettie is my only dependence for such work, and I have promised that she may go to the meeting to-night; and I have as much and I fear more promised than I can finish by midnight.”

“Oh, if that’s all that’s in the way of my wearing the handsomest bonnet that ever entered Graysville chapel, I’m sure to do it. I can coax Lettie to give up one meeting, I know.”

“But, Mrs. Gray, you know Lettie is among the anxious, and really I do n’t feel as if it could be right to place a straw in her way.”

“Oh! pshaw; what difference can one meeting139make? Why, Madame, one would think there were to be no more meetings, to hear you talk!”

“Well, Mrs. Gray, we do not know that there will be, for her, or us.”

“Fiddlesticks! you are as gloomy as a tombstone to-day. I’m not expecting to die, and you never looked better. Come, say I may try my powers of persuasion on Lettie.”

“Well, perhaps I am foolish; it certainly does n’t become me to lecture one so long a Christian upon matters of conscience.”

“I’ll do the fair thing by Lettie, you see now, if she will give me this evening. They’re poor, are they not?”

“Yes; Lettie is her mother’s only dependence.”

“I thought so,” and Mrs. Gray hurried over to Lettie, and laid her proposition before her in such an enticing manner, that Lettie from the first did not see how she could refuse. But, when Mrs. Gray added, “If you will do this for my sake, I will show you how well I appreciate your little sacrifice, by allowing you to take your choice from the very best of Madame’s new hats,” alas for Lettie! Satan had prepared the way for this by causing her to contrast her old hat (which she must still wear) with the fresh, bright ones, borne off so triumphantly by one after another of her young friends. And Sadie Lee had just asked her what kind she had got; and when she replied that she had not got hers yet, Sadie said, “Oh! but you must take time to select one to-night, for we want you to come to church to-morrow;” and now here was the offer of that beauty that she had thought upon first, saying she would be willing to work her fingers to the bone to possess, and here it was, laid at her feet for one evening’s work. But the meeting, ah, the blessing in store, was worth all the hats in the universe.

“Come, Lettie, I did n’t think you’d be so long about deciding to oblige me,” said Mrs. Gray. “You know you’ll have all day to-morrow for meetings, and will look as smart as any of the girls in your new hat.”

“I guess I’ll stay.”

“That’s a darling,” and the stately figure bent to kiss the white brow, then hastily selecting material for her bonnet, she left with the injunction, “Be sure and send it up to-night, Madame. I would n’t have it come in the morning for anything.”

How busily Lettie’s fingers plied in and out of the costly material, and yet it was eleven o’clock when she took the last survey, and then held it up for the inspection of Madame and the girls.

“Why, Lettie Lathrop! you have far excelled the pattern,” cried Madame. “You should have been born in Paris; such genius is seldom met here. And now you must go so far out of your way to carry it home. I wish Mrs. Gray was not so particular about Sunday.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid, and the walk will do me good, after sitting so long.”

Mrs. Gray bestowed as much praise upon the skill of the tired girl as the most exacting could demand.

“I’m afraid it is going to storm by morning; chilly, is n’t it? I hope it won’t turn cold, and spoil our calculations for to-morrow.”

Yes, it was chilly, and very dark. On, and still on pressed the weary little feet, and it seemed twice the distance it ever did before. The little window, with the cherry gleam of welcome, smiled upon her. Her mother met her at the door with many anxious inquiries, all of which Lettie answered in such a cold, constrained manner as to quite alarm her.

“Lettie, you’ve worked yourself most to death. I did not think Madame La Vert would push you so.”

“She didn’t, mother;” and then the whole story came out. “Mother, I’m just as bad as Esau. I wish I could have spoken to you about it. Oh, dear, how my head aches thinking of it, and of that other text about ‘gaining the whole world and losing your own soul.’”

“My dear Lettie, you are tired now; in the morning you will feel differently.”

“Oh! mother, this morning I thought I should go to meeting to-night, and some way I felt as if I should meet Jesus there for certain, and that to-morrow I could go to church, feeling that I was in my ‘Father’s house,’ and that I would be so happy that I should never grieve again.”

