An opportunity soon occurred for returning good for evil Miss Barton had

a donkey, and this donkey, whose proper abode was the paddock, sometimes

broke bounds, and regaled itself on the plants in the young gentlemen's

gardens, in a manner highly provoking to those who had any taste for

flowers. If Joe White had any love for anything, it was for flowers.

Now, there is something so pure and beautiful in flowers; called by that

good philanthropist Wilberforce, the "smiles of God," that I think there

must be a little tender spot in that heart which truly loves flowers.

Joe tended his as a parent would a child. His garden was his child, and

certainly it did his culture credit. Fred liked a garden too, and these

boys' gardens were side by side. They were the admiration of the whole

family, so neatly raked, so free from stones or weeds, so gay with

flowers of the best kind. They were rival gardens, but undoubtedly

White's was in the best order. John and Fred always went home on a

Saturday, as Mr. Barton's house was not far from L----. Joe was a

boarder entirely, his home was at a distance, and to this Fred Parker

ascribed the superiority of his garden. He was able to devote the whole

of Saturday, which was a holiday, to its culture. Well, the donkey of

which I spoke, one day took a special fancy to the boys' gardens; and it

so happened, that he was beginning to apply himself to nibble the tops

of Joe's dahlias, which were just budding. Joe was that day confined to

the house with a severe cold, and little did he think as he lay in bed,

sipping Mrs. Barton's gruel and tea, of the scenes that were being

enacted in his own dear garden. Fred fortunately spied the donkey, and

though there had been lately a little emulation between them, who should

grow the finest dahlias, he at once carried out the principle of

returning good for evil, drove the donkey off, even though his course

lay over his own flower beds, and then set to work to repair the damage

done. A few minutes more, and all Joe's dahlias would have been

sacrificed. Fred saved them, raked the border neatly, tied up the

plants, and restored all to order again; and who can tell but those who

thus act, the pleasure, the comfort of Fred's heart? Why, not the first

prize at the horticultural show for the first dahlia in the country,

would have given him half the joy; and a still nobler sacrifice he

made--he did not tell of his good deeds. Now, Fred began to realise the

pleasures of forbearance and kindness indeed.

There could not have been a better way of reaching young White's heart

than through his garden. Fred's was a fortunate commencement. He never

boasted of the act, but one of the boys told Mr. Barton, who did not

fail to remind Joe of it at a suitable time, and that time was when

White presented his master with a splendid bouquet of dahlias for his

supper table, when he was going to have a party of friends. The boys,

who were treated like members of the family, were invited to join that

party, and then did Mr. Barton narrate the scene of the donkey's

invasion, of which, however, the guests did not perceive the point; but

those for whom it was intended understood it all. At bed time that

night, Joe White begged his school-fellow's pardon for entangling his

kite twine, and went to bed very humble and grateful, and with a little

love and kindness dawning, which made his rest sweeter and his dreams

happier. Thus Fred began his lessons of love; it was thus he endeavoured

to make Joe lovable, and congratulated himself on his first successful

attempt. He did not speak in the very words of the Poet, but his

sentiments were the same, as he talked to John of his victory.

"There is a golden chord of sympathy,

Fix'd in the harp of every human soul,

Which by the breath of kindness when 'tis swept,

Wakes angel-melodies in savage hearts;

Inflicts sore chastisements for treasured wrongs,

And melts away the ice of hate to streams of love;

Nor aught but _kindness_ can that fine chord touch."

Joe Murray was quite right in telling Edith that a little of the leaven

of kindness and love went a great way in a family. No man can live to

himself, that is to say, no man's acts can affect himself only. Had Fred

set an example of revenge and retaliation, other boys would have no

doubt acted in like manner on the first occasion of irritation. Now they

all helped to reform Joe White, and did not return evil for evil, as

had been their custom. Fred was the oldest but one of the little

community, and had always been looked up to as a clever boy, up to all

kinds of spore and diversion. He was the leader of their plays and

amusements, and but for the occasional outbreaks of his violent temper

would have been a great favourite. As it was, the boys liked him, and

his master was undoubtedly very fond of Fred Parker. He was an honest

truthful boy though impetuous and headstrong.

Permission was given the lads, who as we have said were six in number,

to walk out one fine September afternoon without the guardianship of

their master. They were to gather blackberries, highly esteemed by Mrs.

Barton for preserves, and it was the great delight of the boys to supply

her every year with this fruit. Blackberrying is a very amusing thing to

country children. It is less so perhaps in its consequences to the

nurse, or sempstress, who has to repair the terrible rents which

merciless brambles make, but of that children, boys especially, think

little or nothing. On they went, each provided with a basket and a long

crome stick, for the purpose of drawing distant clusters over ditches

or from some height within the reach of the gatherer. At first they

jumped and ran and sang in all the merriment of independence. The very

consciousness of life, health, and freedom was sufficient enjoyment, and

there was no end to their fun and their frolics until they came to the

spot where the blackberries grew in the greatest abundance. Then they

began to gather and eat and fill their baskets in good earnest. The most

energetic amongst them was Fred, and he had opportunities enough this

afternoon for practising kindness and self-denial, for White was in one

of his bad moods, and pushed before Fred whenever he saw a fine and

easily to be obtained cluster of fruit; and once, (Fred thought

purposely,) upset his basket, which stood upon the pathway, all in the

dust. Still Fred bore all this very well, and set about the gathering

with renewed ardour, though one or two of the party called out, "Give it

him, Parker; toss his out and see how he likes it." No, Fred had begun

to taste the sweet fruits of kindness, he would not turn aside to pluck

the bitter fruits of revenge and passion. So he gave no heed to the

matter, only leaving the coast clear for White whenever he could, and

helping a little boy whom White had pushed aside to fill his basket.

Without any particular adventures, and with only the usual number of

scratches and falls, and only the common depth of dye in lips and

fingers, the boys sat down to rest beneath the shade of some fine trees,

which skirted a beautiful wood.

"I say," said John Parker, "let us turn in here, we shall find shade

enough, and I had rather sit on the grass and moss than on this bank.

Come along, we have only to climb the hedge."

"But that would be trespassing," said one conscientious boy, who went by

the name of Simon Pure, because he never would join in any sport he

thought wrong, and used to recall the master's prohibitions rather

oftener to his forgetful companions than they liked.

"Trespassing! a fig for trespassing," said John Parker, clearing away

all impediments, and bestriding the narrow ditch, planted a foot firmly

on the opposite bank.

"You may get something not so sweet as a fig for trespassing, John,

though," said his brother Fred, who came up at this moment.

"Man-traps and spring-guns are fictions my lad," said Philip Harcourt, a

boy of much the same turn as John, not easily persuaded any way; "Now

for it, over Parker; be quick, man," and over he jumped.

Then followed Harcourt, White, and another little boy, whose name was

Arthur, leaving Fred and Simon Pure in the middle of the road. The wood

was, undoubtedly, a very delightful place, and more than one fine

pheasant rustled amongst the underwood, and the squirrels leaped from

bough to bough, whilst the music of the birds was charming. Fred,

himself, was tempted as he peeped over the gap, and stood irresolute.

The plantation was far enough from the residence of the owner, nor was

it likely that they could do much mischief beyond frightening the game,

and as it was not sitting time, Fred himself argued it could do no harm,

but little Riches, the boy called Pure, who was a great admirer of Fred,

especially since the affair of the Dahlias, begged him not to go; "Mr.

Barton, you know, has such a great dislike to our trespassing," said

Riches, "and if we stay here resolutely they will be sure to come back."

"Don't preach to me," was the rather unexpected reply, for Fred was not

_perfect_ yet, though he had gained a victory or two over his temper of

late.

"I didn't mean to preach, but I do wish the boys would come home, it is

growing late; and with our heavy baskets we shall only just get in in

time."

"Halloo!" shouted Fred, getting on the bank. "Come back, won't you, or

we shall be too late; come, John, you are the eldest, come along." But

his call was drowned in the sound of their voices, which were echoing

through the weeds, much to the annoyance, no doubt, of the stately

pheasants who were not accustomed to human sounds like these. They were

not at any great distance, and Fred could just distinguish parts of

their conversation.

John and Harcourt were urging White, a delicate boy, and no climber, to

mount a high tree in the wood, to enjoy they said the glorious sea-view;

but in reality to make themselves merry at his expense, being certain

that if he managed to scramble up he would have some difficulty in

getting down, and would get a terrible fright at least. White stood at

the bottom of the tree, looking at his companions as they rode on one of

the higher branches of a fine spruce fir.

"Don't venture! White," shouted Fred as loudly as he could shout, "don't

attempt it! They only want to make game of you, and you'll never get

down if you manage to get up. Take my advice now, don't try."

