Emilie the Peacemaker

GOOD FOR EVIL.

Old Joe Murray was seated on the beach, nearer the town than his house stood, watching the groups of busy children, digging and playing in the sand, now helping them in their play, and now giving his hint to the nurses around him, when Edith tapped him on the shoulder. There was something so unusually serious, not cross, in Edith's countenance, that Joe looked at her inquiringly. "There, set down the basket, Nockells, and run back quick, tell papa I kept you; I am afraid you will get into disgrace."

"Mayn't I drown Puss?" said Nockells.

"No! you cruel boy, no!" said Edith, vehemently. "You shall not have the pleasure, no one shall do it who would take a pleasure in it."

"What is the matter Miss?" asked Joe, as soon as Nockells turned away.

"The matter, oh Joe! I want Muff drowned; my cat I mean, my dear cat;" and then she told her tale up to the point of Miss Webster's refusing to admit Muff as a lodger, and cried most bitterly as she said, "and I won't have her ill-treated, so I will drown her, will you do it for me Joe, please do now, or my courage will be gone? but I won't stay to look at it, so good-bye," said she, and slipping a shilling into Joe's hand, ran home with the news to Fred, that the cat was by this time at the bottom of the tea, and his canaries were safe for ever from her claws.

Fred was not a hard-hearted boy, and his sister's tale really grieved him. He kissed her several times over, as he said he now wished he had never bought the birds, that they had caused Edith nothing but trouble and that he was very sorry.

"I am not sorry, Fred dear, at least I am only sorry for being forced to drown Muff. I like to give you my room, and I like to give up my cat to you, and I shall not cry any more about it, so don't be unhappy."

"And all this for me," said Fred; "I who teased you so yesterday afternoon, and always am teasing you, I think!" How pleased Emilie looked! She did not praise Edith, but she gave her such a look of genuine approval as was a rich reward to her little pupil. "This is the way. Edith dear, to overcome evil with good; go on, watch and pray, and you will subdue Fred in time as well as your own evil tempers."

How easy all this looks to read about! How swift the transition from bad to good! Who has not felt, in reading Rosamond and Frank, a kind of envy that they so soon overcame their errors, so soon conquered their bad habits and evil dispositions? Dear young reader, it is not easy to subdue self; it is not easy to practise this law of kindness, love, and forbearance; it is not easy to live peaceably with all men, but believe me, it is not impossible. He who giveth liberally and upbraideth not, will give you grace, and wisdom, and help to do this if you ask it. The promise is, "Ask and ye shall receive." Edith In her helplessness naked strength of God and it was given. That which was given to her He will not withhold from you. Only try Him.

For the comfort of those who may not have such a friend as Emilie, we would remind our readers that the actual work of Edith's change, for such it was, was that which no friend however wise and however good could effect. There is no doubt but that to her example Edith owed much. It led her to think and to compare, and was part of the means used by the all-wise God, to instruct this little girl; but if you have not Emilie for a friend, you may all have the God, whom Emilie served, for a friend. You may all read in the Bible which she studied, and in which she learned, from God's love to man, how we should love each other. She read there, "If God so loved us, we ought also to love one another."

The holidays drew to a close. The return of the mother and sisters was at hand. Emilie was not without her fears for Edith at this time, but she trusted in the help which she knew Edith would have if she sought it, and was thus encouraged. The right understanding between her brothers and herself she was rejoiced to see daily increasing. It was not that there was nothing to ruffle the two most easily ruffled spirits. Fred was not considerate, and would constantly recur to his old habit of tensing Edith. Edith was easily teased, and would rather order and advise Fred, which was sure to bring on a breeze; but they were far less vindictive, less aggravating than formerly. They were learning to bear and forbear. Edith had the most to bear, for although Fred was impressed by her kind and altered conduct, and could never forget the generous act of sacrifice when she parted with Muff to gratify him, he was as yet more actuated by impulse than principle, and nothing but principle, Christian principle I mean, will enable us to be kind and gentle, and unselfish habitually, not by fits and starts, but every day.