Near morning, Mrs. Lathrop was awakened by the loud, wild tone of Lettie’s voice. Hastily lighting her lamp, she was terribly alarmed at the change a few hours had wrought. As soon as it was light, she sent a neighbor for the doctor, and when he came and examined the restless, tossing form, he said, “This is a singular case. Your daughter, madame, must have been overtaxed, physically and mentally, to be so completely prostrated so soon.”

He was soon informed of all the mother knew concerning her daughter’s state, and shook his head gravely as he was told of the mental excitement and overwork.

What was Mrs. Gray’s surprise, upon seeing her two friends come into her room, prepared to accompany her to church in their last spring bonnets! It spoiled half her delight in hers, to think that all her worry was far worse than a whimsical fancy.

“Oh! What a beauty of a bonnet! Why, it is a perfect little gem!” cried the ladies, with true feminine appreciation of the beautiful.

“You have not ordered yours yet,” said Mrs. Gray, surprised to hear no word of apology offered for the old hats.

“Oh! yes,” said Mrs. James; “but in the city it is so different from these country places. There, when the season opens, there is such a rush, everybody wants their bonnets and hats, and in consequence, the poor, pale girls are worked day and night. So I told my milliner not to hurry any one for me, as I could wait very well. You see, I do n’t care for these things as I used to,” said Mrs. James. “Nor I,” said Mrs. Stoaks, “for myself, although I enjoy seeing them on others; but I try to keep my body under, and to never let worldly matters shut me out from higher and holier duties.”

Poor Mrs. Gray! how she wished her bonnet back again upon the quiet page of Madame Demorest, as she thought, “I do wonder if they saw or heard Lettie last night? but no, they went to their rooms full two hours before she came. Poor little thing, how tired she looked! I hope she’ll enjoy wearing her new hat better than I do mine.”

Many were the admiring glances cast upon the new bonnet. “Why,” said little Tillie Wood, at the dinner-table, to her mother and sister, “it was all the beauty of a whole springtime compressed into one little mite of a bonnet.”

“Yes, my dear, and I fear more than that. I greatly fear that your little Lettie’s life will be the price nature will demand for this love of a bonnet;” and the good doctor told the pitiful story, and how Lettie raved continually about selling her soul for Madame La Vert’s nicest pattern hat.

Mrs. Gray was overwhelmed with grief when she heard of Lettie’s illness, and strove in every way to atone for her want of thought; and while every word from the blue lips of the young sufferer went like a dagger to her heart, she prayed that the blood of the precious soul might not be found upon her skirts. Her prayer was answered.

Out of the soft brown eyes, Lettie’s own quiet self looked once more, and the old smile, with an added brightness, lighted up her dying face. “Madame—mother, I am going home. Jesus loves me, and is calling me to come. Do n’t cry, mother. Just think I’ll never sin any more; never, never get tired again. Forgive you, Mrs. Gray? Ah, yes, gladly and freely. You intended no wrong; but, oh! I ask you to watch and help those who are trying to find the way to Jesus. Madame, dear Madame, I love you. You have always been good to me. Oh! be good to yourself. Come to Jesus. Mother, kiss me. I’m going. Do n’t—do n’t cry. You’ll come soon.”

They covered her coffin with pale spring flowers, and laid her away in the quiet churchyard. *

The curious eyes of Graysville were never again gladdened by the finery of Mrs. Deacon Gray. In sober, neat, but plain, attire, she went about her Master’s work, striving to redeem the time spent in pursuing the fickle goddess Fashion; and if she ever feels a desire after any of life’s vanities, she goes to her room, and takes down a bandbox, she opens it, and takes out the soft, fleecy fabric, over which Lettie’s white fingers so diligently wrought. Pinned to one of the ties is a paper; and while she reads with streaming eyes, we will look on:

“This trifling vanity cost a young life, and but for the infinite mercy of God, I should to-day have to answer for a lost soul—a poor, trembling, seeking soul, from whom my selfish pride had almost hid the cross.”—Standard.

She has Destroyed Herself.

