Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

The Wet Sunday.

THE

WIDOW DAVIS

AND

THE YOUNG MILLINERS

A Story for Young Ladies.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"THE MOTHER'S MISSION," "THE OBJECT OF LIFE," ETC.

[LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY]

THREE ILLUSTRATIONS.

NEW YORK:

NELSON & PHILLIPS.

CINCINNATI: HITCHCOCK & WALDEN.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE DAVIS COTTAGE

II. JANE SAUNDERS SEEKING LIGHT

III. OBSTINATE ELLEN

IV. BRIGHTER DAYS

Illustrations.

THE WET SUNDAY

JANE SAUNDERS

THE YOUNG MILLINERS

THE WIDOW DAVIS

AND

THE YOUNG MILLINERS.

CHAPTER I.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE DAVIS COTTAGE.

MRS. DAVIS had once filled the situation of assistant teacher in a school, where she had profited by opportunities of instruction; but after a period of prosperity, a succession of trials and losses, followed by widowhood and broken health, had reduced her to extreme poverty. Subsequently her only child, Mary, having, through the kindness of friends, been instructed in the various branches of the millinery and dress-making business, was able to afford material help to her mother, in the little income she earned, and on which they lived in contented obscurity.

Mary Davis was employed at the establishment of the chief milliner and dressmaker in her native town, where her steady attendance and never failing industry were greatly valued, and where tolerable regularity in the hours of labor, and an hour snatched from rest, either in the morning or evening, at home, enabled her to minister in many ways to her mother's personal comfort.

Sunday was Mary's happiest day; a portion of it was spent in the public worship of God, and the study of his word; a portion in instructing others at the Sunday school; and the remainder in enjoyment of her mother's society.

But very different were the Sunday enjoyments of Mary's young companions at Miss Baylis's, some of whom had homes in the town, and some lived in the house of business; and Mrs. Davis heard with pain and regret of their plans for amusement and pleasure on the Lord's day, which they considered entirely their own. Displays of finery, and meetings for revelry and gossip, after the six days' restraints of duty, constituted their chief idea of enjoyment, as if the cessation of bodily toil implied also the waste of precious time, the misapplication of other talents, and total neglect of the immortal soul.

No longer able, through infirm health, to prosecute her labor of love in the Sunday school, or the district, Mrs. Davis applied her heart and mind, with prayerful interest, to the condition of these thoughtless young people, and watched in anxious hope for some opportunity of usefulness in their behalf. They were her daughter's companions necessarily for six days every week; they were immortal creatures; and they were living not only without God in the world, but in open rebellion against his authority, and rejection of his love. This was enough to enlist the active efforts of a practical Christian. She began with a wet Sunday afternoon.

Among the smaller miseries of human life, first in the catalogue of the milliner's apprentice, the shopman or shopwoman, and indeed of all employed in weekly labor, whose hearts have not found peace in Him who "prepareth rain for the earth, giveth snow like wool, and causeth the wind to blow," stands a wet Sunday afternoon. Vain were it to attempt an enumeration of its powers to disappoint, to cross and irritate those whose minds are set upon self-indulgence in one form or another, from the tradesman, intent upon his drive, to the little servant maid whose turn is the "Sunday out."

"Rain again, mother," said Mary Davis, as she prepared for church one Sunday morning; "how disappointed two of our new workwomen will be, for they have talked of nothing all the week but a pleasure trip this afternoon."

"Do you think they would come here instead?" asked her mother. "Perhaps, as they have not been long enough in the town to have made many acquaintances, they might be glad of an invitation, rather than remain in their own room."

Mary shook her head; she did not think it probable that two such gay and dressy girls as Jane and Ellen Saunders would like to come to her quiet home, but she would be passing the house, and could call to ask them; this, on her return from church, she did.

She found the sisters sitting at the window, with most uncomfortable tempers and discontented faces, looking out upon the dirty street and the falling rain, making remarks upon every person who passed by, who afforded any possible subject for their ridicule and criticism of dress or manner.

"Why, Mary Davis," exclaimed Jane, as Mary entered the room, "who would have thought of seeing you here to-day? Are you come to sit with us, and help us to get over this miserable day some how or other? I'm sure I don't know what to do with myself." *

* See Frontispiece.

Mary delivered her mother's message, and observed with pleasure that Jane's countenance brightened up from its dull, heavy expression of idleness and ill-temper, though Ellen still looked as sulky as before.

"I'm sure it's very kind of your mother, and of you too, Mary, to think of us, and to come in all this rain to ask us," said Jane.

"You need not praise my kindness," said Mary, smiling, "for I have only called on my way from church."

"What, have you been to church such a morning as this? You are wonderfully good I'm sure, and don't care about your clothes as much as I do."

"My cloak and boots are water-proof, you know; but I must not stay, so what shall I tell my mother?"

"That I shall be very glad to come, very glad indeed, won't you, Ellen?"

"I—I really don't know," stammered Ellen; "perhaps it may clear up yet."

"O no, I don't believe it will; there isn't a gleam of sunshine or a bit of blue sky to be seen. I give it up altogether for to-day, and you wouldn't be so ill-natured as to go without me, even if the weather should get a little better."

There was no knowing exactly what ill-natured thing Ellen might not have been meditating, if her countenance at all indicated her feelings. "Well," said she at last, "I'm much obliged to you, Mary, but I don't think I shall like to go out at all."

"I will come," said Jane, cheerfully; "what time shall I be at your house?"

"As early as you please," replied Mary. "I shall not be at home from my Sunday school class till between four and five, but my mother will be very glad to see you;" and away tripped Mary over the mud, and through the rain to her frugal dinner at home, before attending the Sunday school, where she taught a class of little children, few of whom would probably be present that day.

"I wonder at you, Jane," said Ellen scornfully, as soon as the sisters were alone; "why you will have a duller afternoon than sitting here looking out of our window; and somebody might happen to come that would cheer us up a little; but at Mrs. Davis's, in that stupid dull lane, what in the world is there to see? Besides, you will get wet in going."

"O but I need not put on anything very nice to go there, you know; and it will be a change, for I really am tired of sitting here. I like Mary too; and as she is no gossip, she has not asked us to come for the sake of amusing herself, but because she knew we must be disappointed of going where we liked; and I call that kind."