"Mind your own business," and a large sod of earth was the reply. The

sod struck the boy on the face, and his nose bled profusely.

"There," said young Riches, "what a cowardly trick! Oh! I think White

the meanest spirited boy I ever saw. He wouldn't have flung that sod at

you if you had been within arm's length of him; well, I do dislike that

White."

"I'll give it to him," said Fred, as he vaulted over the fence, but

immediately words, which Emilie had once repeated to him when they were

talking about offensive and defensive warfare, came into his mind, and

he stopped short. Those words were:--"If any man smite thee on thy

right cheek turn to him the other also," and Fred was in the road again.

"Well," said Riches, "we have done and said all we can, let us be going

home, their disobeying orders is no excuse for us, so come along

Parker--won't you? They have a watch, and their blackberries won't run

away, I suppose."

"Can't we manage between us, though, to carry some of them?" said Fred.

"This large basket is not nearly full, let us empty one of them into it.

There, now we have only left them two. I've got White's load. I've half

a mind to set it down, but no I won't though. You will carry John's,

Won't you, that's lighter, and between them they may carry the other."

They went on a few steps when they both turned to listen. "I thought,"

said Fred, "I heard my name called. It could only be fancy, though. Yet,

hush! There it is! quite plain," and so it was.

John called to him loudly to stop, and at that moment such a scream was

heard echoing through the woods, as sent the wood pigeons flying

terrified about, and started the hares from their hiding places. "Stop,

oh stop, Fred, White can't get down," said John, breathless, "and I

believe he will fall, if he hasn't already, he says he is giddy. Pray

come back and see if you can't help him, you are such a famous climber."

Fred could not refuse, and in less than five minutes he was on the spot,

but it was too late. The branch had given way, and the boy lay at the

foot of the tree senseless, to all appearance dead. There was no blood,

no outward sign of injury, but--his face! Fred did not forget for many

years afterwards, its dreadful, terrified, ghastly expression. What was

to be done? They were so horror-struck that for a few minutes they stood

in perfect silence, so powerfully were they convinced that the lad had

ceased to breathe, that they remained solemn and still as in the

presence of death.

To all minds death has great solemnities; to the young, when it strikes

one of their own age and number, especially. "Come," said Fred, turning

to Riches, "come, we must not leave him here to die, poor fellow. Take

off his neck-handkerchief, Harcourt, and run you, Riches, to the stream

close by, where we first sat down, and get some water. Get it in your

cap, man, you have nothing else to put it in. Quick! quick!"

"Joe! Joe!" said John, "only speak, only look, Joe, if you can, we are

so frightened."--No answer.

"Joe!" said Fred, and he tried to raise him. No assistance and no

resistance; Joe fell back passive on the arm of his friend, yes,

friend--they were no longer enemies you know. Had Fred returned evil for

evil, had he rushed on him as he first intended when he received the sod

from White, he would not have felt as he now did. The boys, who, out of

mischief, to use the mildest word, tempted him to climb to a height,

beyond that which even they themselves could have accomplished, were not

to be envied in _their_ feelings. Poor fellows, and yet they only did

what many a reckless, mischievous school boy has done and is doing every

day; they only meant to tease him a bit, to pay him off for being so

spiteful all the way, and so cross to Fred when he spoke. But it was no

use trying to still the voice which spoke loudly within them, which told

them that they had acted with heartless cruelty, and that their conduct

had, perhaps, cost a fellow-creature his life.

"Will you wait with him whilst I run to L---- for papa?" said Fred.

"What alone?" they cried.

"Alone! why there are four of you, will be at least when Riches comes

back."

"Oh no! no! do you stay Fred, you are the only one that knows what you

are after."

"Well, which of you will go then? It is near two miles, and you must

run, for his _life_--mind that." No one stirred, and Riches at this

moment coming up with the water, Fred told him in few words what he

meant to do, and bade him go and stand by the poor lad. That was all

that could be done, and "Riches don't be hard on them; their consciences

are telling them all you could tell them. Don't lecture them, I mean;

you would not like it yourself."

Off ran Fred, and to his great joy, spying a cart, with one of farmer

Crosse's men in it, he hailed it, told his tale, and thus they were at

L---- in a very short space of time. Terrified indeed was Mrs. Parker at

the sight of her son driving furiously up in farmer Crosse's

spring-cart, and his black eye and swelled face did not tend to pacify

her on nearer inspection. The father, a little more used to be called

out in a hurry, and to prepare for emergencies, was not so alarmed, but

had self-possession enough to remember what would be needed, and to

collect various articles for the patient's use.

The journey to the wood was speedily accomplished, but the poor lads who

were keeping watch, often said afterwards that it seemed to them almost

a lifetime, such was the crowd of fearful and wretched thoughts and

forebodings, such the anxiety, and hopelessness of their situation.

There in the silence of the wood lay their young companion, stretched

lifeless, and they were the cause. The least rustle amongst the leaves

they mistook for a movement of the sufferer; but he moved not. How did

they watch Mr. Parker's face as he knelt down and applied his fingers to

the boy's wrist first, and then to his heart! With what intense anxiety

did they watch the preparations for applying remedies and restoratives!

"Was he, was he dead, _quite_ dead?" they asked. No, not dead, but the

doctor shook his head seriously, and their exclamations of joy and

relief were soon checked.

Not to follow them through the process of restoring animation, we will

say that he was carefully removed to Mr. Barton's house, and tenderly

watched by his kind wife. He had been stunned by the fall, but this was

not the extent of the mischief. It was found upon examination that the

spine had received irreparable injury, and that if poor White lived,

which was doubtful, it would be as a helpless cripple. Who can tell the

reflections of those boys? Who can estimate the misery of hearts which

had thus returned evil for evil? It was a sore lesson, but one which of

itself could yield no good fruit.

It was a great grief to Fred that his presence, in the excitable state

of the sufferer, seemed to do him harm. He would have liked to sit by

him, and share in the duties of his nursing, but whenever Fred

approached, White became restless and uneasy, and continually alluded,

even in his delirium, to the sod he had thrown, and to other points of

his ungrateful malicious conduct to his school-fellow. This feeling,

however, in time wore away, and many an hour did Fred take from play to

go and sit by poor Joe's couch.

He had no mother to come and watch beside that couch, no kind gentle

sister, no loving father. He was an orphan, taken care of by an uncle

and aunt, who had no experience in training children, and were

accustomed to view young persons in the light of evils, which it was

unfortunately necessary to _bear_ until the _fault_ of youth should have

passed away. Will you not then cease to wonder that Joe seemed to have

so little heart? Affection needs to be cultivated; his uncle thought

that in sending him to school and giving him a good education, he was

doing his duty by the boy. His aunt considered that if in the holidays

she let him rove about as he pleased, saw to the repairs of his clothes,

sent him back fitted out comfortably, with a little pocket money and a

little _advice_, she had done _her_ duty by the child. But poor Joe! No

kind mother ever stole to his bedside to whisper warnings and gentle

reproof if the conduct of the day had been wrong; no knee ever bent to

ask for grace and blessing on that orphan boy; no sympathy was ever

expressed in one of his joys or griefs; no voice encouraged him in

self-denial; no heart rejoiced in his little victories over temper and

pride. Now, instead of blaming and disliking, will you not pity and love

the unlovable and neglected lad?

He had not been long under Mr. Barton's care, and after all, what could

a schoolmaster do in twelve months, to remedy the evils which had been

growing up for twelve years? He did his best, but the result was very

little, and perhaps the most useful lesson Joe ever had was that which

Fred gave him about the Dahlias.

CHAPTER TENTH.

EDITH'S VISIT TO JOE.

Fred and Edith were sitting in the Canary room one Saturday afternoon,

shortly after the event recorded in the last chapter; Edith listening

with an earnest interest to the oft-repeated tale of the fall in the

wood.

"How glad you must have felt, Fred, when you thought he was dead, that

you had not returned his unkindness."

"Glad! Edith, I cannot tell you how glad; but glad is'nt the word,

either. On my knees that night, and often since, I have thanked God who

helped me to check the temper that arose. Those words out of the Bible

did it: 'If any man smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other

also.' Emilie told me that text one day, and I said I did'nt think I

could ever do that, but I was helped somehow; but come, Edith, let us

go and see Emilie Schomberg, I have'nt seen her since all this happened,

though you have. How beautifully you keep my cages Edith! I think you

are very clever; the birds get on better than they did with me. Is there

any one you would like to give a bird to, dear? For I am sure you ought

to share the pleasures, you have plenty of the trouble of my canaries."

