Dora's mistake

Mrs. Temple was a very indulgent mother, and was inclined to be all the more so as every one of her children was either suffering from whooping-cough or just recovering from its effects. She felt sorry at the necessity for shutting out her family from many of their usual occupations and pleasures, and even from the privilege of going to church. She did not, therefore, in the least press the subject of delay, but offered, as soon as early dinner should be over, to go and search in her drawers and boxes for such materials as she might think suitable for the model of the Tabernacle, which her children were so eager to make. The dinner-bell sounded while Mrs. Temple was speaking, and the family went together to the room in which they took all their meals, and gathered round the table, their minds full of the new subject.

While the young Temples are engaged with their dinner, let me introduce them a little more individually to my reader. There, at the bottom of the table, is Lucius, a sunburnt, pleasant-looking schoolboy, with a mass of brown, half-curly locks brushed back from his forehead. He has quick eyes and restless hands, which are seldom perfectly still, even if they have no better occupation than that of tying and untying a morsel of string; but they are now busily plying a large knife and fork, for Lucius is a skilful carver, and the joint of mutton is placed before him, from which to help all the party.

The pale girl seated on the right of Lucius, with eyes weak and reddened by the effect of her cough, is Agnes, the elder of the twins. Her brow is furrowed, perhaps from the same cause, perhaps because she is more irritable in temper than her brother and sisters. But Agnes is a conscientious girl, one who thinks much of duty: and we may hope that "prayer and pains," which it has been well said can do anything, will give her the mastery over faults against which she is trying to struggle.

Opposite to Agnes sits Dora, who, though her twin, is not much like her, being a good deal taller, prettier, and more animated than she. Dora is a much greater favourite with Lucius and the younger girls than the elder twin, from being gay, obliging, and clever. Agnes is perfectly aware that such is the case, and has to pray and strive against the sin of jealousy, which is too ready to creep into her heart and poison all her enjoyments.

On either side of Mrs. Temple are her two younger daughters, Amy and Elsie. The former, with soft brown eyes and long flaxen hair tied with blue ribbons, is strikingly like her mother, who has, at least so think her children, the sweetest face in the world. Amy has never been known to quarrel or utter an angry word, and is always ready to give help to any one who needs it. It is no wonder that so gentle a girl is beloved. But Amy knows herself to be by no means faultless, and is much on her guard against the silly vanity which a mother's watchful eye has found out to be lurking in the mind of her dear little girl.

Elsie is a merry blue-eyed child, full of life and intelligence, forward—rather too forward for her age. She has for six years held the place of baby in the home of her widowed mother, and her family are rather disposed to indulge her as if she were a baby still. She enters with animation into the amusements of the elder children, and is by no means disposed to be seen and not heard, as Lucius often laughingly tells her that such little people should be.

THE GARDEN OF EDEN.

During dinner the conversation was almost entirely on the subject of the model, and flowed on pleasantly enough, except when interrupted by coughing. But all the children were glad when meal-time was over, and their mother, with Amy and Elsie skipping before her, went off to hunt over her little stores for such materials as might be found useful.

Lucius employed the time of their absence in exploring the lumber-room for tops of old boxes or other bits of wood that might, when fastened together, do for the ground-frame of the model, into which the gilded pillars might be fixed. Dora, with pencil and paper, busied herself in trying to make an embroidery pattern, introducing the figures of cherubim. Agnes, who was too weak for much exertion, and who took less keen interest in the work than did her sisters, lay on the sofa reading a book, until the return of Amy and Elsie, each of whom carried some little treasure in her hands.

"Look, Agnes, look at these shining reels of gold and silver thread!" exclaimed the youngest child with eager delight.

"Gold thread—ah! That's just what I want!" cried Dora, throwing down her pencil.

"And here is mamma's book of gold leaf; there is a little gold sheet between every one of the pages," continued Elsie. "But oh! It is so thin, so very thin, one dare not breathe near, or the gold would all fly away!"

"I thought that gold was a very heavy metal," observed Agnes, looking up from her book.