Joe Murray was sitting at his door smoking his pipe, and watching his little grandchildren as they played together (this time harmoniously) in the garden. They were not building a grotto, they were dancing, and jumping, and laughing, in the full merriment of good healthy happy children. Emilie and Edith greeted Joe as an old friend, and Joe seemed delighted to see them. The two children, who had been commissioned to search for corallines, rushed up to Edith with a basket full of a heterogeneous collection, and amongst a great deal of little value there were some beautiful specimens of the very things Edith wanted. She thanked the little Murrays sincerely, and then looked at Emilie. Should she pay them? the look asked. It was evident the children had no idea of such a thing, and felt fully repaid by Edith's pleasure. Edith only wanted to know if it would take from that pleasure to receive money. She had been learning of late to study what people liked, and wished to do so now.

Emilie did not understand her look, and so Edith followed her own course. "Thank you, oh, thank you," she said. "It was very kind of you to collect me so many, they please me very much. I wish I knew of something that you would like as well as I like these, and if I can, I will give it to you, or ask mamma to help me." The boy not being troubled with bashfulness, immediately said, that of all things he should like a regular rigged boat, a ship, "a little-un" that would swim. The girl put her finger in her mouth and said "she didn't know." "Are you going to have a boat?" said every little voice, "oh, what fun we shall have." "Yes," said our peace-making friend, Sarah. "You know that if Dick gets any thing it is the same as if you all did. He is such a kind boy, Miss, he plays with the little ones, and gives up to them so nicely, you'd be surprised."

"I am glad of that," said Emilie, "it will be such a pleasure to Miss Edith to give pleasure to them all—but come, Jenny, you have not fixed yet what you will have." Jenny said she did not want to be paid, but she had thought, perhaps Miss Parker might give them something, and if Miss Parker did not think it too much, she should like a shilling better than any thing.

Every one looked inquiringly, except Sarah. Sarah was but the uneducated daughter of a poor fisherman, but she studied human nature as it lay before her in the different characters of her brothers and sisters, and she guessed the workings of Jenny's mind.

"What do you want a shilling for?" said the mother sharply, who had joined the group. "You ought not to have asked for anything, what bad manners you have! The weeds cost you nothing, and you ought to be much obliged to Miss Parker for accepting them."

"I wanted the shilling very much," persisted Jenny, as Edith pressed it into her hand, and off she ran, as though to hide her treasure.

But Edith had caught sight of something, and forgot shilling and every thing else in that glimpse. Her own dear old Muff sleeping on the hearth of the kitchen which she had not yet entered. I shall not tell you all the endearments she used to puss, they would look ridiculous on paper; they made even those who heard them smile, but she was so overjoyed that there was some excuse for her. Mrs. Murray rather damped her joy at once by saying, "Oh, she's a sad thief, Miss. She steals the fish terribly. I suppose you can't take her back, Miss?"

"Ah, Joe," said Edith sorrowfully, "you see, you had better have drowned her."

"So I think," said Mrs. Murray.

"No, no, no," cried Jane, coming forwards. "I have a shilling now, and Barker the carrier will take her for that all the way to Southampton, where aunt Martha lives, and aunt Martha loves cats, and will take care of Muff; she shan't be drowned, Miss," said Jenny, kindly.

The mother looked surprised, and they all admired Jenny's kind intentions. Emilie slipped another shilling into her hand as they went away, and said "You will find a use for it." "Good night Jenny, and thank you," said poor Edith, with a sigh, for she had already looked forward to many joyful meetings with Muff—her newly-found treasure. But as old Joe, who followed them down the cliff said, there was no end to the trouble Muff caused, what with stealing fish, and upsettings and breakings; and she would be happier at aunt Martha's, where there was neither fish nor child, and more room to walk about in than Muff enjoyed here.

"But how kind of Jenny," said Edith, "how thoughtful for Muff!"