"Oh, I have pleasure enough, and their songs always seem like rejoicings

over our reconciliation that day ever so long ago; you remember, don't

you, Fred? but I should like a bird _very_ much to give to Miss

Schomberg; she seems low-spirited, and says she is often very lonely. A

bird would be nice company for her, shall we take her one?"

"It would be rather a troublesome gift without a cage, Edith, but I have

money enough, I think, and I will buy a cage, and then she shall have

her bird."

"We will hang it up to greet her on Sunday morning, shall we?" Thus the

brother and sister set out, and it was a beautiful sight to their

mother, who dearly loved them, to see the two who once were so

quarrelsome and disunited now walking together in _love_.

Emilie was not at home, and they stood uncertain which way to walk,

when Fred said, "Edith, I want some one to teach poor Joe love; will you

go with me and see him? You taught me to love you, and I think Joe would

be happier if he could see some one he could take a fancy to. Papa said

he might see one at a time now, and poor fellow, I do pity him so. Will

you go? It is a fine fresh afternoon, let us go to Mr. Barton's."

The October sky was clear and the air bracing, and side by side walked

Fred and Edith on their errand of mercy to poor neglected Joe, their

young hearts a little saddened by the remembrance of his sufferings, "Is

not his aunt coming?" asked Edith.

"No! actually she is not," replied Fred. "She says in her letter she

could not stand the fatigue of the journey, and that her physicians

order her to try the waters of Bath and Cheltenham. Unfeeling creature!"

Thus they chatted till they arrived at Mr. Barton's house. Mrs. Barton

received them very kindly. "Oh, Miss Parker, she said, my heart aches

for that poor lad upstairs, and yet with all this trial, and the

wonderful providential escape he has had, would you believe it? his

heart seems very little affected. He is not softened that I can see. I

told him to day how thankful he ought to be that God did not cut him off

in all his sins, and he answered that they who tempted him into danger

would have the most to answer for."

Ah, Mrs. Barton, it is not the way to people's hearts usually to find

fault and upbraid them. There was much truth in what you said to Joe,

but truth sometimes irritates by the way and time in which it is spoken,

and it seems in this case that the _kind_ of truth you told did not

exactly suit the state of the boy's mind. Edith did not say this of

course to the good lady, whose intentions were excellent, but who was

rather too much disposed to be severe on young persona, and certainly

Joe had tried her in many ways.

"I will go and see whether Joe would like to see Edith may I, madam,

asked Fred?" Permission was given.

"My sister is here, Joe, you have often heard me mention her, would you

like to see her?"

"Oh, I don't know, my back is so bad. Oh dear me, and your father tells

me I am to lie flat in this way, months. What am I to do all through

the Christmas holidays too? Oh! dear, dear me. Well, yes, she may come

up."

With this not very gracious invitation little Edith stepped upstairs,

and being of a very tender nature, no sooner did she see poor Joe's

suffering state than she began to cry. They were tears of such genuine

sympathy, such exquisite tenderness, that they touched Joe. He did not

withdraw the hand she held, and felt even sorry when she herself took

hers away. "How sorry I am for you!" said Edith, when she could speak,

"but may I come and read to you sometimes, and wait upon you when there

is no one else? I think I could amuse you a little, and it might pass

the time away. I only mean when you have no one better, you know."

Joe's permission was not very cordial, he was so afraid of girls'

_flummery_, as he called it "She plays backgammon and chess, Joe, and I

can promise you she reads beautifully."

"Well, I will come on Monday," said Edith, gaily, "and send me away if

you don't want me; but dear me, do you like this light on your eyes?

I'll ask mamma for a piece of green baize to pin up. Good bye."

As she was going out of the room Joe called her back. "I have such a

favour to ask of you, Miss Parker. Don't bring that preaching German

lady here of whom I have heard Fred speak; I don't mind you, but I

cannot bear so much preaching. Mrs. Barton and her together would craze

me." Edith promised, but she felt disappointed. She had hoped that

Emilie might have gained an entrance, and she knew that Emilie would

have found out the way to his heart, if she could once have got into his

presence; but she concealed her disappointment having made the required

promise, and ran after her brother.

"I don't like going where I am so plainly not wanted, Fred," said she on

their way home, "Oh, what a sad thing poor White's temper is for himself

and every one about him."

"Yes Edith, but _we_ are not always sweet-tempered, and you must

remember that poor White has no mother and no father, no one in short to

love." Edith found at first that it required more judgment than she

possessed to make her visit to Joe White either pleasant or useful.

Illness had increased his irritability, and so far from submitting

patiently to the confinement and restriction imposed, he was quite

fuming with impatience to be allowed to sit up and amuse himself at

least.

How ingenious is affection in contriving alleviations! Here Joe sadly

wanted some one whose wits were quickened by love. Mrs. Barton nursed

him admirably; he was kept very neat and nice, and his room always had a

clean tidy appearance; but it lacked the little tokens of love which

oft-times turn the sick chamber into a kind of paradise. No flowers, no

little contrivances for amusement, no delicate article of food to tempt

his sickly appetite. Poor Joe! Edith soon saw this, and yet it needs

experience in illness to adapt one's self to sick nursing. Besides she

was afraid, she did not like to offer books and flowers, and these

visits were quite dreaded by her.

"Will you not go and see Joe, Emilie?" asked Edith, one day of her

friend, as she was recounting the difficulties in her way. "You get at

people's hearts much better than ever I could do."

"My dear child," said Emilie, "did not Joe say that he begged you never

would bring the preaching German to see him? oh no, dear, I cannot

force my company on him. Besides you have not tried long enough,

kindness does not work miracles; try a little longer Edith, and be

patient with Joe as God is with us. How often we turn away from Him when

He offers to be reconciled to us. Think of that, dear."

"Fred is very patient and persevering; I often wonder, Miss Schomberg,

that John, who really did cause the accident, seems to think less about

Joe than Fred, who had not any thing to do with it."

"It is not at all astonishing, Edith. It requires that our actions

should be brought to the light of God's Word to see them in their true

condition. An impenitent murderer thinks less of his crime than a true

penitent, who has been moral all his life, thinks of his great sin of

ingratitude and ungodliness."

CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

JOE'S CHRISTMAS.

Christmas was at hand; Christmas with its holidays, its greetings, its

festive meetings, its gifts, its bells, and its rejoicings. That season

when mothers prepare for the return of their children from school, and

are wont to listen amidst storms of wind and snow for the carriage

wheels; when little brothers and sisters strain their eyes to catch the

first glimpse of the dear ones' approach along the snowy track; when the

fire blazes within, and lamps are lit up to welcome them home; and hope

and expectation and glad heart beatings are the lot of so many--of many,

not of all. Christmas was come, but it brought no hope, no gladness, no

mirth to poor White, either present or in prospect. The music and the

bells of Christmas, the skating, the pony riding, the racing, the brisk

walk, the home endearments were not for Joe--poor Joe. No mother longed

for his return, no brother or little sister pressed to the hall door to

get the first look or the first word; no father welcomed Joe back to the

hearth-warmth of home sweet home. Poor orphan boy!

Joe's uncle and aunt wrote him a kind letter, quite agreed in Mr.

Parker's opinion that a journey into Lincolnshire was, in the state of

his back and general health, out of the question, were fully satisfied

that he was under the best care, both medical and magisterial, (they had

never seen either doctor or master, and had only known of Mr. Barton

through an advertisement,) and sent him a handsome present of pocket

money, with the information that they were going to the South of France

for the winter. Joe bore the news of their departure very coolly, and

carelessly pocketed the money, knowing as he did that he had a handsome

property in his uncle's hands, and no one would have supposed from any

exhibition of feeling that he manifested, that he had any feeling or any

care about the matter. Once, indeed, when a fly came to the door to

convey Harcourt to the railway, and he saw from the window of his room

the happy school-boy jumping with glee into the vehicle, and heard him

say to Mr. Barton, "Oh yes, Sir, I shall be met!" he turned to Fred who

sate by him and said, "No one is expecting _me_, no one in the whole

world is thinking of me now, Parker."

Fred told his mother of this speech, a speech so full of bitter truth

that it made Mrs. Parker, kind creature as she was, shed tears, and she

asked her husband if young White could not be removed to pass the

Christmas holidays with them. The distance was not great, and they could

borrow Mr. Darford's carriage, and perhaps it might do him good. Mr.

Parker agreed, and the removal was effected.