"But it is beaten out into such extreme fineness that a bit of gold no larger than a pea would gild all these," said Lucius, who had just entered the room with his arm full of pieces of wood.

"See, Agnes, what we have brought for you!" cried Amy. "Here is a beautiful piece of blue merino for the outer curtains (the badger's skin cover, you know), and blue silk with which to sew it; and here is another piece of mohair for the goat's skin cover, so you are supplied directly with everything that you need; is not that nice?"

Agnes did not look so much delighted as her sister expected that she would; perhaps because she was scarcely well enough to take much pleasure in sewing; perhaps because she had still a feeling of mortification at not having been trusted with the embroidery part of the work.

"I hope that you have brought me the fine linen for the beautiful inner curtains, and the veil for the Holy of holies," cried Dora.

"No, mamma cannot find any linen fine enough, unless she were to tear up her handkerchiefs, and that would be a pity," said Amy. "But mamma has promised to buy some linen both for your curtains and for mine that are, you know, to hang all round the open court of the Tabernacle."

"It is very tiresome to have to stop at the beginning for want of fine linen!" exclaimed Dora. "I hope that mamma will go out and buy us plenty at once."

"Ah! Dora, you know that mamma owned this morning that she felt very tired," said Amy, a little reproachfully; "and the shops are a good way off; it is not as if we lived in the town."

"Besides, it is raining," observed Elsie, who was looking out of the window.

"It is merely a little drizzle that would not hurt a fly!" exclaimed Dora. "Mamma never minds a few tiny drops when she puts on her waterproof cloak."

"Mamma never minds anything that has only to do with her own comfort," observed Amy.

"So there is more need that we should mind for her," said Agnes.

"I'm sure that I wish that I could go to the shops myself without troubling any one!" exclaimed the impatient Dora. "If it were not for this stupid tiresome infection, I'd get Lucius to go with me this minute, and would we not return laden with linen, pasteboard, and all sorts of things! But mamma's fear of setting other people coughing and whooping makes her keep us shut up here in prison."

"Mamma is quite right!" exclaimed Lucius. "I say so, though I hate more than you do being boxed up here in the house."

"Mamma is quite right," re-echoed poor Agnes, as soon as she recovered voice after another violent fit of coughing, which almost choked her. "I should not like to give any one else such a dreadful complaint as this."

Mrs. Temple now entered the room, with several things in her hand.

"I have found a nice bit of red Turkey cloth," said she, "so my little Elsie will be able to set to work on her curtains at once."

The child clapped her hands with pleasure, and then scampered off for her little Tunbridge-ware workbox.

"I hope that you have found the linen too, mamma," cried Dora; "I am in a hurry for it, a very great hurry," she added, regardless of an indignant look from Agnes, and a pleading one from Amy.

"I am sorry that I have no suitable linen," replied their mother, "but I intend to go out and buy some."

"Not to-day, not now, it is raining; you are tired," cried several voices; that of Dora was, however, not heard amongst them.

"I have here some pasteboard, though not sufficient for our model, and a bottle of strong gum which will be most useful," said Mrs. Temple, placing on the table what she had brought; "but gilt paper will be needed as well as gold leaf, and of it I have none; I must procure that, and some more pasteboard for my dear boy."

"And plenty of wire, cut into five-inch lengths for the pillars," added Lucius.

"And linen for Amy and me," joined in Dora.

"But please buy nothing till Monday," said Agnes; "the work can wait quite well for a couple of days."

"Yes, yes, do wait till Monday," cried the other children; Dora again being the only exception.

Dora's selfishness was marring her offering, as Agnes's pride had blemished hers. How difficult it is even in the most innocent pleasure, even in the most holy occupation, to keep away every stain of sin! Ever since the sad time when evil entered the beautiful garden of Eden, and Adam and Eve ate of the fruit which God had forbidden them to taste, pride, selfishness, and unholiness have been natural to the human heart. Even when we most earnestly try to do what we think good works, how much we need to be on our guard lest sin creep in to spoil all!