"I don't believe she is sorry we are disappointed though," said Ellen; "you know she is rather religious, and I dare say her mother is as stiff as buckram, and does nothing but read the Bible, and sing psalms; or perhaps she will give you a lecture. Poor Jane, how you will repent going within her reach!"

And Ellen laughed satirically at the idea of her sister's mortification under the lecture of her religious hostess.

"For shame, Ellen," said Jane, half vexed and half laughing; "what right have you to object to her reading the Bible and singing psalms if it makes her comfortable? What else have old people to do? Enjoyment is all over for them; and if they can get up something to pass away their time, and make them easy about death, I'm sure I think it is a great mercy for them. Besides, it is Sunday you know and a little religion once a week is only proper for everybody, I suppose."

"Well, then," retorted Ellen, "why did you not go to church this morning, instead of grumbling here with me?"

"Because," replied Jane, with honesty, "I did not like to spoil my best things, and I did not choose to go in shabby ones. I can tell you, I envied Mary that comfortable cloak, that we laughed at her for buying, instead of having a pretty fancy mantle like ours. She thought of the wet days, we only of the fine ones."

"I do hate wet Sundays," exclaimed Ellen passionately; "I can't think what they are made for, except it is to disappoint people who work hard all the week and have no other day to enjoy themselves in."

Jane looked at her sister with mingled surprise and compassion. She had quite recovered from her own annoyance, and had never seen Ellen so thoroughly out of temper on the subject before; and she justly feared that something more was involved in the disappointment than she was at present aware of.

"Will it be of any use for me to stay at home with you, Ellen?" said she, kindly. "I forgot when I accepted Mary's invitation, that you would be alone."

"O dear no, go by all means, and see how you like the old woman's lecture. I dare say I shall hit upon some way to amuse myself by and by."

When Mary reached home in the afternoon, she found Jane seated there, without any trace of weariness or discontent visible on her bright face. She knew something of her mother's powers to attract and interest, and was not surprised when Jane, turning round to notice her entrance, exclaimed playfully, "I can't talk to you yet, Mary; I must hear the end of what your mother is telling me first."

"Are you wet, dear?" asked the mother, as Mary threw off her cloak.

"Scarcely at all, mother, thank you; I am so glad I had this useful cloak."

"Ah, Mrs. Davis," said Jane, "Mary is a sensible girl; who knows it is not all sunshine in this world, and we could not persuade her to buy a thing that would not stand a shower."

"I do not like to see people in distress about spoiling their clothes, if it is right for them to be exposed to the risk of getting wet," said Mrs. Davis; "and if we cannot afford to purchase for all kinds of weather, it is wisest to get such as will not be greatly injured by any weather."

"Very true; but you see, Mrs. Davis, ours is a dangerous kind of business for economy of that sort. We are engaged in making pretty things, and setting people off to the best advantage; and it is very natural to like to do the same for ourselves when we get an opportunity. But I do confess that often when we have been tempted to spend our money on what is elegant, we are obliged afterward to feel the want of what is useful."

"You speak very candidly," said Mrs. Davis, smiling kindly; "will you forgive me for asking why the good sense, or the experience which has taught you that you are liable to such temptation, does not carry you one step further, and cause you to resist it?"

"Ah, that is just what I should like to know," said Jane. "Here is your good Mary who never yields to such temptations, nor covets any of the beautiful things we make up, though they would look as well upon her as on the people who are to wear them. What is the reason of it? I hate a weak mind that has always to be troubled with repentance after the mischief is done."

"Is not the great safeguard against that unhappy consequence found in acting always from steady principle, instead of being led by changeable feelings?" asked Mrs. Davis.

"I dare say it is. And Mary has a steady principle, then."

"O do not quote me, Jane," interrupted Mary. "You do not know how it would have been with me if I had not a mother, a dear Christian mother," she added affectionately.

"And a wiser and higher guide in the counsel and control of the Spirit of God," said Mrs. Davis.

"Dear, dear, how calmly you speak of such awful things!" said Jane, somewhat alarmed, for she remembered her sister's warning about "a lecture," and thought it must be coming now.

"And why should we not speak calmly, and thankfully too, of truths that are intended to give peace to our hearts, and consistency to our conduct? You wished to know what would enable any one to resist temptation, did you not, my dear?"

"Yes, but—but I did not know that it belonged to religion; I thought you said something about principle."

"So I did. I have no idea of any real, strong, trustworthy principle which does not spring from true religion. I do not mean the dull, formal, heartless profession which some are satisfied to call religion; but I mean the sweet and happy pleasure of acting out in all we do the love with which a living faith in the work and mercy of a most precious Saviour fills our hearts. But I see Mary has made tea, and by and by, if you please, you shall help us to read an interesting account of one who was ruled by this principle, and it will show my meaning better than my own words can do it."

When Jane reached home at dusk that evening Ellen was absent; but her arrival at the last moment allowed by the rules of the house, and in the highest possible spirits, convinced her sister that she had, according to her own predictions, "hit upon some way to amuse herself."

"O Jane," she began, "what a pity you went out so early! Do you know that good-natured Fannie Ashton sent her little brother to say that her father and mother were going out, and she wished us to come and have tea with her, for she was obliged to stay at home to mind the little ones. So of course I went, and we have had such fun."

"You and Fanny and the little ones?" said Jane, inquiringly.

"Well, there was just another or two; and Henry Ashton brought in a companion with him to tea, so we were a merry party. Fanny said she ought to enjoy herself if she had to keep house, and she gave the children cakes and sugar-plums to keep them in good humor, and got them off to bed as soon as she could, and then we did enjoy ourselves till I was obliged to come away. They all laughed about your going to Mary Davis; and Fanny said you would be sure not to be caught so again. Did you get the lecture I promised you?"

"No, indeed," said Jane; "and I don't know that there was anything to laugh at. I have had a very pleasant afternoon, and Mrs. Davis is such a nice kind person, her manners and mind are quite like a lady's, though she is not very well off now, I suppose. I was so glad when she asked me to go whenever I like on a Sunday afternoon; and I shall very often like, let who may laugh at it."