"No, Miss, 't aint for Muff exactly," said Joe, "though she pitied you, as they all did, in thinking of drowning the cat; but bless the dear children, they are all trying in their way, I do believe; to please their mother, and to win her to be more happy and gentle like. You see she has had a hard struggle with them, so many as there are, and so little to do with; and that and bad health have soured her temper like; but she'll come to. Oh Miss Edith, take my word for it, if ever you have to live where folks are cross and snappish, be you good-humoured. A little of the leaven of sweetness and good temper lightens a whole lump of crossness and bad humour. One bright Spirit in a family will keep the sun shining in one spot; it can't then be all dark, you see, and if there's ever such a little spot of sunshine, there must be some light in the house, which may spread before long, Miss."

"Goodnight, Joe," and "Good night, ladies," passed, and the friends were left alone—alone upon the quiet beach. The sun had set, for it was late; the tide was ebbing, and now left the girls a beautiful smooth path of sand for some little distance, on which the sound of their light steps was scarcely heard, as they rapidly walked towards home.

"Who would think, Edith, that our six weeks' holiday would be at an end to-morrow?" said Emilie.

"I don't know, Emilie, I feel it much longer."

"Do you? then you have not been so happy as I hoped to have made you, dear; I have been a great deal occupied with other things, but it could scarcely be helped."

"No, Emilie, I have not been happy a great part of the holidays, but I am happy now; happier at least, and it was no fault of yours at any time. I know now why I was so discontented with my condition, and why I thought I had more to try me than anybody else. I feel that I was in fault; that I am in fault, I should say; but, oh Emilie, I am trying, trying hard, to—" and here, Edith, softened by the remembrance that soon she and her friend must part, burst into tears.

"And you have succeeded, succeeded nobly, Edith, my darling. I have watched you, and but that I feared to interfere, I would have noticed your victories to you. I may do so now."

"My victories, Emilie! Are you making fun of me? I feel to have been so very irritable of late.—My victories!"

"Just because, dear, you take notice of your irritability as you did not use to do, and because you have constantly before your eyes that great pattern in whom was no sin."

"Emilie, I will tell you something—your patience, your example, has done me a great deal of good, I hope; but there is one thing in your kind of advice, which does me more good than all. You have talked more of the love of God than of any other part of his character, and the words which first struck me very much, when I first began to wish that I were different, were those you told me one Sunday evening, some time ago. 'Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and gave his Son a ransom for sinners.' There seemed such a contrast between my conduct to God, and His to me; and then it has made me, I hope, a little more, (a very little, you know,) I am not boasting, Emilie, am I? it has made me a little more willing to look over things which used to vex me so. What are Fred's worst doings to me, compared with my best to God?"

Thus they talked, and now, indeed, did the friends love one another; and heartily did each, by her bedside that night, thank God for his gospel, which tells of his love to man, the greatest illustration truly of the law of kindness.

FRED A PEACEMAKER.

"Talk not of wasted affection, affection never is wasted.... its waters returning back to their spring, like the rain shall fill them full of refreshment"—H. W. Longfellow.

"Well Fred," said Emilie at the supper table, from which Mr. Parker was absent, "I go away to-morrow and we part better friends than we met, I think, don't we?"

"Oh yes, Miss Schomberg, we are all better friends, and it is all your doing."

"My doing, oh no! Fred, that is flattery. I have not made Edith so gentle and so good as she has of late been to you. I never advised her to give up that little room to you nor to send poor Muff away."

"Didn't you? well, now I always thought you did; I always kid that to you, and so I don't believe I have half thanked Edith as I ought."

"Indeed you might have done."

"Well, I hope I shall not get quarrelsome at school again, but I wish I was in a large school. I fancy I should be much happier. Only being us five at Mr. Barton's, we are so thrown together, somehow we can't help falling out and interfering with each other sometimes. Now there is young White, I never can agree with him, it is impossible."

"Dear me!" said Emilie, without contradicting him, "why?"

"He treats me so very ill; not openly and above-board, as we say, but in such a nasty sneaking way, he is always trying to injure me. He knows sometimes I fall asleep after I am called. Well, he dresses so quietly, (I sleep in his room, I wish I didn't,) he steals down stairs and then laughs with such triumph when I come down late and get a lecture or a fine for it. If I am very busy over an exercise out of school hours, he comes and talks to me, or reads some entertaining book close to my ears, aloud to one of the boys, to hinder my doing it properly, but that is not half his nasty ways. Could you love such a boy Miss Schomberg?"