For some days it seemed doubtful whether the change would be either for

poor White's mental happiness or bodily improvement. The exertion, and

the motion and excitement together, wrought powerfully on his nervous

frame, and he was more distressed, and irritable than ever. He could not

sleep, he ate scarcely any thing, he rarely spoke, and more than once

Mrs. Parker regretted that the proposal had been made. In vain Edith

brought him plants from the little greenhouse, fine camellias, pots of

snow-drops, and lovely anemones. They seemed rather to awaken painful

than pleasing remembrances and associations, and once even when he had

lain long looking at a white camellia he burst into tears. It is a great

trial of temper, a great test of the sincerity of our purpose, when the

means we use to please and gratify seem to have just the contrary

effect. In the sick room especially, where kind acts, and gentle words,

and patient forbearance are so constantly demanded, it is difficult to

refrain from expressions of disappointment when all our endeavours fail;

when those we wish to please and comfort, obstinately refuse to be

pleased and comforted. Often did Fred and Edith hold counsel as to what

would give Joe pleasure, but he was as reserved and gloomy as ever, and

his heart seemed inaccessible to kindness and affection. Besides, there

were continual subjects of annoyance which they could scarcely prevent,

with all the forethought and care in the world.

The boys were very thoughtful, for boys; Mrs. Parker had it is true

warned them not to talk of their out-of-door pleasures and amusements

to or before Joe, and they were generally careful; but sometimes they

would, in the gladness of their young hearts, break out into praises of

the fine walk they had just had on the cliff, or the glorious skating on

the pond, of the beauty of the pony, and of undiscovered walks and rides

in the neighbourhood. Once, in particular, Emilie, who was spending the

afternoon with the Parkers, was struck with the expression of agony that

arose to Joe's face from a very trifling circumstance. They were all

talking with some young companion of what they would be when they grew

up, and one of them appealing to Joe, he quickly said, "oh, a sailor--I

care for nobody at home and nobody cares for me, so I shall go to sea."

"To sea!" the boy repeated in wonder.

"And why not?" said Joe, petulantly, "where's the great wonder of that?"

There was a silence all through the little party; no one seemed willing

to remind the poor lad of that which he, for a moment, seemed to

forget--his helpless crippled state. It was only Emilie who noticed his

look of hopelessness; she sat near him and heard his stifled sigh, and

oh, how her heart ached for the poor lad!

This conversation and some remarks that the boy made, led Mr. and Mrs.

Parker seriously to think that he entertained hopes of recovery, and

they were of opinion that it would be kinder to undeceive him, than to

allow him to hope for that which could never he. Mr. Parker began to

talk to him about it one day, very kindly, after an examination of his

back, when White said, abruptly, "I don't doubt you are very skilful.

Sir, and all that, but I should like to see some other doctor. I have

money enough to pay his fee, and uncle said I was to have no expense

spared in getting me the best advice. Sir J. ---- comes here at Christmas,

I know, to see his father, and I should like to see him and consult him,

Sir, may I?" Mr. Parker of course could make no objection, and a day was

fixed for the consultation. It was a very unsatisfactory one and at once

crushed all Joe's hopes. The result was communicated to him as gently

and kindly as possible.

Mrs. Parker was a mother, and her sympathy for poor Joe was more lasting

than that of the younger branches of the family. She went to him on the

Sunday evening following the physician's visit to tell him the whole

truth, and she often said afterwards how she dreaded the task. Joe lay

on the sofa before the dining room window, watching the blue sea sit a

distance, and thinking with all the ardour of youthful longing of the

time when his back should be well, and he should be a voyager in one of

those beautiful ships. He should have no regrets, and no friends to

regret him; then he groaned at the pain and inconvenience and privation

of his present state, and panted for restoration. Mrs. Parker entered

and eat down by him.

"Is Sir J. C---- gone, Ma'am?"

"Yes, he has been gone some minutes."

"What does he say?" asked the lad earnestly. "He said very little to me,

nothing indeed, only all that fudge I am always hearing--'rest,

patience,' and so on."

"He thinks it a very serious case, my dear; he says that the recumbent

posture is very important."

"But for how long, Ma'am? I would lie twelve months patiently enough if

I hoped then to be allowed to walk about, and to be able to do as other

boys do."

"Sir J. C---- thinks, Joe, that you never will recover. I am grieved to

tell you so, but it is the truth, and we think it best you should know

it. Your spine is so injured that it is impossible you should ever

recover; but you may have many enjoyments, though not able to be active

like other boys. You must keep up your spirits; it is the will of God

and you must submit."

Poor Mrs. Parker having disburdened her mind of a great load, and

performed her dreaded task, left the room, telling her husband that the

boy bore it very well, indeed, he did not seem to feel it much. The bell

being already out for church, she called the young people to accompany

her thither, leaving one maid-servant and the errand boy at home, and

poor Joe to meditate on his newly-acquired information that he would be

a cripple for life. Edith looked in and asked softly, "shall I stay?"

but the "No" was so very decided, and so very stern that she did not

repeat the question, so they all went off together, a cheerful family

party.

The errand boy betook himself to a chair in the kitchen, where he was

soon sound asleep, and the maid-servant to the back gate to gossip with

a sailor; so Joe was left alone with a hand-bell on the table, plenty of

books if he liked to read them, and as far as outward comforts went

with nothing to complain of. "And here I am a cripple for life,"

ejaculated the poor fellow, when the sound of their voices died away and

the bell ceased; "and, oh, may that life be a short one! I wish, oh, I

wish, I were dead! who would care to hear this? no one--I wish from my

heart I were dead;" and here the boy sobbed till his poor weak frame was

convulsed with agony, and he felt as if his heart (for he had a heart)

would break.

In his wretchedness he longed for affection, he longed for some one who

would really care for him, "but _no one_ cares for me," groaned the lad,

"no one, and I wish I might die to night." Ah, Joe, may God change you

_very_ much before he grants that wish! After he had sobbed a while, he

began to think more calmly, but his thoughts were thoughts of revenge

and hatred. "_John_ has been the cause of it all." Then he thought

again, "they may well make all this fuss over me, when their son caused

all my misery; let them do what they will they will never make it up to

me, but they only tolerate me I can see, I know I am in the way; they

don't ask me here because they care for me, not they, it's only out of

pity;" and here, rolling his head from side to side, sobbed and cried

afresh. "What would I give for some one to love me, for some one to wait

on me because they loved me! but here I am to lie all my life, a

helpless, hopeless, cripple; oh dear! oh dear! my heart _will_ break.

Those horrid bells! will they never have done?"

* * * * *

At the very moment when poor Joe was thinking that no one on earth cared

for him, that not a heart was the sadder for his sorrow, a kind heart

not far off was feeling very much for him. "I shall not go to church

to-night, aunt Agnes," said Emilie Schomberg, "I shall go and hear what

Sir J.C.'s opinion of poor Joe White is. I cannot get that poor fellow

out of my mind."

"No, poor boy, it is a sad case," said aunt Agnes, "but why it should

keep you from church, my dear, I don't see. _I_ shall go."

So they trotted off, Emilie promising to leave aunt Agnes safe at the

church door, where she met the Parkers just about to enter. "Oh Emilie,"

said little Edith, "poor Joe! we have had Sir J.C.'s opinion, and it is

quite as had if not worse than papa's, there is so much disease and

such great injury done. He is all alone, Emilie, do go and sit with

him."

"It is just what I wish to do, dear, but do you think he will let me?"

"Yes, oh yes, try at least," said Edith, and they parted.

When Emilie rang at the bell Joe was in the midst of his sorrow, but

thinking it might only be a summons for Mr. Parker, he did not take much

notice of it until the door opened and the preaching German lady, as he

called Emilie, entered the room. When she saw his swollen eyes and

flushed face, she wished that she had not intruded, but she went frankly

up to him, and began talking as indifferently as possible, to give him

time to recover himself, said how very cold it was, stirred the fire

into a cheerful blaze, and then relapsed into silence. The silence was

broken at times by heavy sighs, however--they were from poor Joe. Emilie

now went to the piano, and in her clear voice sang softly that beautiful

anthem, "I will arise and go to my Father." It was not the first time

that Joe had shown something like emotion at the sound of music; now it

softened and composed him. "I should like to hear that again," he said,

in a voice so unlike his own that Emilie was surprised.

She sang it and some others that she thought he would like, and then

said, "I hope I have not tired you, but I am afraid you are in pain."

"I am," said Joe, in his old gruff uncivil voice, "in great pain."

"Can I do any thing for you?" asked Emilie, modestly.

"No _nothing_, nothing can be done! I shall have to lie on my back as

long as I live, and never walk or stand or do any thing like other

boys--but I hope I shan't live long, that's all."

Emilie did not attempt to persuade him that it would not be as bad as he

thought--that he would adapt himself to his situation, and in time grow

reconciled to it. She knew that his mind was in no state to receive such

consolation, that it rather needed full and entire sympathy, and this

she could and did most sincerely offer. "I am _very_ sorry for you," she

said quietly, "_very_ sorry," and she approached a little nearer to his

couch, and looked at him so compassionately that Joe believed her.