"On wet Sundays, I suppose," said Ellen; "but of course you will not go and mope there on fine ones. We are to go next Sunday the excursion planned for to-day; and our party will have some other pleasant people I can promise you."

"Ah, Ellen, take care. You know uncle said you were too fond of company and new acquaintances."

"Well, do you think he would be pleased with your prim Mrs. Davis and her daughter? Does he not wish us to associate with people above us, rather than below us? So take care for yourself, Jane, and don't suppose that you need to watch over me."

"But you must come with me to Mary's some day," said Jane, "and judge for yourself. You cannot help liking Mrs. Davis, I'm sure. And do you know she actually read such a pretty story, and you thought she read nothing but the Bible."

"Now I know there were bits of the Bible in the book, weren't there, Jane?" asked Ellen, laughing. "Else you would never have got the story: I shan't let her choose stories for me."

"It was all very good, wherever it came from," said Jane, "and quite fit for Sunday, though interesting enough for other days. I shall go and hear some more of it next Sunday; so, good-night."

Jane and Ellen Saunders were orphans, left to the care of a respectable, kind-hearted uncle, who had given them as much of education as he considered suitable to their prospects in life, and had promised that after they had obtained sufficient experience in the business to which they had been apprenticed, he would set them up in a small establishment for themselves. In the mean time they were to be employed by the Misses Baylis, whose extensive connection furnished opportunity for acquiring that further experience.

The following Sunday proving again showery and dull, found Jane the willing companion of Mary Davis, while Ellen still preferred to wear out her temper and patience at the window, in anxious hope that some congenial friend would take compassion on her solitude. This happened at last, for the excursion having been again deferred, Fanny Ashton, with her brother and his friend, called to invite her to a walk toward some public gardens, where they could take tea, and find shelter if so inclined. It never struck the vain and foolish girl to observe how her company served the design of Fanny Ashton, by occupying the attentions of the brother, under whose protection she left home, while she herself appropriated those of his flattering friend. Nor did Ellen pause to reflect, that had Henry Ashton been sincere in his professions of regard, such scenes of Sabbath-breaking revelry as some of those which he occasionally permitted her to witness or overhear, were not just those to which feelings of respect and a sense of propriety would have introduced her.

Jane found her kind friends as agreeable as before, and soon became a regular and welcome visitor at the cottage.

By a natural and easy transition from opinion or opposition to decision and proof, Mrs. Davis gradually led the attention of the ignorant girl to the great standard of truth, and stimulated her interest by occasionally calling upon Mary to name the chapter and verse in which the desired reference occurred; and as Mary had learned Scripture from her childhood, she served the purpose of a concordance to the astonished Jane.

"Dear Mary, I never knew anything like your memory," she exclaimed one evening; "I wish I could remember where to find what I want in the Bible as you do."

"That is to be done by practice," said Mrs. Davis; "and if you will not think it too childish, suppose I ask you to learn a text for me every week. Say it over to yourself each day, and you will certainly know it by Sunday."

"I'm sure I have no objection if it will please you," said Jane; "you are the first person who ever made me think there was anything interesting in the Bible, excepting to old people who are going to die soon. You are not old yet you know," she added quickly.

"I have no objection to be classed with old people, I assure you," said Mrs. Davis, smiling, "if it is one of their privileges to find the Bible their dearest consolation; but do not young people die sometimes?"

"Perhaps they do; but then one does not expect that they should, you know."

"But since it does often happen, is it not wise to be prepared at any time for that which must come some time?"

"I dare say you are quite right, but it is so melancholy to be thinking about death; and while we are well I don't think it can be necessary: there is no need to meet trouble half way, is there?"

"It is only melancholy to those who do not know of a Friend in heaven, with whom to be present is far better than any earthly pleasure."

"My father and mother and two little brothers are in heaven," said Jane, "but that does not make me wish to go there yet."

"But have you a Saviour in heaven an advocate with the Father, who has 'washed you from your sins in his own blood,' who represents you, pleads for you, loves you with an everlasting love, for whose sake you will be welcome to all the happiness and honor of his presence and kingdom?"

"Ah, Mrs. Davis, who can tell that?"

"All who walk and live by faith in the Son of God, dear Jane, can tell that."

"Then I have no faith, for I know nothing about such things; and if they make one wish to die, I don't want to know them yet."

"It is not necessary to wish to die; but it is most comforting to know and feel that which would take away the sting of death, if it pleased God to cut short our term of life. But the very same faith and love which would rejoice to depart and be with Christ, also enables God's people to live in content and happiness on earth as long as he sees good to spare them."

"Do you wish to die?" asked Jane, abruptly.

"Not now, dear. But I did wish it once when I had some severe trials; I used to say with David, 'Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest . . . I would hasten my escape from the windy storm and tempest.' But it was wrong, and I know now that in heaven, where there is no sorrow, or sighing, or sin, we cannot glorify God in the way that we may here amid the trials and temptations of life."

"But," exclaimed Jane, with the perversity of the natural heart, "I should not wish to live if I thought I must have trials and miseries in this world."

"Then, dear girl, do you not perceive how desirable is that divine grace which so overcomes the self-will and the selfishness of our sinful nature, as to make us submissive and patient under all God's dealings? You know you must submit after all, for who can successfully resist his will? But to trust his love, like an affectionate, obedient child who knows that he 'doth not willingly afflict,' is peace, most precious peace, and the secret of true happiness."

"Ah," thought Jane, "I am afraid Ellen would say I am getting the lecture now."

"But," said she, "if I wished to feel as you say, Mrs. Davis, how can I be made to do so? Is it not very hard and difficult, and should I not be obliged to give up a great many things that I like?"

"The Bible does not say so, and I never heard any true child of God say so. The message of the Gospel is not a command to give up anything, or to be or do anything, of ourselves; it is just an invitation to receive something. It offers to lost sinners a Saviour, in whom God has provided every blessing, every gift, every supply of which we stand in need."

"But, Mrs. Davis, am I such a sinner as that—a lost sinner? I'm sure I don't wish to sin; it is such a strong, disagreeable name to call people who do nothing very bad."

"Do you love the Lord God with all your heart, and mind, and soul, and strength? And do you love your neighbor as yourself?"