Dora, though silent, showed so plainly by her looks her extreme impatience to be supplied at once with materials for which she could have so easily waited, that her gentle mother made up her mind to gratify her wish.

Mrs. Temple put on her waterproof cloak, and, tired as she was, went forth on a shopping expedition. It vexed the children to see that the clouds grew darker, and the shower fell more heavily not long after their mother had quitted the house.

"If mamma catches cold or has pain in her face, it is all Dora's fault!" exclaimed Lucius.

"It was so selfish—so silly not to wait," observed Agnes; "just see how the rain is pouring!"

"I love mamma as much as any of you do!" cried Dora, her heart swelling with vexation, so that she could hardly refrain from tears.

"You love yourself better, that's all," remarked Lucius; and his words were more true than polite.

Mrs. Temple returned home very much tired and rather wet, notwithstanding her umbrella and waterproof cloak. And Dora was, after all, disappointed of her wish to have the linen and begin her embroidery work directly. Mrs. Temple had found it difficult to carry home parcels when she had an umbrella to hold up on a windy day, and had also feared the things might get damp if taken through driving rain. The wire, pasteboard, gold paper, and linen were to be sent home in the evening, and the longed-for parcel did not appear until it was time for the twins to follow their younger sisters to bed.

CHAPTER VI

TYPES

"This is the day when Christ arose
   So early from the dead;
 And shall I still my eyelids close
   And waste my hours in bed!
 
"This is the day when Jesus broke
   The chains of death and hell;
 And shall I still wear Satan's yoke
   And love my sins so well!"

As the children might not go to church, Mrs. Temple read and prayed with them at home, suffering none but Lucius to help her, and letting him read but little, for fear of bringing back his cough.

All through the time of prayers, though Dora knelt like the rest of the children, and was as quiet and looked almost as attentive as any, her needlework was running in her mind. If she thought of the happy cherubim, it was not of their crying "Holy, holy, holy!" in heaven, but of the forms of their faces and wings, and how she could best imitate such with her needle.

I will not say that the other children thought about the Tabernacle only as a holy thing described in the Bible from which religious lessons could be learnt,—little plans for sewing, measuring, or making the model would sometimes intrude, even at prayer-time; but Lucius had resolutely locked up his knife, and he and three of his sisters at least tried to give full attention to what their mother was saying when she read and explained the Word of God.

Mrs. Temple purposely chose the ninth chapter of the Epistle to the Hebrews, a very difficult chapter to the young, but one likely specially to interest her children at a time when the subject of the Tabernacle in the wilderness was uppermost in the minds of all. It will be noticed that Dora did not join at all in the conversation which followed the reading.

"Mamma, that chapter comes nearly at the end of the Bible, and is about our Lord and His death," observed Lucius; "and yet it tells us about the Tabernacle, and its ark, and the high priest going into the Holy of holies. Now, what could the Tabernacle in the desert have to do with our Lord and His dying,—that Tabernacle which was made nearly fifteen hundred years before the birth of Christ, and which was no longer of any use after Solomon's temple was built?"

"The Tabernacle, the ark, the high priest, the sacrifices were all TYPES or figures of greater things to come," replied Mrs. Temple. "There was a secret meaning in them all, referring to our Lord, His work, and His death, and the glorious heaven which He was to open to all believers."

"I don't know what a type is," said Elsie.

"It is not clear to me either," observed Amy.

"Unless we quite understand what a type means, we shall lose much of the lesson conveyed by the wanderings of the children of Israel, and the long account of the Tabernacle, what was in it, and what was done there, which we find in the books of Moses," remarked Mrs. Temple.

"It always seemed to me as if that Tabernacle were quite a thing of the past," said Agnes, "and that it belonged only to the Israelites of old. I never could make out why Christian people in England, thousands of years after the Tabernacle had quite disappeared, should care to know anything about it, the ark, or the altar."

AARON BLESSING PEOPLE.

"But you say that all these things were types," observed Amy. "Now, what is a type, dear mamma?"

"A kind of shadow or picture of something usually greater than itself," replied Mrs. Temple.

"I don't understand," said Elsie, raising her blue eyes gravely to the face of her mother.