"Don't you think that fellow John ought to be ashamed of himself, and I

don't believe he ever thinks of it," said Joe, recurring to his old

feeling of revenge and hatred.

"Perhaps he thinks of it more than you imagine," said Emilie, "but don't

fancy that no one cares about you, that is the way to be very unhappy."

"It is _true_," said Joe, sadly.

"God cares for you," however, replied Emily softly.

"Oh, if I could think that, it would be a comfort," Miss Schomberg, "and

I do need comfort; I do, I do indeed, groaned the boy."

Emilie's tears fell fast. No words of sympathy however touching, no

advice however wise and good, no act however kind could have melted Joe

as the tears of that true-hearted girl. He felt confidence in their

sincerity, but that any one should feel for _him_, should shed tears for

him, was so new, so softening an idea, that he was subdued. Not another

word passed on the subject. Emilie returned to the piano, and soon had

the joy of seeing Joe in a tranquil sleep; she shaded the lamp that it

might not awake him, covered his poor cold feet with her warm tartan,

and with a soft touch lifted the thick hair from his burning forehead,

and stood looking at him with such intense interest, suck earnest

prayerful benevolence, that it might have been an angel visit to that

poor sufferer's pillow, so soothing was it in its influence. He half

opened his eyes, saw that look, felt that touch, and tears stole down

his cheeks; tears not of anger, nor discontent, but of something like

gratitude that after all _one_ person in the world cared for him. His

sleep was short, and when he awoke, he said abruptly to Emilie, "I want

to feel less angry against John," Miss Schomberg, "but I don't know how.

It was such a cruel trick, such a cowardly trick, and I cannot forgive

him."

"I don't want to preach," said Emily, smiling, "but perhaps if you would

read a little in this book you would find help in the very difficult

duty of forgiving men their trespasses."

"Ah, the Bible, but I find that dull reading; it always makes me low

spirited, I always associate it with lectures from uncle and Mr. Barton.

When I did wrong I was plied up with texts."

Emilie did not know what answer to make to this speech. At last she

said, "Do you remember the account of the Saviour's crucifixion, how,

when in agony worse than yours, he said, 'Father forgive them.' May I

read it to you?"

He did not object, and Emilie read that history which has softened many

hearts as hard as Joe's. He made but little remark as Emilie closed the

book, nor did she add to that which she had been reading by any comment,

but; bidding him a kind good night, went to meet Aunt Agnes at the

church door, and conduct her safely home.

There is a turning point in most persons' lives, either for good or

evil. Joe White was able long afterwards to recall that miserable Sunday

evening, with its storm of agitation and revenge, and then its lull of

peace and love. He who said, "Peace, be still," to the tempestuous

ocean, spoke those words to Joe's troubled spirit, and the boy was

willing to listen and to learn. Would a long lecture on the sinfulness

and impropriety of his revengeful and hardened state have had the same

effect on Joe, as Emilie's hopeful, gentle, almost silent sympathy? We

think not. "I would try and make him lovable," so said and so acted

Emilie Schomberg, and for that effort had the orphan cause to thank her

through time and eternity.

Joe was not of an open communicative turn, he was accustomed to keep

his feelings and thoughts very much to himself, and he therefore did not

tell either Fred or Edith of his conversation with Emilie, but when they

came to bid him good night, he spoke softly to them, and when John came

to his couch he did not offer one finger and turn away his face, as he

had been in the habit of doing, but said, "Good night," freely, almost

kindly.

The work went on slowly but surely, still he held back forgiveness to

John, and while he did this, he could not be happy, he could not himself

feel that he was forgiven. "I do forgive him, at least I wish him no

ill, Miss Schomberg," he said in one of his conversations with Emilie.

"I don't suppose I need be very fond of him. Am I required to be that?"

"What does the Bible say, Joe? 'If thine enemy hunger feed him, if he

thirst give him drink.' '_I_ say unto you,' Christ says, '_Love_ your

enemies.' He does not say don't hate them, he means _Love_ them. Do you

think you have more to forgive John than Jesus had to forgive those who

hung him on the cross?"

"It seems to me, Miss Schomberg, so different that example is far above

me. I cannot be like Him you know."

"Yet Joe there have been instances of persons who have followed his

example in their way and degree, and who have been taught by Him, and

helped by Him to forgive their fellow-creatures."

"But it is not in human nature to do it, I know, at least is not in

mine."

"But try and settle it in your mind, Joe, that John did not mean to

injure you, that had he had the least idea that you would fall he would

never have tempted you to climb. If you look upon it as accidental on

your part, and thoughtlessness on his, it will feel easier to forgive

him perhaps, and I am sure you may. You are quite wrong in supposing

that John does not think of it. He told Edith only yesterday that he

never could forgive himself for tempting you to climb, and that he did

not wonder at your cold and distant way to him. Poor fellow! it would

make him much happier if you would treat him as though you forgave him,

which you cannot do unless you _from your heart_ forgive him."

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

THE CHRISTMAS TREE.

The conversation last recorded, between Emilie and Joe, took place a few

days before Christmas. Every one noticed that Joe was more silent and

thoughtful than usual, but he was not so morose; he received the little

attentions of his friend more gratefully, and was especially fond of

having Emilie talk to him, sing to him, or read to him. Emilie and her

aunt were spending a few days at the Parkers' house, and it seemed to

add very much to Joe's comfort. This Emilie was like a spirit of peace

pervading the whole family. She was so sure to win Edith to obey her

mamma, to stop John if he went a little too far in his jokes with his

sister, to do sundry little services for Mrs. Parker, and to make

herself such an agreeable companion to Emma, and Caroline, that they all

agreed they wished that they had her always with them. Edith confessed

to Emilie one day that she thought Emma and Caroline wonderfully

improved, and as to her mamma, how very seldom she was cross now.

"We are very apt to think other persons in fault when we ourselves are

cross and irritable, this may have been the case here, Edith, may it

not?"

"Well! perhaps so, but I am sure I am much happier than I was, Emilie."

"'_Great peace_ have they that love God's law,' my dear, 'and nothing

shall offend them.' What a gospel of peace it is Edith, is it not?"

The great work in hand, just now, was the Christmas tree. These

Christmas trees are becoming very common in our English homes, and the

idea, like many more beautiful, bright, domestic thoughts, is borrowed

from the Germans. You may be sure that Emilie and aunt Agnes were quite

up to the preparations for this Christmas tree, and so much the more

welcome were they as Christmas guests.

"I have plenty of money," said Joe, "but I don't know, somehow, what

sort of present to make, Miss Schomberg, yet I think I might pay for

all the wax lights and ornaments, and the filagree work you talk of."

"A capital thought," said Emilie, and she took his purse, promising to

lay out what was needful to the best advantage. Joe helped Emilie and

the Miss Parkers very efficiently as he lay "useless," he said, but they

thought otherwise, and gave him many little jobs of pasting, gumming,

etc. It was a beautiful tree, I assure you; but Joe had a great deal of

mysterious talk with Emilie, apart from the rest, which, however, we

must not divulge until Christmas eve. A little box came from London on

the morning of the day, directed to Joe. Edith was very curious to know

its contents; so was Fred, so was John; Emilie only smiled.

"Joe, won't you unpack that box now, to gratify us all?" said Mr.

Parker, as Joe put the box on one side, nodded to Emilie, and began his

breakfast. No, Joe could not oblige him. Evening came at last, and the

Christmas tree was found to bear rich fruit. From many a little

sparkling pendant branch hung offerings for Joe; poor Joe, who thought

no one in the world cared for him. He lay on his reclining chair looking

happier and brighter than usual, but as the gifts poured into his lap,

gifts so evidently the offspring of tenderness and affection, so

numerous, and so adapted to his condition, his countenance assumed a

more serious and thoughtful cast. Every cue gave him something. There is

no recounting the useful and pretty, if not costly, articles that Joe

became possessor of. A beautiful tartan wrapper for his feet, from Mrs.

Parker; a reading desk and book from Mr. Parker; a microscope from John

and Fred; a telescope from Emilie and Edith; some beautiful knitted

socks from aunt Agnes; a pair of Edith and Fred's very best canaries.

When his gifts were arranged on his new table, a beautifully made table,

ordered for him by Mr. Parker, and exactly adapted to his prostrate

condition, and Joe saw every one's looks directed towards him lovingly,

and finally received a lovely white camellia blossom from Edith's hand,

he turned his face aside upon the sofa pillow and buried it in his

hands. What could be the matter with him? asked Mrs. Parker, tenderly.

Had any one said any thing to wound or vex him? "Oh no! no! no!" What

was it then? was he overcome with the heat of the room? "No, oh no!"

but might he be wheeled into the dining room, he asked? Mr. Parker

consented, of course, but aunt Agnes was sure he was ill. "Take him some

salvolatile, Emilie, at once."