"Well, I would try to make him more loveable, Fred, and then I might perhaps love him," said Emilie.

"Ah, Emilie, your 'overcome evil with good' rule would fail there I can tell you; you may laugh."

"No, I won't laugh, I am going to be serious. You will allow me to preach a short sermon to-night, the last for some time, you know, and mine shall be but a text, or a very little more, and then 'good night.' Will you try to love that boy for a few weeks? really try, and see if he does not turn out better than you expect. If he do not, I will promise you that you will be the better for it. Love is never wasted, but remember, Fred, it is wicked and sad to hate one another, and it comes to be a serious matter, for 'If any man love not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen.' Good night."

"Good night, Miss Schomberg, you have taught me to like you," and oh, how I did dislike you once! thought Fred, but he did not say so.

Miss Webster's foot got well at last, but it was a long time about it. The lodgers went away at the end of the six weeks, and aunt Agnes and Emilie were quietly settled in their little apartments again. The piano was a little out of tune, but Emilie expected as much, and now after her six weeks' holiday, so called, she prepared to begin her life of daily teaching. Her kindness to Miss Webster was for some time to all appearance thrown away, but no, that cannot be—kindness and love can never be wasted. They bless him that gives, if not him that takes the offering. By and bye, however, a few indications of the working of the good system appeared. Miss Webster would offer to come and sit and chat with aunt Agnes when Emilie was teaching or walking; and aunt Agnes in return taught Miss Webster knitting stitches and crochet work. Miss Webster would clean Emilie's straw bonnet, and when asked for the bill, she would say that it came to nothing; and would now and then send up a little offering of fruit or fish, when she thought her lodgers' table was not well supplied. Little acts in themselves, but great when we consider that they were those of an habitually cold and selfish person. She did not express love; but she showed the softening influence of affection, and Emilie at least understood and appreciated it.

Fred had perhaps the hardest work of all the actors on this little stage; he thought so at least. Joe White was an unamiable and, as Fred expressed it, a sneaking boy. He had never been accustomed to have his social affections cultivated in childhood, and consequently, he grew up into boyhood without any heart as it is called. Good Mr. Barton was quite puzzled with him. He said there was no making any impression on him, and that Mr. Barton could make none was very evident. Who shall make it? Even Fred; for he is going to try Emilie's receipt for the cure of the complaint under which Master White laboured, a kind of moral ossification of the heart. Will he succeed? We shall see.

Perhaps, had Joe White at this time fallen down and broken his leg, or demanded in any way a great sacrifice of personal comfort from his school-fellow, he would have found it easier to return good for his evil, than in the daily, hourly, calls for the exercise of forgiveness and forbearance which occurred at school. Oh, how many will do great things in the way of gifts or service, who will not do the little acts of kindness and self denial which common life demands. Many a person has built hospitals or alms houses, and has been ready to give great gifts to the poor and hungry, who has been found at home miserably deficient in domestic virtues. Dear children, cultivate these. You have, very few of you, opportunities for great sacrifices. They occur rarely in real life, and it would be well if the relations of fictitious life abounded less in them; but you may, all of you, find occasions to speak a gentle word, to give a kind smile, to resign a pursuit which annoys or vexes another, to cure a bad habit, to give up a desired pleasure. You may, all of you, practice the injunction, to live not unto yourselves. Fred, I say, found it a hard matter to carry out Emilie's plan towards Joe White, who came back from home more evilly disposed than ever, and all the boys agreed he was a perfect nuisance.

"I would try and make him loveable." Those words of Emilie's often recurred to Fred as he heard the boys say how they disliked Joe White worse and worse. So Fred tried first by going up to him very gravely one day, and saying how they all disliked him, and how he hoped he would mend; but that did not do at all. Fred found the twine of his kite all entangled next day, and John said he saw White playing with it soon after Fred had spoken to him.

"I'd go and serve him out; just you go and tangle his twine, and see how he likes it," said John.

"I will—but no! I won't," Bald Fred, "that's evil for evil, and that is what I am not going to do. I mean to leave that plan off."

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.

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.

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."