"You know, my dear, that before you came to live in this house, when none of the family but myself had seen it, you still had some little knowledge of what it was like."

"Yes, for you brought us little pictures of the house, both of the back and the front," said Agnes.

"We knew that it was a pretty white house, and had a little tower on one side, and that trees were growing in front, and creepers all up it!" cried Elsie.

"Now, I might have described the place to you in writing, but you would not have known its appearance as well as you did from the pictures," observed Mrs. Temple.

"No, from a mere description, I should not have been able to find out the house directly as I did when I walked alone from the station," cried Lucius. "There are several white houses near this, but the remembrance of the pictures made me know in a moment which was the right one."

"Now, my children, just what a picture is to the object which it represents, so is a type to its anti-type; that word means the real thing of which it is a likeness," observed Mrs. Temple.

"I am afraid that I am very stupid in not making out what you mean at once, dear mamma," said Amy; "but if you would explain just one type in the Bible, I think that I might be able to understand it better."

"Let us take, then, the innermost part of the Tabernacle, the Holy of holies," replied Mrs. Temple. "It was a very beautiful place, full of the glory of God, in which no objects were allowed to be but such as were precious and pure; there was the mercy-seat like a throne, and there were the bright cherubim spreading their golden wings. Now, my children, if we compare small things to great things, cannot you of yourselves find out of what this Holy of holies was a picture or type?"

"A type of heaven!" exclaimed several voices at once; but Amy looked distressed, and murmured softly, "I hope not a type of heaven."

"And why not?" asked Lucius quickly.

"Because no one was ever allowed to go into the Holy of holies save one man, and he only once in the year," replied Amy sadly.

"And that 'not without blood,'" said Lucius, pointing to the seventh verse of the chapter which his mother had just been reading.

"Go on reading, Lucius," said his mother.

And Lucius, as desired, went on. "'Not without blood, which he offered for himself and for the errors of the people, the Holy Ghost thus signifying that the way into the holiest of all was not yet made manifest.'"

"Or, in simpler words," said Mrs. Temple, "that the way into heaven was not yet made plain. When Christ, our great High Priest, had gone into heaven, 'neither by the blood of goats and calves, but by His own blood He entered in once into the holy place, having obtained eternal redemption for us.'"

"Then, mother, the high priest must have been a TYPE of the Lord Jesus Christ!" exclaimed Lucius.

"No," interrupted Agnes, "the sacrifice was the type, the sacrifice whose blood had been shed."

"Both high priest and sacrifice were types of our blessed Saviour," replied Mrs. Temple. "The Lord was the victim offered, and He was also the high priest who made the offering, for He laid down His life of Himself, since no man had power to take it from the Almighty Son of the Most High."

"Was there any particular meaning in the veil of the Temple being rent in twain from the top to the bottom, as soon as our Lord died on the cross?" inquired Agnes, who had been listening with serious attention.

"We cannot doubt it," answered her mother. "The Temple was the far larger, more substantial building which took the place ¹ of the Tabernacle of the wandering children of Israel; it, too, had its veil of rich work to shut out from mortal view the Holy of holies. But as soon as the One great Sacrifice had been offered on the cross, when the dying Lord could cry out 'IT IS FINISHED,' then followed the rending asunder of the hiding veil, as a sign and type that all the Lord's people, through His precious blood, might freely enter heaven, the real Holy of holies, and appear without dread of meeting His wrath in the presence of God the Father."

¹ The Temple standing at the time of our Lord's death was not Solomon's, which had been burnt more than six hundred years before.

CHAPTER VII

DRAWN ASIDE

Lucius was puzzled to explain his own meaning, which was perhaps not very clear to himself, so his mother came to his help.

"Elsie's very minute photograph is not a bad illustration of what Bible types are," she remarked. "They look small, and might almost escape notice, until the eye of faith sees them in the clear light of God's Word, and then what seemed little more than a speck, may be found to be a likeness of something grander far than a royal palace."

"It would be interesting to find out some other Bible types," observed Agnes.