"No, I can't say that I do," replied Jane, coloring; "but then I have never done any harm to anybody that I know of."

"But God's holy law demands that some thing must be done that is right, as well as nothing done that is wrong; so if you have failed at all, you are a sinner, and must not expect to escape the displeasure of an offended God, who sees only two classes of human character—saved believers and lost sinners. You are able to judge for yourself whether you have cast yourself, with all your sins and weakness, on the love and pity of the great Redeemer, who came to seek and to save that which is lost; or whether you are hoping to need no mercy, and get to heaven some other way. You read this evening what Scripture says of the people who do that in the tenth chapter of John's Gospel."

"But what do you mean, Mrs. Davis? You say we must obey God's law, and yet that no one does obey it; how, then, can any one be saved?"

"This is just the inquiry I like to hear you make, dear Jane. It takes your attention at once to an answer in the life and death, the love and power of the Son of God, who died for our sins, and rose again for our justification. The law man could not keep with his evil heart, Jesus kept and perfectly fulfilled; in place of the punishment man deserved, and could never have escaped from, Jesus offered his own sufferings and death for every sinner who believes in him; and all who will not trust him entirely must bear the consequences of their unbelief, 'for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.'"

"Then it does not matter whether I obey God or not if Christ has died for me, does it?"

"You must first be satisfied that the benefits of his death are made yours by faith personally. Do you think you could know positively that a friend had endured some dreadful suffering and disgrace that you might be spared, and not love that friend, and feel very deeply grateful for his love to you?"

"No, indeed; I hope not, I think not."

"And could you willfully grieve and disobey one whom you love, and take pleasure in what he disapproves and caused his sufferings?"

"O Mrs. Davis, I see what you mean now."

"Yes, dear Jane, you see the tender bond by which true believers in the Lord Jesus Christ are bound to obey his will, and to follow his steps. His love constrains them. They no longer wish to live unto themselves, but into him who died for them."

"Then I must believe first, I suppose? It seems easy enough to do that."

"It would appear that the apostle Paul did not think so, when he wrote that 'the natural man discerneth not the things of the Spirit of God.' Saying 'I believe,' is not believing. True faith is the gift of God. His Spirit takes of the things of Jesus, and shows them to the sinner's heart. It is a lesson beyond human teaching, dear Jane, but one which God the Holy Spirit teaches successfully, where he teaches at all, and which we are too far fallen to learn of ourselves. The very desire to learn of him is his work; and if you would believe in Jesus to the salvation of your soul, ask for the blessing, and you cannot be denied."

Jane remained silent and thoughtful, looking into the fire for some time, and then suddenly asked for the text she had promised to learn.

"Take the twenty-third verse of the sixth chapter of the Epistle to Romans first," said Mrs. Davis. "'The wages of sin is death.' Is that enough to make you feel happy all the week, Jane?"

"No," said Jane, with a slight touch of sadness in her voice, "give me some other; I told you I did not want to think about death yet."

"Then learn the whole verse. 'The wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.'"

"Does it say that really?" And Jane seized the book to satisfy herself that it did indeed say so.

She was not forgotten that night in the affectionate prayers of her faithful friends.

CHAPTER II.

JANE SAUNDERS SEEKING LIGHT.

ONE morning in the ensuing week, as the young people were busily engaged upon some elegant dresses for a ball about to be given in the neighborhood, Miss Baylis hastily entered the room with a roll of black crape in her hands.

"Young ladies," said she, in a voice somewhat agitated, "I am sure you will be sorry to hear that the ball-dress for Miss M. is no longer needed; she died last night after a very short illness."

The work fell from every hand, and looks of astonishment and regret overspread every countenance.

"Dear, how awful!" exclaimed one. "And she was here only the other day, looking so well and happy."

"It is quite a warning to us all, I'm sure," said Miss Baylis; "she had everything to make her happy, and was only just come out too. Poor thing! It is very sad indeed. Pray put away those flowers and ribbons that she was going to wear, I cannot bear to see you do another stitch at that ball-dress; and here, Miss Davis, begin immediately to cut out crape bonnets and mantles for poor Mrs. M. and the little sisters. This will throw several families into mourning, and I'm afraid we shall have a great deal to do in a very short time."

And, with a few further directions, Miss Baylis disappeared.

It was not possible for kind-hearted girls, however thoughtless, to hear with indifference of the sudden removal of one who had so lately stood among them, giving her orders for this ball-dress with the greatest interest and satisfaction.

They remembered how they had admired her beauty, and envied her rank and station in life; how affably she had spoken to them, and how they had watched her graceful figure as she remounted the beautiful horse, which she told Miss Baylis was a birthday gift from her father the day before; and how she had glanced up toward their window, with consciousness that the eyes of some six or eight young people about her own age were earnestly and admiringly regarding her. And now—ah, what a painful contrast!

"I declare I feel quite melancholy and miserable," said Ellen Saunders; "do make haste, Mary, and let us get over this gloomy work. I wish the poor thing had not been here so lately, it makes one think so much more about her."

"I wonder if she knew that text, Mary—my text," said Jane softly as she helped Mary to fix the pattern about to be cut out. And in another minute a tear stole down the young milliner's cheek, observed only by the friend who understood and appreciated her feeling.

"Let us hope that she did, dear Jane, and learn ourselves to value it, so as to be safe and happy in life or death."

"But if she did not know what your mother says all must know who are saved, what then, Mary? So young, so pleasant, so happy!"—And Jane paused.

"God's word must be true, Jane; we have nothing to do with applying it to any one's case but our own: only we know that the Judge of all the earth will do right. He has sent us a very solemn lesson, and our day of salvation is now; let us not neglect it, for it may soon be over forever."

Jane Saunders.

It happened that Jane Saunders, being an excellent fitter, was sent to Mrs. M.'s to take the pattern for frocks for the children. She was shown into a large and handsome room, where the front shutters were closed, and a large blind hung to the ground, at the back window, excluding nearly all light, and the view of trees and flowers in the garden to which it opened. Jane sat waiting some time, feeling very sad and gloomy, and then the door was softly opened, and a little girl stole in with a frock in her hand.

"If you please," said she in a low voice, "mamma cannot come to you, but she says you are to make it like this."