PARIS has fallen! The causes that led to its overthrow will be studied with careful interest by statesmen and philosophers. It may be too soon to seek to trace them to their source. Still there can be little doubt that it has been fostering the seeds of its own degradation and decay. Prominent among these has been the prevalent frivolity, leading its citizens to seek in amusement the chief end of life. Even during the progress of the siege, the theaters have been open and crowded. It was a significant remark lately made by a thoughtful Frenchman to the editor of one of the journals, as they were witnessing the performance of one of the vile dances which the Parisians crowd to see, “There is the reason why we are beaten by the Prussians.”

The influence of the corrupt literature so widely circulated, in eating out the vitality and virtue, physical and moral, of the people, has also been most marked. A recent letter by balloon to the New York Examiner, from Prof. Shephard, who has remained inside Paris during the siege, gives a fearful picture of the almost incredible depth of vileness and corruption to which the popular literature has descended.

He states that, though Paris has been noted for its luxury and vice, the strong hand of power under the empire compelled it to observe a certain amount of retirement. Now, however, vice stalks abroad unabashed. The most grossly obscene and indecent books and caricatures, such as would not be tolerated in Turkey or India, are unblushingly sold in the open streets by young women and even little children. Well-dressed men and women crowd up to gaze upon and to buy. Books and engravings which formerly were concealed, are freely exposed in the windows of the shops, which would have been closed by the old authorities for such exposure, and their proprietors punished. Vice, under the empire, he says, “could go just so far and no farther. Now it goes its utmost length. We may well shudder as we imagine the Paris-Sodom of the future. As vice is promoted by publicity, it must, I fear, expand apace in Paris. Private vices intensify with indulgence, but public vices have an appalling power of self-multiplication.”

To these fearful revelations must be added the plots of the communists to gain control. “Day by day,” says a correspondent of the New York Times, “the communist writers denounce the church, religion of all kinds, and even God. One of them wishes he could poniard the Supreme Being upon his throne. All openly declare themselves atheists, and the sworn enemies of Christianity. They are proud of calling themselves free-thinkers.” They are opposed to free-suffrage and to a deliberative assembly. They have no creed, no religion, no party or political faith; their principles can only be resolved into the one word—self.

Poor Paris! What a comment is her present condition upon the sure connection of folly and vice and godless infidelity with social effeminacy and political ruin. Her seeming prosperity was but seeming and baseless; for when the trial came, there was no strength to resist it. The whole heart was decayed, and was powerless to send out its life-giving currents.—Am. Messenger.

Managing Children.

Our children are our mirrors. If we would know ourselves, we have but to study them. They give back a true reflection. Can there be a sadder sight than the one so often seen, of a worn and anxious mother, scolding, and shouting up, and whipping, aye, and praying over, her bright, wayward child; when, were she but to turn a clear look, unblinded by self-love, inward, she could see that almost, if not quite all, which causes her so much anxiety and annoyance, and her child so many punishments, is her own fault. But children are not mere reflections. They have inquisitive little minds, and warm little hearts, and if we, through weariness or thoughtlessness, withhold information from the one, or sympathy from the other, they are genuine sufferers.

I was once visiting a home, of which a dear little girl was the light. One afternoon, she was crying quietly. Her mother’s conversation was interspersed with, “Hush, I tell you,” “Stop crying,” “Do hush,” “I’ll send you off by yourself.” “Hush.”

“Mother, what ails the little girl?” I asked at last.

“Nothing at all; she is just a naughty little girl, and I shall have to punish her. I’ve let her bring all her playthings into the parlor, and isn’t she bad to annoy and mortify me so?”

But that little, low, half-suppressed, sobbing cry, and those great, round tear-drops, told another story, and I asked:

“May I talk to her?”

“Certainly, I wish you would.”

“Come here, darling,” I said, and taking her on my knee, kissed her. “What is the trouble, my little pet?”

“I does n’t means to be bad. I does n’t wants to plague mamma; but Dolly is very sick, and I can’t get nobody to do nothing for her.”

“Bring dolly to me.” Feeling her pulse, “Why, she is in a high fever; bring me some paper, and I will make her some powders. There are three powders, all folded up nicely; now bring me a baby cup and a tiny spoon. I’ve filled it with air mixture, and you must give her a teaspoonful every time she cries. Now undress her, and rub her with a flannel, and then rock her to sleep.”