"No aunt," said Emilie, "he will be better without that, he is only

overcome."

"And is not that just the very thing I was saying, Emilie, child, give

him some camphor julep then; camphor julep is a very reviving thing

doctor! Mr. Parker, won't you give him something to revive him."

"I think," said Emilie, who understood his emotion and guessed its

cause, "I think he will be better alone. His spirits are weak, owing to

illness, I would not disturb him."

"Come," said Mrs. Parker, "let us look at the tree, its treasures are

not half exhausted." Wonderful to say, although Joe had given his purse

to Emilie for the adornment of the tree, there still were presents for

every one from him; and what was yet more surprising to those who knew

that Joe had not naturally much delicacy of feeling or much

consideration for others, each present was exactly the thing that each

person liked and wished for. But John was the most astonished with his

share; it was a beautiful case of mathematical instruments, such a case

as all L---- and all the county of Hampshire together could not produce;

a case which Joe had bought for himself in London, and on which he

greatly prided himself. John had seen and admired it, and Joe gave this

prized, cherished case to John--his enemy John. "It must be intended for

you Fred," said John, after a minute's consideration; "but no, here is

my name on it."

Margaret, at this moment, brought in a little note from Joe for John,

who, when he had read it, coloured and said, "Papa, perhaps you will

read it aloud, I cannot."

It was as follows:--

DEAR JOHN,

I have been, as you must have seen,

very unhappy and very cross since my accident; I have

had my heart filled with thoughts of malice and revenge,

and to _you_. I have not felt as though I could forgive

you, and I have often told Emilie and Edith this; but

they have not known how wickedly I have felt to you,

nor how much I now need to ask your forgiveness for

thoughts which, in my helpless state, were as bad as actions.

Often, as I saw you run out in the snow to slide

or skate, I have wished (don't hate me for it) that you

might fall and break your leg or your arm, that you might

know a little of what I suffered. Thank God, all that is

passed away, and I now do not write so much to say I

forgive you, for I believe from my heart you only meant

to tease me a little, not to hurt me, but to ask you to pardon

me for thoughts far worse and more evil than your

thoughtless mischief to me. Will you all believe me, too,

when I say that I would not take my past, lonely, miserable

feelings back again, to be the healthiest, most active

boy on earth. Emilie has been a good friend to me, may

God bless her, and bless you all for your patience and

kindness to.

JOS. WHITE.

Pray do not ask me to come back to you to night, I

cannot indeed. I am not unhappy, but since my illness

my spirits are weak, and I can bear very little; your

kindness has been too much.

J.W.

The contents of the little box were now displayed. It was the only

costly present on that Christmas tree, full as it was, and rich in love.

The present was a little silver inkstand, with a dove in the centre,

bearing not an olive branch, but a little scroll in its beak, with these

words, which Emilie had suggested, and being a favourite German proverb

of hers. I will give it in her own language, in which by the bye it was

engraved. She had written the letter containing the order for the plate

to a fellow-countryman of hers, in London, and had forgotten to specify

that the motto must be in English; but never mind, she translated it for

them, and I will translate it for you. "Friede ernährt, unfriede

verzehrt." "In peace we bloom, in discord we consume." The inkstand was

for Mr. and Mrs. Parker, and the slip of paper said it was from their

grateful friend, Joe White. That was the secret. Emilie had kept it

well; they rather laughed at her for not translating the motto, but no

matter, she had taught them all a German phrase by the mistake.

Where was she gone? she had slipped away from the merry party, and was

by Joe's couch. Joe's heart was very full, full with the newly-awakened

sense that he loved and that he was loved; full of earnest resolves to

become less selfish, less thankless, less irritable. He knew his lot

now, knew all that lay before him, the privations, the restrictions, the

weakness, and the sufferings. He knew that he could never hope again to

share in the many joys of boyhood and youth; that he must lay aside his

cricket ball, his hoop, his kite, in short all his active amusements,

and consign himself to the couch through the winter, spring, summer,

autumn, and winter again. He felt this very bitterly; and when all the

gifts were lavished upon him, he thought, "Oh, for my health and

strength again, and I would gladly give up _all_ these gifts, nay, I

would joyfully be a beggar." But when he was alone, in the view of all I

have written and more, he felt that he could forgive John, that in short

he must ask John to forgive him, and this conviction came not suddenly

and by chance, but as the result of honest sober consideration, of his

own sincere communings with conscience.

Still he felt very desolate, still he could scarcely believe in Emilie's

assurance, "You may have God for your friend," and something of this he

told Miss Schomberg, when she came to sit by him for awhile. She had but

little faith in her own eloquence, we have said, and she felt now more

than ever how dangerous it would be to deceive him, so she did not lull

him into false peace, but she soothed him with the promise of Him who

loves us not because of our worthiness, but who has compassion on us out

of his free mercy. Herein is love indeed, thought poor Joe, and he

meditated long upon it, so long that his heart began to feel something

of its power, and he sank to sleep that night happier and calmer than he

had ever slept before, wondering in his last conscious moments that God

should love _him_.

Poor Joel he had much to struggle with; for if indulgence and

over-weening affection ruin their thousands, neglect and heartlessness

ruin tens of thousands. The heart not used to exercise the affection,

becomes as it were paralyzed, and so he found it. He could not love as

he ought, he could not be grateful as he knew he ought to be, and he

found himself continually receiving acts of kindness, as matters of

course, and without suitable feeling of kindness and gratitude in

return; but the more he knew of himself the more he felt of his own

unworthiness, the more gratefully he acknowledged and appreciated the

love of others to him. The ungrateful are always proud. The humble,

those who know how undeserving they are, are always grateful.

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

THE NEW HOME.

Let us pass by twelve months, and see how the law of kindness is working

then. Mrs. Parker is certainly happier, less troubled than she was two

years ago; Edith is a better and more dutiful child, and the sisters are

far more sociable with her than formerly. The dove of peace has taken up

its abode in the Parker family. How is it in High Street? Emilie and

aunt Agnes are not there, but Miss Webster is still going on with her

straw bonnet trade and her lodging letting, and she is really as good

tempered as we can expect of a person whose temper has been bad so very

long, and who has for so many years been accustomed to view her fellow

creatures suspiciously and unkindly.

But Emilie is gone, and are you not curious to know where? I will tell

you; she is gone back to Germany--she and her aunt Agnes are both gone

to Frankfort to live. The fact is, that Emilie is married. She was

engaged to a young Professor of languages, at the very time when the

Christmas tree was raised last year in Mr. Parker's drawing room. He

formed one of the party, indeed, and, but that I am such a very bad hand

at describing love affairs, I might have mentioned it then; besides,

this is not a _love story_ exactly, though there is a great deal about

_love_ in it.

Lewes Franks had come over to England with letters of recommendation

from one or two respectable English families at Frankfort, and was

anxious to return with two or three English pupils, and commence a

school in that town. His name was well known to Mr. Parker, who gladly

promised to consign his two sons, John and Fred to his care, but

recommended young Franks to get married. This Franks was not loth to do

when he saw Emilie Schomberg, and after rather a short courtship, and

quite a matter of fact one, they married and went over to Germany,

accompanied by John, Fred, and Joe White. Mr. Barton, after the sad

accident in the plantation, had so little relish for school keeping,

that he very gladly resigned his pupils to young Franks, who, if he had

little experience in tuition, was admirably qualified to train the young

by a natural gentleness and kindness of disposition, and sincere and

stedfast christian principle.

Edith longed to accompany them, but that was not to be thought of, and

so she consoled herself by writing long letters to Emilie, which

contained plenty of L---- news. I will transcribe one for you.

The following was dated a few months after the departure of the party,

not the first though, you may be sure.