"May I draw up this blind a little way, that I may see to take your pattern?" asked Jane, moving toward the back window.

"Yes, I dare say you may, just for a minute, but there is no light anywhere in the house more than this; and poor mamma is ill with crying about dear Clara. Are you not sorry about her, too?"

"Yes, dear, I am indeed, very sorry," said Jane, in a tone of sincere sympathy.

"But they say she has gone to heaven," said the child, "and everybody is happy there. I don't feel so sorry since they told me that, for I know who lives in heaven."

"Whom do you mean, dear?" asked Jane timidly.

"Why, I mean Jesus Christ. I have got a nice book that tells about him; and it says he is so kind and good, and that he likes little children to come to him, and to love him. So I shall go to him when I die; but I must love him, and do what he wishes here first. I hope dear Clara loved him, but she never told us. Do you love Jesus Christ?" added she, turning round, and looking full into Jane's face.

"I—I hope I shall," said Jane, astonished and perplexed at the straightforward question.

"Ah yes, I hope so: and then if you die, I can say that you loved him, and I shall know that you are gone to heaven."

Jane might have replied to one older; but to the simple, trusting child she could not, dared not say that she knew nothing of Jesus Christ to warrant a hope of happiness in heaven; and though she would gladly have prolonged the conversation, she felt awkward and confounded, and concluded her task in silence.

Miss Baylis was quite right in her anticipations of having a great deal to do in a very short time; and Saturday found much work still unfinished, which was expected by some of her best customers that evening. What was to be done? There were some who would not be offended if their dresses were sent in early on Sunday morning, rather than not at all; and to secure the finish of as many as possible, Miss Robson, the forewoman of the establishment and the expectant of a junior partnership in the same, set herself diligently forward to accomplish the wishes of her principals in the best manner their united wisdom could devise.

It was very rarely that the young people were detained long beyond their appointed hours; but when especially requested to remain, they usually were willing to comply. Every day of this particular week they had worked early and late, and were not prepared for the further demands of the obliging forewoman.

"It will greatly oblige Miss Baylis if some of you will stay and work until about eight or nine o'clock to-morrow morning, young ladies," said she, on the Saturday afternoon; "we can accomplish a great deal among us to-night, and it is but once in a way as it were. The poor M.'s, you know, must have their things; we cannot refuse what death has required; and then you see the ball takes place on Monday evening, and we may have alterations to make in some of the things."

"Indeed, Miss Robson, I am half asleep over what I am doing now," said one of the girls, with a yawn; "I don't think Miss Baylis can expect us to stay to-night. I mean to lie in bed all day on Sunday."

"Well, you can go to bed, you know, directly you go home. I am sure we would not deprive you of the whole of your Sunday. It is as a favor Miss Baylis asks it; she does not, of course, demand it, but, for my part, I have great pleasure in obliging her, and have no doubt that all who are living in the house will feel the same."

"I'm sure I don't though," said Ellen, unhesitatingly; "I don't like to give up my own day to please any one, and I never thought we should be asked."

"Only two or three hours of it, my dear," said Miss Robson, soothingly: "in fact, I dare say we can have done all that is really wanted by seven o'clock if we try hard."

"And what shall we be fit for after sitting up all night, I should like to know?" said Fanny Ashton, laughing satirically. "However, my mother would not allow it, so it's of no use to ask me, Miss Robson."

"Well, I will say no more than this," and Miss Robson looked round with a meaning smile, "that I have always found Miss Baylis knows how to appreciate an obligation; and those of the young ladies who do nothing but lie in bed, or amuse themselves on a Sunday, might as well do something useful for once to please another person. Miss Baylis expressly said that she would not ask any one who she believes makes a conscientious use of her Sunday, as Mary Davis does, going to church and Sunday school regularly, and having a sick mother to attend to, and so on, but only those who do not think it necessary to be so very strict, and have nothing to do for others."

Mary Davis, it should be observed, was not present when Miss Robson made her appeal, but was gone down to the shop for some articles required.

"Then," said Jane, who had listened hitherto without making any remark, "does Miss Baylis think that we, who are doing a little wrong to please ourselves, might as well do more to please her?"

"Doing wrong, Jane Saunders? What a strange speech!" exclaimed two or three at once. "We are doing right to claim our own day, and to keep it too; but it is certainly wrong to work on Sunday."

"I am inclined to agree with Miss Robson and Miss Baylis," said Jane; "and if I only wanted to please myself to-morrow, I don't see any great difference in the wrong between my amusement and my work, and wouldn't mind on that account working till noon, or all day."

"O, but we need not do that, Miss Saunders. You are very kind, and I'll tell Miss Baylis what you say," said Miss Robson complacently.

"O no, pray do not, Miss Robson," exclaimed Jane, "for I cannot consent to work after midnight. I wish to make a better use of Sunday now than I used to do," she added, blushing; "and I hope never again to deserve, as I have done, to be asked to work on that day."

"That's Mary Davis's doing," whispered the young woman who sat nearest to Miss Robson.

"It's unfortunate just now, at any rate," returned Miss Robson, in the same confidential tone; "but you've no idea how highly Miss Baylis thinks of Mary. She says she does not agree with her in some things, but she would trust her for truth, and uprightness, and honesty and all that sort of thing, beyond any young person she ever knew, and I wouldn't say a word against her for the world. She has been pretty well watched I can tell you though, and Miss Baylis says she does more work and better than any of the others, and is always here first on a Monday morning, looking so fresh and happy, while some of you come lounging and yawning in as if you were tired to death."

"That's true enough," replied the other, laughing; "I always do feel tired to death on a Monday, and I can't think why it is."

"Well, you had better get Mary's remedy then. But get on with your work as fast as you can. I know one reason why Mary does a great deal more than some. She never gossips away her time, for you don't hear her voice once in an hour." And the forewoman, conscious that she was not just then setting the best of examples, began to stitch away with redoubled vigor.

On Monday morning Mary arrived at five o'clock, anxious to do her best in the emergency. She found Jane in the work-room before her, and the two friends who had honored God on Sunday, served their employers more effectually on Monday than those who had yielded to Miss Robson's proposal, for indolence could not very justly be reprimanded which was declared to result from the overwork, and want of lawful rest.