The little girl was happy and singing all the afternoon, occasionally bringing Dolly to me, to see how she was, which I enjoyed as much as the child did. At night, she kissed me again and again, with, “I does love you.”

“But the child was crying for nothing.”

I beg your pardon; the child was crying for love and sympathy, just what you and I cry for, even yet.

“But her troubles are imaginary.”

So are most of yours and mine; yet we bore all our friends and weary God with them.

Children not only imitate our faults, and suffer by our carelessness, but govern us through our weaknesses. A friend came to visit me, and brought a generous, frank, and manly boy, of four years old. But he disturbed our whole circle by his constant crying. This habit was not in keeping with the brave, proud, independent character of the child. I therefore felt a curiosity to find the cause. My first discovery was, he never shed a tear.

His mother wished to take a trip, but could not take her boy.

“Leave him with me.”

“He’ll torment the life out of you.”

“I do n’t think so.”

“I will, indeed, be most grateful. You may whip him as often as you please.”

“I should not strike a child, except in a most extreme case.”

“Then you can do nothing with him.”

She was gone. The next morning after breakfast Willie asked:

“May I go and play in the yard?”

“It rained last night, and it’s too damp now. You may go at ten, not before.”

“Boo, whoo, whoo,” rest. I kept quietly sewing. “Boo, whoo, whoo,” bass. “Boo, whoo, whoo,” tenor. I sewed on. “Boo, whoo, whoo,” double bass. “Boo, whoo, whoo,” falsetto—rest.

“Now may I go?”

“You may go at ten o’clock.”

Concert repeated—I silently sewing the while.

“Ain’t your head most ready to split?”

“No.”

“May n’t I go out now?”

“Not until ten o’clock.”

Concert resumed; rest.

“Ain’t you most crazy?”

“No, not at all.”

Concert resumed, with the addition of throwing himself on the floor, and knocking his feet up and down. After a while:

“Ain’t you crazy yet? Why don’t you shake me, and call me the baddest boy ever was, and send me out doors?”

“Because you are not going out until ten o’clock.”

Concert resumed, with the addition of bumping his head as well as his toes; rest; a pause. Then, picking himself up, he stood erect before me, with his hands in his pockets.

“Why do n’t you whip me, and send me off, to get rid of my noise?”

“Because you are not going out until ten o’clock.”

He stood a moment.

“If I bump my head, ain’t you afraid it will kill me?”

“Not in the least.”

“But it does hurt me awfully.”

“I am happy to hear it.”

He drew a long breath.

“What can I do next? I’se done all I knows how.”

“See if you cannot think of something else.”

“May I take my blocks?”

“Certainly.”

At nine he started up:

“Now may I go?”

“That’s nine.”

He went back to his blocks without a murmur.

At ten he went out.

He had been used to kneel by his mother, say his prayers, and hop into bed. I wished him to kneel with me, by the bed, and say his prayers slowly, and then I would make a short prayer for him. The arrangement did not please him; so, the third night, he gave battle. Being tired, my head did feel as if it couldn’t, or rather wouldn’t, bear it. Out of all patience, I determined to give him a good whipping. But never having struck a child, I was not quite hardened enough to take my slipper, and couldn’t see anything else. As I looked around, a voice—my God, speaking through my conscience, asked: “What! whip, in anger, a little boy, because he cannot govern his spirit, when you cannot govern your own? Another than the boy needs to be prayed for.” And kneeling, I asked my Father to give me his strength, his grand patience, with a disobedient, self-willed child. As I kneeled, Willie crawled under my arm, and commenced to say his prayers very slowly, and kept still while I prayed a few words, and then asked:

“Now, may n’t I pray, my own self?”

“Yes, darling.”

And these were his words: “I’s a real mean little boy. She won’t do nothing ugly a bit, and I’s made her head most split. O God, don’t let me be a mean little boy any more at all.”

The splendid little fellow had had a fair trial of strength, and was conquered, and surrendered, manfully; and I had no further trouble or annoyance during the seven weeks he stayed with me.