L----, Dec, 18--

DEAREST EMILIE,

I am thinking so much of you to-night

that I must write to tell you so. I wish letters

only cost one penny to Frankfort, and I would write to

you every day. I want so to know how you are spending

your Christmas at Frankfort. We shall have no Christmas

tree this year. We all agreed that it would be a melancholy

attempt at mirth now you are gone, and dear Fred

and John and poor Joe. I fancy you will have one

though, and oh, I wish I was with you to see it, but

mamma is often very poorly now, and likes me to be

with her, and I know I am in the right place, so I

won't wish to be elsewhere. Papa is very much from

home now, he has so many patients at a distance, and

sometimes he takes me long rides with him, which is

a great pleasure. One of his patients is just dead,

you will be sorry to hear who I mean--Poor old Joe

Murray! He took cold in November, going out with

his Life Boat, one very stormy night, to a ship in

distress off L---- sands, the wind and rain were very

violent, and he was too long in his wet clothes, but he

saved with his own arm two of the crew; two boys about

the age of his own poor Bob. Every one says it was a

noble act; they were just ready to sink, and the boat in

another moment would have gone off without them. His

own life was in great danger, but be said he remembered

your, or rather the Saviour's, "Golden Rule," and could

not hesitate. Think of remembering that in a November

storm in the raging sea! He plunged in and dragged

first one and then another into the boat. These boys

were brothers, and it was their first voyage. They told

Joe that they had gone to sea out of opposition to their

father, who contradicted their desires in every thing, but

that now they had had quite enough of it, and should

return; but I must not tell you all their story, or my

letter will he too long. Joe, as I told you, caught cold,

and though he was kindly nursed and Sarah waited on him

beautifully, he got worse and worse. I often went to see

him, and he was very fond of my reading in the Bible

to him; but one day last week he was taken with inflammation

of the chest, and died in a few hours. Papa says he

might have lived years, but for that cold, he was such a

healthy man. I feel very sorry he is gone.

I can't help crying when I think of it, for I remember

he was very useful to me that May evening when we

were primrose gathering. Do you recollect that evening,

Emilie? Ah, I have much to thank you for. What a

selfish, wilful, irritable girl I was! So I am now at times,

my evil thoughts and feelings cling so close to me, and

I have no longer you, dear Emilie, to warn and to encourage

me, but I have Jesus still. He Is a good Friend

to me, a better even than you have been.

I owe you a great deal Emilie; you taught me to love,

you showed me the sin of temper, and the beauty of peace

and love. I go and see Miss Webster sometimes, as you

wish; she is getting very much more sociable than she was,

and does not give quite such short answers. She often

speaks of you, and says you were a good friend to her; that

is a great deal for her to say, is it not? How happy you

must be to have every one love you! I am glad to

say that Fred's canaries are well, but they don't _agree_ at

all times. There is no teaching canaries to love one

another, so all I can do is to separate the fighters; but

I love those birds, I love them for Fred's sake, and I love

them for the remembrances they awaken of our first days

of peace and union.

My love to Joe, poor Joe! Do write and tell me how

he goes on, does he walk at all? Ever dear Emilie,

Your affectionate

EDITH.

There were letters to John and Fred in the same packet, and I think you

will like to hear one of Fred's to his sister, giving an account of the

Christmas festivities at Frankfort.

DEAR EDITH,

I am very busy to-day, but I must

give you a few lines to tell you how delighted your letters

made us. We are very happy here, but _home_ is the place

after all, and it is one of our good Master's most constant

themes. He is always talking to us about home, and

encouraging us to talk of and think of it. Emilie seems

like a sister to us, and she enters into all our feelings as

well us you could do yourself.

Well, you will want to know something about our

Christmas doings at school. They have been glorious I

can tell you--such a Christmas tree! Such a lot of

presents in our _shoes_ on Christmas morning; such dinings

and suppings, and musical parties! You must know every

one sings here, the servants go singing about the house

like nightingales, or sweeter than nightingales to my

mind, like our dear "Kanarien Vogel."

You ask for Joe, he is very patient, and kind and good

to us all, he and John are capital friends; and oh, Edith,

it would do your heart good to see how John devotes himself

to the poor fellow. He waits upon him like a servant,

but it is all _love_ service. Joe can scarcely bear him out

of his sight. Herr Franks was asked the other day, by

a gentleman who came to sup with us, if they were brothers.

John watches all Joe's looks, and is so careful

that nothing may be said to wound him, or to remind

him of his great affliction more than needs be. It was a

beautiful sight on New Year's Eve to see Joe's boxes

that he has carved. He has become very clever at that

work, and there was an article of his carving for every

one, but the best was for Emilie, and she _deserted_ it.

Oh, how he loves Emilie! If he is beginning to feel in

one of his old cross moods, he says that Emilie's face, or

Emilie's voice disperses it all, and well it may; Emilie

has sweetened sourer tempers than Joe White's.

But now comes a sorrowful part of my letter. Joe is

very unwell, he has a cough, (he was never strong you

know,) and the doctor says he is very much afraid his

lungs are diseased. He certainly gets thinner and

weaker, and he said to me to-day what I must tell you.

He spoke of his longings to travel (to go to Australia was

always his fancy.) "And now, Fred," he said, "I never

think of going _there_, I am thinking of a longer journey

_still_." "A longer journey, Joe!" I said, "Well, you have

got the travelling mania on you yet, I see." He looked

so sad, that I said, "What do you mean Joe?" He

replied, "Fred, I think nothing of journeys and voyages

in this world now. I am thinking of a pilgrimage to the

land where all our wandering's will have an end. I

longed, oh Fred, you know how I longed to go to foreign

lands, but I long now as I never longed before to go to

_Heaven_." I begged him not to talk of dying, but he said

it did not make him low spirited. Emilie and he talked

of it often. Ah Edith! that boy is more fit for heaven

than any of us who a year or two ago thought him

scarcely fit to be our companion, but as Emilie said the

other day, God often causes the very afflictions that he

sends to become his choicest mercies. So it has been

with poor White, I am sure. I find I have nearly filled

my letter about Joe, but we all think a great deal of him.

Don't you remember Emilie's saying, "I would try to

make him lovable." He is lovable now, I assure you.

I am sorry our canaries quarrel, but that is no fault of

yours. We have only two school-fellows at present, but

Herr Franks does not wish for a large school; he says he

likes to be always with us, and to be our companion, which

if there were more of us he could not so well manage. We

have one trouble, and that is in the temper of this newly

arrived German boy, but we are going to try and make

him lovable. He is a good way off it _yet_.

I must leave John to tell you about the many things I

have forgotten, and I will write soon. We have a cat

here whom we call _Muff_, after your old pet. Her name

often reminds me of your sacrifice for me. Ah! my dear

little sister, you heaped coals of fire on my head that day.

Truly you were not overcome of evil, you overcame evil

with good. Dear love to all at home. Your ever affectionate

brother,

FRED PARKER.

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

THE LAST.

"Hush, dears! hush!" said a gentle voice, pointing to a shaded window.

"He is asleep now, and we must have the window open for air this sultry

evening. I would not rake that bed to-night, John, I think."

"It is _his_ garden, Emilie."

"Yes, I know"--and she sighed.--

"It _is_ his garden, and his eye always sees the least weed and the

least untidiness. He will be sure to notice it when he is drawn out

to-morrow."

"John there may be no to-morrow for Joe, he is altered very much to-day,

and it is evident to me he is sinking fast. He won't come down again, I

think."

"May I go and sit by him, Emilie?" said the boy, quietly gathering up

his tools and preparing to leave his employment.

"Yes, but be very still."

It was a striking contrast; that fine, florid, healthy boy, whose frame

was gaining vigour and manliness daily, whose blight eye had scarcely

ever been dimmed by illness or pain, and that pale, deformed, weary

sleeper. So Emilie thought as she took her seat by the open window and

watched them both. The roses and the carnations that John had brought to

his friend were quietly laid on the table as he caught the first glimpse

of the dying boy. There was that in the action which convinced Emilie

that John was aware of his friend's state and they quietly sat down to

watch him. The stars came out one by one, the dew was falling, the birds

were all hurrying home, children were asleep in their happy beds; many

glad voices mingled by open casements and social supper tables, some few

lingered out of doors to enjoy the beauties of that quiet August night,

the last on earth of one, at least, of God's creatures. They watched on.

"I have been asleep, Emilie, a beautiful sleep, I was dreaming of my

mother; I awoke, and it was you. John, _you_ there too! Good, patient,

watchful John. Leave me a moment, quite alone with John, will you,

Emilie? Moments are a great deal to me now."

The friends were left alone, their talk was of death and eternity, on

the solemn realities of which one of them was about to enter, and

carefully as John had shielded Joe, tenderly as he had watched over him

hitherto, he must now leave him to pass the stream alone--yet not alone.

Emilie soon returned; it was to see him die. It was not much that he

could say, and much was not needed. The agony of breathing those last

breaths was very great. He had lived long near to God, and in the dark

valley his Saviour was still near to him. He was at peace--at peace in

the dying conflict; it was only death now with whom he had to contend.

Being justified by faith, he had peace with God through the Lord Jesus

Christ. His last words were whispered in the ear of that good elder

sister, our true-hearted, loving Emilie. "Bless you, dear Emilie, God

_will_ bless you, for 'Blessed are the peacemakers.'"

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8. MODERATION. 9. PATIENCE. 10. REFLECTION. 11. SELF-DENIAL. 12. YOUNG

CADET; or, Travels in Hindostan. 13. YOUNG PILGRIM; or, Alfred Campell's

Return.