Notwithstanding her good resolutions, Jane Saunders once or twice yielded to Ellen's entreaties to join her and her companions in Sunday afternoon excursions, but had not derived from them any of the enjoyment so liberally promised. The fact was, that her conscience was sufficiently awakened to perceive that their course was one of folly and sin, and that there was evidently no fear of God before their eyes; and if her heart did not at once candidly renounce their pleasures, it was uneasy and disturbed while sharing them.

She saw that Ellen was absorbed in vanity and pride, elated with flattery, and discontented and restless when any other seemed likely to attract the attention she coveted.

Then Jane returned with thankfulness to her quiet afternoon with Mrs. Davis. And after the sudden death of the interesting Miss M., she had prevailed on one or two others to accompany her. These also, being touched with the kind interest felt for their true welfare, and finding themselves neither scolded nor lectured, repeated the visit, and soon wished to follow Jane's example of learning a text every week.

Thus, the little party grew by degrees, until all Mrs. Davis's chairs and benches were in requisition, and one or two friends in the town, hearing from their young dependents of the Bible-reading at this humble refuge from Sunday idleness and sin, sent now and then a little present of grocery, or other useful things, that the widow might be enabled to "show hospitality" without embarrassment or privation in the week.

"I wish, Jane," said Ellen, one day, "if you are determined to go to that Mrs. Davis's, you would call for me at Mr. Ashton's on your way home. I expect to spend the evening there, and they have so often asked about you, that it seems quite disrespectful of you never to go near them."

"I did go, you know, Ellen, once, to please you, and I did not like the way you all behaved at all."

"Ah, that is your prim, precise nonsense, since you went so much with Mary; but surely I have as much right to choose my friends as you have," said Ellen, tossing her head; "but it is Mr. and Mrs. Ashton who want to see you, or I'm sure I should not press it."

"I will call for you, and wait in the shop until you are ready," said Jane; "I would rather not come in."

"Well, you will see how that will be; so I shall expect to see you."

And the sisters parted, one to giddy amusement and folly with a young party bent on doing their own pleasure; the other to the happy little group assembled round the widow and her Bible.

"You gave us so little to learn, Mrs. Davis," said Jane, "that I have learned a long piece besides."

"I cannot find fault with that, my dear," replied Mrs. Davis; "but the reason I gave you little was, that you might consider it deeply, because the sentence, though so short, contains the pith of many a volume."

"So you said; but really I cannot see so very much in it. They crucified Him; what is it but a statement of a fact?"

"It is, as you say, a statement of a fact, and how solemnly important a fact, I hope you will learn to understand. But I want to tell you, dear girls, about a friend of my early days, who found a great deal in that text. She was, as you seem to be, anxious to be what she called 'very good;' but I hope your efforts will be more Scriptural toward that end, than hers were in the beginning of her course.

"She was a warm-hearted, spirited girl, brought up by worldly parents, and allowed to do very much as she pleased in most things. After she grew up to womanhood, it happened that she heard some startling sermons from an eminent preacher of the Gospel, which convinced her that there must be something more interesting in religion than she yet understood, and a great deal more to be done than she had ever attempted. So she resolved to renounce 'the world,' which, in her view, consisted of amusements, visiting, gay and expensive dress, and novel-reading, all of which she rigidly denied herself, and thought she was wonderfully successful in attaining an exalted position among the people of God. Any appearance of remonstrance or opposition on the part of her indulgent friends made her declare herself firm and ready for martyrdom in defense of her new opinions. You do not need me to tell you that her religion was as much opposed to the pure Gospel as her worldliness, and more dangerous to her soul; for she was building herself up in self-righteousness, while the religion of the heart, and the teaching of God's Holy Spirit, were still unknown to her.

"One day, during a course of lectures on the history of the Lord Jesus Christ, Elizabeth's favorite minister took for his text this short passage, and she sat ready, as usual, to listen and admire, proud of her ability to appreciate what she called 'a good sermon.'

"'How clever!' thought she, as she prepared her pencil and paper to take notes. 'What can he say about such a little text as that?'

"And now I am going to read to you what she was able to remember afterward of the sermon.

   "'They crucified Him.'

   "'They,'" repeated the preacher, pausing on the word, "who were they? 'Crucified,' what was it? 'Him,' who was He? Let us answer the last question first.

   "'God who at sundry times and in divers manners spake in time past unto the fathers by the prophets, hath in these last days spoken unto us by his Son, whom he hath appointed heir of all things.' 'Who, being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God: but made himself of no reputation, and took upon him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men: and being found in fashion as a man, he humbled himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross.'

   "He was the same of whom it is written, 'The Word was with God, and the Word was God;' and 'the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us . . . the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.'

   "But how came this wonderful person in company with thieves, enduring a disgraceful death, a public execution? He was not personally guilty, for no charge deserving of punishment could be proved against him. He was not powerless, for he could heal the sick and raise the dead; and angels who were eagerly looking into the events of his extraordinary career, would have sped to do his bidding.

   "The ignorant taunt of his enemies was, 'He saved others, himself he cannot save,' which was only true because he did not choose to take himself out of their hands. The crowning act of his earthly ministry must be performed; and while 'by wicked hands' the Son of God was 'crucified and slain,' the eternal purpose of redeeming love was accomplished; and that sinners might be saved, Christ died. He was 'made sin,' 'numbered with transgressors,' 'endured the cross, despising the shame,' and 'lifted up, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life.' So 'they crucified him.'

   "Had the Jews been his executioners, they would have stoned him; but being condemned by the Roman governor, the Roman punishment must be inflicted. A painful, lingering, and cruel death; nay, more, an accursed death, for it is written, 'Cursed is every one that hangeth on a tree.'

   "God had manifested his displeasure against sin by casting out of heaven rebellious angels, 'who kept not their first estate,' and by pouring out a destroying flood upon rebellious men; but now he was declaring 'the riches of his grace,' in his kindness toward us by Jesus Christ; and drawing the eye of faith and the affections of the heart to 'the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.' So 'they crucified him.'