"I was just going to propose that while I attend afternoon service you should all occupy the time of my absence in each finding a type, which we can talk over in the evening," said Mrs. Temple.

"I should like that!" cried Lucius. "I am glad of anything to make the afternoon less dull; for I know that as it is damp to-day we shall all have to keep within bounds," he added, Agnes having just begun a fit of coughing.

"I should like to find a Bible type if I could, but I'm afraid that I am too stupid," said Amy.

"You and me, we'll try together," cried Elsie, laying her plump dimpled hand on that of her sister.

"Ah! You think that union is strength, Pussie!" cried Lucius. "And that you two youngest of the party will together be a match for any one of the rest."

Little Elsie's brain had now been quite long enough on the stretch, and after jumping upon her mother's knee to give her "a good tight kiss," the child ran off to play with her Noah's Ark. The family then dispersed to various parts of the house, soon to reassemble at the cheerful sound of the dinner-bell.

After Mrs. Temple had started for church, Lucius, Agnes, and Amy took up their Bibles to search in them for types, while little Elsie amused herself with a book of Scripture pictures. Dora went to the room called the study, in which the children usually learned their lessons in the morning and amused themselves in the evening, and in which they kept their workboxes and desks, and most of their books. Dora found no one in the study, and seated herself near the side table, covered with green cloth, on which stood her neat little workbox.

"Of course I am not going to do one stitch of my embroidery to-day, because this is Sunday," said Dora to herself. "But there can be no harm in just looking at my pretty pattern, and seeing whether it is likely to do for the inner curtains and veil."

Dora opened the box, and took out the pattern which lay on the neatly folded piece of linen which her mother had given to her just before the twins had gone upstairs to bed. She admired her own pattern, which was really drawn out with some skill, but she saw that it was not quite perfect. Her pencil lay close at hand, and Dora could not, or did not, resist the temptation to put in a few touches to this and that part of the drawing.

"I wonder how I should arrange the colours," she thought; "I wish that I had more scarlet in my reel, and I think that my blue skein is too dark; Agnes has some sky-blue sewing silk, I know. Perhaps that would be better, or both shades might have a pretty effect, mixed with the scarlet and purple."

Dora took out her reels and skeins, and placed them beside her pattern, and tried to imagine the effect of the different combinations of colour. Would it be well for the cherubim to be worked in purple or blue, or entirely in thread of gold, like their wings? Dora was inclined to think the last plan best, only gold thread is so stiff, and difficult to manage.

"WHAT IS ALL THIS, MY CHILDREN?"
ASKED MRS. TEMPLE.

"I shall never go to rest till I have made up my mind about this," muttered Dora to herself, "and how can I decide what will suit best till I try? And why should I not try?" Dora, with her coloured silks before her, was, like Eve, looking at the forbidden fruit, and listening to the voice of the Tempter, who would persuade her that evil was good. "There are some things which even mamma says are quite lawful to be done on Sundays, such as charitable works. Mamma herself dressed the cook's scalded arm upon a Sunday, and put in a stitch or two to keep the bandages firm. That was surely sewing on a Sunday, but then that was a work of charity. Well, but mine is a work of charity, too."

Thus Dora went on, while the dangerous current of inclination was gradually drifting her on towards breaking, in act, the Fourth Commandment, which she had all day long been breaking in thought.

"Our Tabernacle is to be the model of a holy—a very holy thing, just the kind of thing which it is right to think about on Sunday. Then it is to be made for a very charitable purpose. I am sure that bandaging the cook's arm is no better work than helping a ragged school; I don't think that it is really as good, for aunt's poor little pupils are taught to love God and read the Bible. No, it surely cannot be wrong to assist such an excellent work on any day in the seven."

Dora unrolled a length of blue silk, took out a needle and threaded it. She had almost succeeded in silencing conscience, at least for a time; she had almost persuaded herself that in amusing herself she was helping a holy cause; and that God would not be displeased at her breaking His commandment, because she was going to work for the poor. There is, perhaps, no more dangerous error than to think that the end justifies the means—that it is lawful to a Christian to do evil that good may come.