SECOND CLASS, in 18mo. Price 1s. 6d.

1. ADELAIDE: or, Massacre of St. Bartholomew. 2. AFFECTIONATE BROTHERS.

3. ALICIA AND HER AUNT; or, Think before you Speak. 4. BARBADOS GIRL. 5.

BLIND FARMER AND HIS CHILDREN. 6. CLERGYMAN'S WIDOW and her YOUNG

FAMILY. 7. DAUGHTER-IN-LAW, HER FATHER AND FAMILY. 8. ELIZABETH AND HER

THREE BEGGAR BOYS. 9. GODMOTHER'S TALES. 10. GOOD GRANDMOTHER AND HER

OFFSPRING. 11. MERCHANT'S WIDOW and her YOUNG FAMILY. 12. RICH BOYS AND

POOR BOYS, and other Tales. 13. THE SISTERS; a Domestic Tale. 14. STOLEN

BOY; an Indian Tale. 15. WILLIAM AND HIS UNCLE BEN. 16. YOUNG NORTHERN

TRAVELLER. 17. YOUNG CRUSOE; or, Shipwrecked Boy.

* * * * *

NEW ILLUSTRATED WORKS FOR THE YOUNG.

Uniformly printed in square 16 mo. handsomely bound in cloth, price 2s.

6d. each.

* * * * *

1. With Plates on Steel, Second Edition,

HOW TO WIN LOVE; OR, RHONDA'S LESSON. BY THE AUTHOR OF "MICHAEL THE

MINER," ETC.

"A very captivating story."--_Morning Post._

"Truthfulness, descriptive talent, and pure morality in every line."--

_Literary Gazette._

"Just what a story for children ought to be."--_Douglas Jerrold's

Newspaper._

2. PIPPIE'S WARNING; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A DANCING DOG. BY CATHERINE

CROWE, AUTHOR OF 'SUSAN HOPLEY,' ETC.

"A capital story."--_Athenaeum._ "This is a capital child's

book."--_Scotsman._

3. STRATAGEMS. BY MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND, (late CAMILLA TOULMIN.)

"A sweet tale, penned in a fair mood, and such as will make a rare gift

for a child."--_Sun_.

4. With Four Illustrations.

MY OLD PUPILS. The former work of this author, "MY SCHOOLBOY DAYS," has

attained great popularity, upwards of ten thousand copies having been

circulated in this country alone.

5 Third Edition, with gilt edges,

STORIES FROM THE GOSPELS. By MRS. HENRY LYNCH, AUTHOR OF "MAUDE

EFFINGHAM," ETC.

6. Just published,

PLEASANT PASTIME; Or, DRAWING-ROOM DRAMAS, for Private Representation by

the Young.

* * * * *

NEW TALE FOR THE YOUNG, BY SILVERPEN.

* * * * *

JUST PUBLISHED, In foolscap 8vo. price 7_s_. 6_d_. elegantly bound and

gilt, WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY HARVEY,

THE DOCTOR'S LITTLE DAUGHTER. THE STORY OF A CHILD'S LIFE AMIDST THE

WOODS AND HILLS.

BY ELIZA METEYARD.

"This is a very delightful book, especially calculated for the amusement

and instruction of our young friends; and is evidently the production of

a right-thinking and accomplished mind."--_Church of England Review_.

"An elegant, interesting, and unobjectionable present for young ladies.

The moral of the book turns on benevolence."--_Christian Times_.

"This Story of a Child's Life is so full of beauty end meekness that we

can hardly express our sense of its worth in the words of common

praise."--_Nonconformist_.

"This will be a choice present for the young."--_British Quarterly

Review_.

* * * * *

A GIFT BOOK FOR ALL SEASONS.

* * * * *

In square post 8vo, price 5_s_. handsomely bound and gilt,

THE JUVENILE CALENDAR, AND ZODIAC OF FLOWERS By Mrs. T. K. Hervey

WITH TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE MONTHS. By RICHARD DOYLE.

"Never has the graceful pencil of Mr. Doyle been more gracefully

employed than in sketching the charming illustrations of this charming

volume."--_Sun_.

"A very pretty as well as very interesting book."--_Observer_.

"One need not ask for a prettier or more appropriate gift."--_Atlas_.

"One of the most charming gift-books for the young which we have never

met with."--_Nonconformist_.

* * * * *

In fcp. 8vo. price 5_s_. cloth gilt, illustrated by FRANKLIN,

COLA MONTI; OR, THE STORY OF A GENIUS. A TALE FOR BOYS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "HOW TO WIN LOVE," ETC.

"We heartily command it as delightful holiday reading."--_Critic_.

"A lively narrative of school-boy adventures."

"A very charming and admirably written volume. It is adapted to make

boys better."

"A simple and pleasing story of school-boy life."--_John Bull_.

* * * * *

In 18mo. price 1_s_. 6_d_. with Illustrations by A. COOPER, R A.

THE VOICE OF MANY WATERS. BY MRS. DAVID OSBORNE.

* * * * *

NEW CHRISTMAS BOOK FOR THE YOUNG.

* * * * *

Just published, in fcap. 8vo. price 5_s_. handsomely bound, with gilt

edges,

THE ILLUSTRATED YEAR BOOK. SECOND SERIES. THE WONDERS, EVENTS, AND

DISCOVERIES OF 1850.

EDITED BY JOHN TIMBS.

WITH NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD. _Among the Contents of this

interesting Volume will be found_ THE HIPPOPOTAMUS. OCEAN STEAMERS.

CHURCH BUILDING. THE KOH-I-NOOR. TROPICAL STORMS. NEPAULESE EMBASSY.

SUBMARINE TELEGRAPH. PANORAMAS. OVERLAND ROUTE. COLOSSAL STATUE OF

"BAVARIA." INDUSTRIAL EXHIBITION, 1851.

"What a treasure in a country house must not such an Encyclopaedia of

amusing knowledge afford, when the series has grown to a few volumes.

Not only an Encyclopaedia of amusing and useful knowledge, but that

which will give to memory a chronological chart of our acquisition of

information. This admirable idea is well followed out in the little

volume in our hands. The notiore are all clear, full, and satisfactory,

and the engravings with which the volume is embellished are every way

worthy of the literary part of the work."--_Standard_.

"The work is well done, and deserves notice as a striking memorial of

the chief occurrences of 1850."--_Atlas_.

"Books such as this are, and will be, the landmarks of social,

scientific, mechanical, and moral progress; it extends to nearly four

hundred pages of well-condensed matter, illustrated with numerous

excellently engraved wood blocks."--_Advertiser_.

"It is a stirring and instructive volume for intelligent young

people."--_Evangelical_.

The former Volume, for 1849, still continues on Sale.

* * * * *

NEW GIFT BOOK FOR THE SEASON.

* * * * *

In 8vo. price 16s. bound in cloth, or 24s. morocco elegant,

PILGRIMAGES TO ENGLISH SHRINES.

BY MRS. S.C. HALL.

WITH NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS BY F.W. FAIRHOLT, F.S.A. _Among the

interesting subjects of this Volume will be found,_ The Birth-place or

John Bunyan; the Burial-place of John Hampden; the Residence of Hannah

More; the Tomb of Sir Thomas Gresham; the Tomb of Thomas Gray; the

Birth-place of Thomas Chatterton; the Birth-place of Richard Wilson; the

House of Andrew Marvel; the Tomb of John Stow; the Heart of Sir Nicholas

Crispe; the Printing Office of William Caxton; Shaftesbury House; the

Dwelling of James Barry; the Residence of Dr. Isaac Watts; the Prison of

Lady Mary Grey; the Town of John Kyrle (the Man of Ross); the Tomb of

William Hogarth; the Studio of Thomas Gainsborough, R.A.

NOTICES OF THE PRESS "Descriptions of such Shrines come home with deep

interest to all hearts--all English hearts--particularly when they are

done with the earnestness which distinguishes Mrs. Hall's writings. That

lady's earnestness and enthusiasm are of the right sort--felt for

freedom of thought and action, for taste, and for genius winging its

flight in a noble direction. They are displayed, oftentimes most

naturally, throughout the attractive pages of this volume."--_Observer._

"Mrs. Hall's talents are too well known to require our commendation of

her 'Pilgrimages,' which are every way worthy of the beautiful woodcuts

that illustrate almost every page, and this is very high praise

indeed."--_Standard._

"The illustrations are very effective; and the whole work externally and

internally, is worthy of the patronage of all who love to be instructed

as well as amazed."_--Church and State Gazette._

"The book is a pleasant one; a collection of a great deal of curious

information about a number of curious places and persons, cleverly and

readily put together, and combined into an elegant volume."--_Guardian_.