   "'They.' Again let me ask, Who were they? You reply, The Roman soldiers crucified him; and so they did, aggravating with every ingenuity the sorrows they could not understand. But who put Jesus into the hand of the Roman governor? The chief priests and scribes, who scorned his instructions, envied his influence, and detested his purity. 'What will ye that I shall do unto him?" asked the irresolute governor. 'Crucify him,' shouted the false-witnesses and their angry masters. So 'they crucified him.'

   "And are we to stop there? O no! 'Forasmuch as ye know,' some of you at least, 'that ye were not redeemed with corruptible things, as silver and gold . . . but with the precious blood of Christ, as of a lamb without blemish and without spot.' Then, what if, passing by the actual hands that struck, and the voices that shouted, we pass along the stream of time, during which multitudes that no man can number have been saved and blessed through this solemn fact, and consider ourselves at the present moment, you and I, did we not crucify him? 'He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; with his stripes we are healed . . . and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.'

   "If Jesus had not died, we could never have been saved; if Jesus had not died, man could never have estimated in any degree the depth and power of that infinite love from which the plan of salvation sprang. It was not that God needed to be appeased, 'for God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son;' but it was that his moral government being thus righteously upheld, the lost might be sought and found, and his love commended to us, 'in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.' It was not that God was angry and implacable, but that man, being redeemed by the blood of Christ, was to be won and reconciled to him. It was the setting up, as it were, of an eternal altar, on which sinners, feeling helpless and undone, might lay their load of sin and care, and on which the one is consumed and put away forever, and the other is changed into sanctifying discipline.

   "If your sins be not repented of and confessed, and blotted out there, they are yet on your own heads; and unpardoned sinners must die, for 'the wages of sin is death.' O, it is an easy thing to read and believe a history, and give a sigh to the fate of an unjustly condemned and persecuted man, and this may be done sincerely by an amiable, kind heart that is never influenced beyond the moment by the fact; but, it is quite another thing to take God at his word, to receive his message of mercy and love, and, believing in his love to you, to yield up in return the affection of your hearts, and the grateful service of your lives. I would solemnly ask you to go to your closets, search and see what is your real position before God, look to Jesus who was lifted up that he might draw all to him; and then, in penitence and self-renunciation, you will learn who 'they' were that 'crucified him.'"

Mrs. Davis paused, and left the minds of her young friends to meditate for a little while on the truths she had read. She observed with encouragement that no head was turned to question the impression made upon another, and, perhaps, in that silence each, at least for once, looked anxiously into her own heart.

Then she resumed. "Elizabeth had prepared to follow the preacher with her ready pencil, that she might enjoy over again, or detail to others, the eloquence she so much admired. Soon, however, her hand paused, the paper remained blank, and her eyes rose with astonishment and alarm to the face of the earnest speaker.

"At first she struggled proudly against the thought that she, if a believer, could have anything to do with the death of Jesus. The personal application of such a fact had never entered her mind before, and yet the frightful alternative was not to be endured for a moment. She meant to be saved, she must be saved. She could not, she would not, cast in her lot with the enemies of God, with unbelievers, with lovers of pleasure, and of the world which she thought she had renounced.

"What then must she do? Lay aside her self-complacency, her self-denials, her religious observances, her charitable acts, her readiness for martyrdom, and take up 'only her sins,' and carry them to Jesus? Must she be like the penitent Magdalene, the convicted Peter, the man who would not so much as lift up his eyes in the temple, but smote upon his breast, crying, 'God be merciful to me a sinner?' Yes, she must do thus if she would be saved, because it was for sinners that Jesus died. It was sin that crucified him, and the utmost daring of her self-righteous spirit had never gone so far as to assert, or to imagine, that she had not sinned.

"She had a temper, and a tongue, and vanity and pride that could have contradicted, at any moment, such self-complacent thoughts. She had therefore always made the condescending admission that nobody is perfect, that all have failings; but she hoped she was a great deal better than many, and was doing something occasionally to commend herself to the favor of a discerning God. And now came this humbling Scriptural declaration of atoning merit and forgiving love, proclaiming to faith and penitence a complete salvation, the effect of which uproots the love of sin, dethrones self, and secures a loving obedience to lawful authority; frees the toiling slave, and makes him an adopted child.

"Elizabeth went home sad that night; the words she had failed to write on paper sinking into her proud heart and probing its secret depths. She tried to pray as usual, but now it seemed no prayer at all; she had to learn as a little child, and to seek a Divine but ever ready teacher. I need not describe to you the exercises of her soul under the unexpected light that had dawned upon her; but she was not able to fight long against the sacred truth, that 'not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according to his mercy he saved us;' and then she saw how grateful love would seek to render every act righteous, and impress every thought and feeling with the beauty of holiness, not merely to save self, but to glorify God.

"O my dear young friends, never suppose that God calls you to do anything by way of merit in order that you may be saved, for there is no merit in penitence or faith. And if you ask,—

"'Must we not give up our gaiety, and our amusements, and our love of dress, and our Sunday excursions, and our thoughtless, or envious, or unholy talk,' or any other things in which you allow yourselves?

"I answer, you are not told to think about giving up anything, except as the proper fruit of faith and love to God and Christ, which the Spirit of God has implanted in your heart; so that it is no longer pleasure, but pain and grief, to do anything that is inconsistent with obedience and devotedness to him.

"It will then no longer be,—

"'"Must" I give up this? Or deny myself that?'

"But rather—

"'What shall I render unto my Lord for all his benefits toward me? I will take the cup of salvation . . . I will offer to thee the sacrifice of thanksgiving, and call upon the name of the Lord. Whither he leads, I will go; what he loves, I will love; and what he bids, I will do; his friends shall be my friends, his foes my foes, his word my delight.'

"It shall no longer be,—

"'How near may I remain to the world, and yet be a believer in Him?'

"But,—

"'How far may I get from worldliness, and how closely may I walk with Him?'

"The love of Jesus and the love of dress and vanity cannot agree together in the same heart; the love of Jesus and the practice of Sabbath-breaking cannot exist in the same person; one must exclude the other, and the way of holiness will be found the way of true enjoyment."

"How I wish," said Jane Saunders to herself as she walked along, according to promise, to call for her sister, "how I wish I had not to call for Ellen to-night. I want to go and be alone and think, but she will not let me. Why should I be troubled about her?"