Oh, dear young reader! If you ever find yourself trying to quiet conscience by the thought that to do a great good you may do a little harm, start back as if you caught sight of the trail of a snake in your path! Yes, for the serpent who deceived Eve is trying to deceive you also.

If Dora had been honest and candid with herself, she would have seen, as her fingers busily plied the needle, that she was really working for her own pleasure, that her embroidering a piece of linen was an utterly different thing from her mother's bandaging a badly-scalded arm, and relieving a sufferer's pain. To cases of necessity such as that, the Saviour's words truly applied—"It is lawful to do good on the Sabbath day;" but there was nothing to justify Dora in following her own inclination, and working on the day appointed for holy worship and rest.

If there was really no harm in what she was doing, why was it that Dora started so when she heard her mother's voice at the door of the study, and why did she so hurriedly thrust linen, pattern, and silks back into the workbox as Mrs. Temple entered the room?

Dora's back was turned towards the door, so that, from her being between it and the table, Mrs. Temple could not see the cause of the little bustling movement which she noticed on coming into the study.

"What are you doing, my love?" she asked.

"Nothing," answered Dora quickly, as she succeeded in shutting down the lid of her workbox. The word was uttered in haste, without reflection; but the instant after it had passed her lips, a pang shot through the young girl's heart, for she was aware that, perhaps for the first time in her life, she had uttered a downright falsehood.

Conscience could be silenced no longer; the second sin into which Dora had been drawn by her fear showed her in a strong light the nature of the first, into which she had been drawn by her love of amusement. If she had not been doing what was wrong, she would not have been afraid lest her occupation should be found out by her tender, indulgent mother.

Mrs. Temple never doubted the word of one of her children, but she could not help thinking that the manner of Dora was strange, and she would probably have inquired further into its cause, had she not just then been followed into the study by Lucius. The boy had his Bible in his hand, and a thoughtful, perplexed look on his face, which Mrs. Temple noticed at once. Dora was glad that her mother's attention should be drawn by anything from herself, for otherwise she could not have hidden her confusion. She seated herself on a stool by the window, with her face turned away from her mother, and there remained a silent listener to the following conversation between Mrs. Temple and her son. Whether that conversation was likely to make Dora's conscience easier or not, I leave the reader to judge.

CHAPTER VIII

SACRIFICES

"Ah! Mother, it is all that suffering and sacrificing that is such a difficulty to me!" exclaimed Lucius. "Why is so much suffering needed at all?" The boy looked earnestly into his mother's face as he spoke.

"It is a sad mystery, Lucius, we do not fully understand it; but one thing is certain, not only from what we read in the Bible, but from what we see in the world around us, and that thing is that sin and suffering are bound together, we cannot separate them. Suffering is the shadow of sin and 'must' follow it; THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH."

"But you have taught us that GOD IS LOVE," said Lucius thoughtfully.

"Surely God is love," replied Mrs. Temple; "God loves man, but God hates sin, which is the greatest enemy of man. It is God's merciful will that man should be saved 'both' from sin here, and from its most terrible punishment hereafter."

"The Holy of holies is a difficulty to me," observed Lucius; "why should no man, save the high priest, be suffered to go in, or draw near the mercy-seat of God?"

"Ask yourself what lesson this would have taught you had you been one of the children of Israel," said Mrs. Temple. "When you behold the Tabernacle with the wondrous cloud resting upon it, and gazed through the opening in front on the veil which hid from your eyes the more dazzling glory within—that glory which was a sign of the immediate presence of God, into which, on pain of death, you dared not enter—what would have been the thought uppermost in your mind?"

"The thought that God was terribly holy, and that no human being was fit to come near Him," replied Lucius gravely.

"But one man was allowed to draw near," observed Mrs. Temple.

"Only the high priest, and that with the blood of a sacrifice," said Lucius.

"And so mankind were taught that there is a way to approach a holy God, but 'only one way;' they were taught that sacrifice was needful, that WITHOUT SHEDDING OF BLOOD THERE IS NO REMISSION" (forgiveness of sin) (Heb. ix. 22).