But how nearly I had lost my vantage ground! If we would rule our own spirits, how easy it would be to rule our children and our servants.—Congregationalist.

Where are We?

In April, 1865, the military power of the Rebellion was finally broken, after a four years’ struggle. In the six years following, how far have we carried the greater work of restoring order and peace to one half of the nation?

The contradictions of the partisan press can no longer obscure the existence of the gravest evils throughout the South. It is established, past all reasonable question, that there prevails an uncontrolled spirit of lawlessness, which continually breaks out into the worst violence and outrage. By floggings, expulsions, and murders, a large part of the community in the South are kept in constant terror. These outrages are not the occasional and incidental outbreaks of an imperfectly civilized section. Their vast number, the character of their victims, and the tolerance or concealment given to them by a very large class, mark them as belonging to a political persecution. Nor, further, is it to be denied that at some times and in some sections—as Tennessee and North Carolina—the persecuted party, gaining power, have retaliated with almost equal lawlessness and bitterness upon their foes. But far the greater burden of these sins of violence falls on the enemies of the negro.—Christian Union.

Faith

The first beams of the morning sun streamed into the wretched attic where Nettie, a little five-year-old maiden, knelt at her morning prayer. She had stolen out of bed softly, so as not to waken her invalid mother, and hungry and cold, knelt down beside her to repeat the Lord’s prayer: “Give us this day our daily bread.”

The sacred words sounded like a mockery as they fell from the lips of a starving child, but not a shadow of doubt dimmed the wasted little face. When she had finished, she rose and looked around her; not a crumb was to be found in the cold, comfortless room, and “mamma” had told her if she asked her Father who lived up in the beautiful blue sky for bread, he would give it to her. Her heart sank for a moment, but suddenly a bright thought struck her; she must go and look for it.

To hurry on the shabby little cloak was the work of a moment, and patter, patter, went the little feet down the long stairway, through the dark court and dingy alley, out into the crowded street. It was a lovely morning; the promise of a perfect day was shining in a cloudless sky; the wind blew fresh from the sea. It brought a tinge of color to Nettie’s pallid face. She had been frightened a little at the throng of strange people, at first; but God would take care of her, and she struggled bravely on.

Presently her eyes fell on a baker’s window, and the child’s heart leaped for joy. Plenty of bread for hungry wayfarers there. Oh, how nice they looked, the crisp rolls, dainty cakes, and fresh pastry, that lay behind the crystal panes. She did not know how famished she had been. It was early yet, and the baker, a big man, with rosy face and keen gray eyes, was alone in the shop when she entered.

He glanced smilingly at the little waif standing there, with the sunlight shining softly on her tangled, golden hair.

“I’ve come for it,” said she, confidently.

“Come for what?”

“My daily bread,” pointing at the snowy loaves temptingly displayed on the counter. “I’ll take two if you please, one for mamma and one for me.”

“All right,” said the baker, folding them up in a brown paper and handing them to his little customer, who started at once for the door.

“Stop you little rogue,” he cried roughly, “where are your pennies?”

“I ha’nt got any,” said the child, simply.

“Ha’nt got any?” he repeated impatiently.

“You little baggar, what brought you here, then?”

The angry words frightened the child; the poor little mouth quivered, the blue eyes filled with tears.

“Mamma’s sick, and Nettie’s so hungry,” she sobbed piteously, “and mamma said God would give us our daily bread, and so when I got up this morning I asked him for it, and then I came here.”

Simple, trusting faith of childhood! No wonder that the rough baker was softened by it, and sent the little maiden back with light heart and well-filled basket to her mother’s side. No wonder that to the poor sufferer “her face was the face of an angel,” and as she listened to the simple story, she murmured softly: “The God of the fatherless answereth prayer. I should have called you faith, my child.”—Sel.

To Be Happy, You Must Be Good

To be happy, you must be good.

What Are Others’ Faults to Me

WHAT are others’ faults to me! I’ve not a vulture’s bill, To peck at every flaw I see, And make it wider still. It is enough for me to know I’ve follies of my own, And on my heart the care bestow, And let my friends alone.

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