Then memory recalled, like a still small voice of gentle rebuke, a portion of a chapter she had learned: "He first findeth his own brother Simon, and saith unto him, We have found the Messias; . . . and he brought him to Jesus." She admired the brother's love: should a sister's love be less zealous?

When Jane was announced at Mr. Ashton's, a rush was made from the sitting-room, which opened by a glass door into the shop, and before she could express any will or wish upon the subject, she was dragged into the midst of the party assembled there, who seemed to be about to sit down to supper.

"Ellen," said she, "I have called as you bade me, and we have only just time to get home by nine o'clock. Will you get ready at once?"

"Why did you not come earlier then?" said Ellen, vainly endeavoring to conceal her annoyance. "But it will not matter for you to be a little late for once; Miss Baylis will excuse you, I know."

"I hope not to give her any cause for excusing me, Ellen; so be quick, there's a dear girl, and let us go. Mrs. Ashton, I am sure you will think it quite right for us to obey Miss Baylis's rules." And Jane looked pleadingly toward Mrs. Ashton.

"Certainly, my dear, certainly; we will not ask you to stay to-night. I am very sorry, Miss Ellen, but I see we must not have the pleasure of your company and your sister's to supper."

"Pray do go and put on your bonnet, Ellen," whispered Jane, earnestly.

"Really, I am quite sorry," said Mr. Ashton, rousing himself from a doze in his easy chair; "one so seldom gets a sight of you, Miss Jane; but you are quite right about minding rules. I'm a great advocate for punctuality and obedience myself; there's no managing young people without them. Well, but you can come in and spend next Sunday with us instead."

"O no, indeed, sir, thank you; I cannot indeed," said Jane quickly.

"Cannot? Why who is to hinder you?" asked Mr. Ashton, looking at her with some surprise.

"I—I mean—I should say—I am very much obliged to you, sir, but I would rather not," stammered Jane, coloring deeply.

"O, that's another thing; will not and cannot have rather different meanings, Miss Jane; but I hope you don't think there's any more harm in coming here, than in going to visit some other friends on a Sunday. We hear that you are turning religious, and we think it a pity you should wish to grow dull and formal."

"O, I am not religious," said Jane; "and I never knew, until I went to Mrs. Davis's, what a happy thing it is to be so, at least, to have such religion as hers. If Fanny and Ellen would come only once, they would soon see that we are not dull and formal."

"Well, well, my dear, I'm afraid you are getting on fast; but every one to his taste. I'm sure I shall never persecute any one for his creed, for everybody has a right to judge for himself, according to his conscience, I think."

Jane felt exceedingly uncomfortable, but she did not know how to reply to a sentiment which, nevertheless, she knew to be false and dangerous. At last, however, summoning courage, she said, as meekly as she could, lest Mr. Ashton should think her presumptuous: "We study the Bible at Mrs. Davis's, sir, to find out what is God's will, and then our consciences can tell us afterward whether we try to do it or not."

"Ah, I dare say; that is Mrs. Davis's way, you see," said Mr. Ashton.

"O sir, surely it is the right way. How can we tell what is really true and right in any other way?"

"I never argue, my dear; I let people think as they please," said Mr. Ashton, hastily.

"Now, Ellen," again implored Jane, seeing her yet unprepared to depart, "indeed I must go without you."

And she opened the door, on which Ellen and Fanny darted up stairs, leaving her to wait in the shop until their return.

It was evident that the family in the sitting-room supposed she also had gone up to hasten the process of dressing for the walk, for a conversation immediately commenced, which they could scarcely have intended for her ear, but the door not being completely closed, and Jane having seated herself in the dark, to wait as desired, she could not avoid hearing it.

"I'll tell you what, Harry," said Mr. Ashton to his son, "it's easy enough to be seen which of those two girls will make the sensible woman, and I hope you won't be paying too much attention to that foolish Miss Ellen."

"O, you need not fear," replied the hopeful Mr. Harry; "it only amuses us to see how she is puffed up with vanity and conceit. She little thinks the fun we make of her for it. But I can tell you, we never talk nonsense to prim Miss Jane."

"All the better for her; she's a steady girl, though she may be getting a little Methodistical; but that's a great deal better than the silly thoughts that seem to fill her sister's mind. A vain, dressy, giddy girl will make a miserable, helpless, extravagant wife for any man who has the misfortune to marry her; and even if the old uncle could give her a good settlement, I should never wish to see that little simpleton daughter-in-law of mine."

"Dear, dear, Mr. Ashton, of course not," said his wife; "Henry would never be so foolish."

Mr. Harry was saved the necessity of a reply by the entrance of Ellen and Fanny, when he started up to offer his escort home. Whereupon Jane, burning with indignation, threw open the door, and haughtily declined his services.

"Whatever is the matter with you, Jane?" exclaimed Ellen, as soon as they had left the house; "I never saw you so rude and disagreeable before."

"I am very sorry, I don't wish to be rude or disagreeable," said Jane; "but I do wish I could persuade you to—"

"To come and be made a Methodist, I dare say," cried Ellen, angrily; "but you need not expect it, so don't waste your trouble upon me."

Jane said no more until they reached their own room, when, putting her arm round her sister, and affectionately kissing her half reluctant cheek, she whispered the conversation she had overheard, so far only as it related to Ellen herself.

In vain Ellen would have doubted; she knew that Jane scorned a falsehood; and after a hysterical struggle to exhibit no other feeling than indignation at the impertinence, she laid her head on her sister's shoulder and wept bitter tears of mortification and distress.

"Dear Ellen," said Jane, when the disappointed girl was a little calmed, "if you would but trust those who love you, instead of such friends as these, how happy we might be! Will you not hear about Jesus Christ, and let us follow him together? O, Ellen, he is no pretended friend, to laugh at our faults when we are out of sight. He screens them from others, and shows them only to ourselves, that we may confess them, and that he may forgive them. I do feel that this vexatious event has strengthened in me every desire and resolution I ever had to serve and follow him, for he is the faithful and true Friend, and just the one we need to keep us safe from harm and trouble."

And if the little girl at the house of mourning had been present to ask again, in her artless tone of wishful inquiry, "Do 'you' love Jesus Christ?" Jane's full heart would have prompted the reply, "'Lord, thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love thee.'"