"But, mother, surely God does not require the blood of bulls and goats!" cried Lucius.

Mrs. Temple in reply turned over the leaves of the Bible, till she found the fortieth Psalm, and then read aloud,—

   "'Burnt-offering and sacrifice hast Thou not required. Then said I, Lo! I come: in the volume of the book it is written of Me, I delight to do Thy will, O my God.'

"It is the Lord Jesus Christ who says this by the mouth of David. The blood of lambs and other creatures was worthless, save as signs and pledges of the precious blood of Christ which cleanseth from all sin, the blood of Him who is indeed THE LAMB OF GOD THAT TAKETH AWAY THE SIN OF THE WORLD."

THE SCAPE-GOAT.

"It seems so sad that the Lord, who had done no sin should have to bear all that agony on the cross," murmured Lucius.

"Christ bore it in our STEAD," said Mrs. Temple; "He suffered the punishment for sin, that sinners, repenting and believing, might be saved, forgiven, and made happy for ever."

"I still cannot clearly make out the use of sacrifices—I mean of animals," said Lucius.

"They taught that one being may suffer instead of another," replied Mrs. Temple, speaking slowly, that her son might weigh well every word. "When an Israelite brought a lamb for sacrifice, it was just as if he had said,—

   "'O holy God, I know that I am a sinner, and that I deserve to suffer for my sin; but in mercy accept the life of this lamb "instead of mine."'

"It was to teach this same lesson that Aaron the high priest was commanded to lay his hands on the head of a living goat, and confess over him the sins of all the children of Israel. The scape-goat (as it was called) was then sent away into the desert bearing away with him all the sins which had been solemnly confessed over him by the high priest of God. With a thankful heart and lightened conscience must every faithful Israelite have seen the scape-goat led away from the camp.

"'My sins are taken from me, far as the east is from the west,' he might say, 'I shall never never have to bear that terrible burden myself.'"

"But why have we no scape-goats and no sacrifices now?" asked Lucius.

While Dora silently thought, "What a comfort it would be to see all one's sins carried far away from us for ever!"

"We need no more such sacrifices now," replied Mrs. Temple, "because the One great sacrifice which Christ made of Himself on the cross is so infinitely precious, that it is enough to save a world that was lost from sin. We need no scape-goat now, for when Christ went forth to die, He carried away with Him the burden of the guilt of all His people."

"But then, mother, is every one's sin taken away? Is every one sure to enter heaven, the real Holy of holies?" asked Lucius.

The question was a very important one, and poor Dora's heart beat fast as she listened to hear what answer her mother would give.

"No, my dear," replied Mrs. Temple, "for not every one has true faith in the Lord and His Sacrifice, that faith which makes us repent of sin, be sorry for sins, confess it and try to forsake it. We know that (two only excepted) all the Israelites above a certain age never reached the good land of Canaan, but all died in the desert. And why was this? It was because they had sinned against God. They might have sacrifices but they had not true faith; they might give up lambs, but they gave not up sin; they might have God's presence in this tabernacle to guide them, but they did not let their conduct be guided by the light of His holy Word."

"It almost seems to me," observed Lucius, "as if the Israelites wandering about in the desert were types of us—of all who are now called Christian people."

Mrs. Temple smiled with pleasure to see that her son was beginning really to understand a little of Old Testament teaching by types. "Yes, dear boy," she replied, "the history of the Israelites is just like a picture or type of what is now happening to ourselves in our journey through life towards heaven. But you have heard enough for the present. Remember most of all the foundation truths on which we must surely build:

"First, that we all are sinners.

"Secondly, that we can only be forgiven and enter heaven through the Sacrifice of our Lord on the cross.

"Thirdly, that His Sacrifice takes away all sin from those who have true faith in their hearts; that faith whose reality is shown by its making us repent of and try by God's help to give up our sins."

CHAPTER IX

CONCEALMENT

DORA felt very unhappy. She had broken the holy rest of the Lord's day; she had repeated prayers without praying, heard God's Word read without attending, had made a vain show of religion; and at last had worked and worked hard at her needle, as she might have done on any other day of the week. Dora had disobeyed what she knew to be the wishes of her mother, and then to hide such disobedience had uttered a lie to deceive her! The girl could not conceal from herself that she had done what was wrong—exceedingly wrong; that she had displeased a holy God, whose eyes are in every place beholding the evil and the good.

"Oh, what can I—what ought I to do now?" thought she, as slowly and sadly she went up to her own little room.

Conscience gave an instant reply, "Retrace your steps as quickly as you can, own your fault to your mother, and ask forgiveness from God."

But Dora was very unwilling to do this, she was inclined to take a kind of half-way course.

"I need not say anything to mamma about what I have done," she thought. "I will not touch my pretty work any more on Sunday; and to-morrow, as soon as I get up, I will unpick every stitch of what I have been sewing to-day. That will be a good punishment for me; yes, that will be the right kind of punishment for breaking the Fourth Commandment."

Dora half satisfied her conscience by making this resolution to undo what ought not to have been done; but the little girl made a grievous mistake in supposing that any self-inflicted punishment can take away sin. We must go straight to the Lord for forgiveness, and ask it only for the sake of the Lamb of God, who suffered to take away guilt; and when we have sinned against any fellow-creatures, as well as against our Heavenly Father, we must honestly and openly confess to them what we have done, and ask their forgiveness. Dora shrank from doing this; she was extremely unwilling to own to her mother that she had been sewing on Sunday.

"Perhaps mamma would take away from me the making of the embroidered curtains altogether," she thought, "and give it to Agnes instead; and then all the family would know the reason, and I should be lowered in the opinion even of little Elsie! Oh, how dreadfully ashamed I should feel, and what a bitter disappointment it would be to see the work in the hands of another, after I have taken such pains to draw out that beautiful pattern! Worst of all, Aunt Theodora would hear of my fault when we go to be with her at Christmas. She would be sure to ask why her goddaughter had not embroidered the veil and the curtains, for she thinks that I embroider so well. Oh, I could not bear that the aunt whom I love so much—who loves me so much—should know what I have done! No, no, there is no use in speaking about the matter at all; I will punish myself by the tiresome unpicking, and then all will be right."

Would all be right? Were Dora to punish herself ever so severely, would all be right?

"Could my zeal no respite know,
 Could my tears for ever flow,
 All for sin could not atone,
 Thou must save, and Thou alone."

Dora was only deceiving herself now, as she had an hour before deceived her indulgent mother.

In the evening, after tea-time, the family assembled again in the study. Their usual employment on Sunday evenings had been to sing hymns with their mother, each in succession choosing a favourite hymn; but the whooping-cough had for weeks past put a stop to all singing, and it had cost Mrs. Temple some thought to find a way of making the Sabbath evening hour as pleasant to her family as it had usually been.

The searching in the Bible for types had been a new kind of occupation, and had made the afternoon seem less long to the young prisoners at home than it might otherwise have appeared during the absence of their mother at church.

The family circle looked a very happy one by the light of the fire round which they gathered. For autumn was beginning, the weather, though not very cold, was damp, and the illness from which the children were recovering made warmth and dryness so desirable that the fire was always lighted at sunset.

"I like when we sit so cosy together before the blazing fire!" exclaimed little blue-eyed Elsie, cuddling close to her mother. "I hope that Eliza won't bring in the candles; no one wants candles to talk by. Agnes, you won't cough so badly if you put your feet here on the fender. Please, Lucius, give the fire a good stir, and make the red flames leap up and dance. Are we not a happy party!" she added, squeezing tightly her mother's hand in both her own.

Smiling faces gave the reply. There was but one face that wore no smile. Dora sat on the other side of her mother, but the girl had drawn her chair a little back from the half-circle before the fire, and held a hand-screen before her face, not really to protect it from the scorching blaze, but that it might not be seen by the firelight. Dora was glad, but not for the same reason as Elsie, that Eliza did not bring in the candles.

CHAPTER X

DEAD FAITH AND LIVING FAITH