CHAPTER V.

YOUTHFUL VISIONS.

A nest of rocks standing out upon the ocean, around which the waves dash with mournful measure, is one of the most inviting retreats for the people around Woodcliff.

On this bright summer afternoon, a beautiful dreamer sits upon its summit, with eyes turned upward on the rapidly changing clouds. Ever and anon, a smile passes over the young face, as some bright thought flits through the teeming fancy.

"Down, Hector, what is the matter?" said the child; but the dog continued barking and wagging his tail, as he ran down the side of the rock, and bounded along the beach.

Madeline soon saw that her young friend Roland was coming towards them, with whom Hector was well acquainted.

"Come up, Roland, it is perfectly splendid," exclaimed the little girl, and soon she was joined by her young companion.

"I want you to come and help me watch the clouds. I don't know if you can see as I do, but there is everything that is beautiful this afternoon."

"Look there, Roland! see that white-winged angel sailing along so softly; but it is fading—it is all gone—it seemed to wave its hand to us, bidding us farewell. Oh! look there at that group of clouds; there are soldiers, and banners, and spears flashing—don't you see that flag waving so grandly? Now just see, Roland, the flag has turned into a long fish with wings—now don't laugh at me, Roland."

Roland could not but smile at her wild fancies, and replied,

"I ought not to laugh at you, Miss Madeline, for many a beautiful picture have I seen on the clouds, and many an odd one in the winter fire."

"Don't call me Miss Madeline, Roland; we go to the same school; I am younger than you, and I'm sure that you are a great deal wiser and better than I. It sounds so stiff; call me Madeline, or Maddy."

"I'm only a poor boy, very far beneath you, Miss Madeline, and I don't think I can take the liberty," answered Roland.

"Well, I won't answer you, Roland. If my father is a rich man, I'm only a little girl."

"Look there, Madeline! that is a very black cloud. I think that we shall soon have a storm."

"I'm not afraid of a storm; I rather like to see the lightning flash, and to hear the distant thunder; but I don't much like the thoughts of being wet."

The clouds thickened rapidly; thunder began to rumble in the distance, and some large drops fell around them.

"Had we not better turn our steps homeward?" asked Roland.

"I think not," was the quick reply, "I have a fancy for seeing this storm."

"Is there any shelter, Madeline?"

"Yes, there is an old fisherman's hut among the next nest of rocks. We can go there."

Quickening their pace, Roland took Madeline's hand, and hurried her rapidly along, for the wind was now blowing at a fearful rate.

They were soon sheltered in old Peter's cabin, and the children stood at the door, watching the storm. It was a grand sight, but not more so than the little enthusiast, who stood with parted lips, eyes turned upward, and her long ringlets waving wildly in the wind, gazing entranced on the war of the elements, and looking the very genius of the ocean. The waves dashed in foaming spray against the rocks; the sea gulls in large flocks flew low down, skimming the white caps of the crested billows, which chased each other out on the stormy ocean, the birds screaming as if inspired by the spirit of the storm. The lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and the rain now fell in torrents. Poor Hector was sadly frightened, and cowering at Madeline's feet, continued whining so long as the storm lasted.

It raged furiously for one hour. When it subsided, the sun once more appeared in his setting glory, shining on the still falling rain drops, painting a rainbow on the clouds which spanned the ocean. Further up the beach, the town of L—— lay in the sunlight, and reflected on the window-panes, the whole town glittered as though each house was decked with diamonds.

Madeline clapped her little hands with delight. "Was there ever anything so beautiful?"

"Look, Maddy!" said Roland, "at those clouds piled up so grandly; they look like the snow-clad Alps that hang in your father's library."

"See how the sun glistens on the top of them, Roland; it looks just as if the light came right down from the palace in the skies, and as if the angels stood in crowds on the mountain tops, looking down upon us."

"We don't know, Maddy, how many of the shining ones may be there; for the Bible tells us that they are ministering spirits, sent down to minister to God's people."

"Look, Roland, at that bird; it seems to fly right round the top of that mountain-cloud. See how its white breast shines in the sunlight! Did you ever wish you were a bird? Wouldn't I like to see as much as that bird sees now, so far above the earth."

"Did you ever see a mountain, Maddy?" inquired Roland.

"No, I have not; I have often looked at papa's pictures, and wished that I could climb up one of the mountains of Switzerland."

"I have seen mountains, Maddy, so grand! so dark! so rugged! I suppose that the mountains of Scotland are not so beautiful as those of Switzerland; they are so dark and gloomy, and those deep ravines which lie among them are so terrible. I have walked there after sunset, and heard the thunder echoing from cliff to cliff, while the wild birds screamed as they flew to their mountain eyry."

"Were you not afraid, Roland, to be there all alone?"

"I was not alone, Maddy, my uncle used to take me, for I was a little boy; but I shall never forget the fear which I have felt among those heather-clad mountains; I used to cling so tightly to his hand, for I was filled with solemn awe."

"I wonder if I shall ever see a mountain, Roland?"

"I dare say that by-and-bye your father will show you all these wonders."

"How long since you were in Scotland, Roland?" asked Madeline.

"It is now seven years. My father was a very sad, strange man, Maddy, and he took a sudden fancy to come over to America; my mother was a minister's daughter, her name was Mary Gordon; she lived with my grandfather at the manse even after she was married."

"What is a manse, Roland?"

"A manse is a Scotch name for a parsonage; it was a pleasant little home, situated in a hamlet, at the foot of the mountains, not far from my grandfather's kirk."

"What is a kirk, Roland?"

"A kirk is a Scotch name for a church. There was a lake not far from our house, and many a time did Uncle Alick take us children out in the boat; sometimes we would cross the lake, and pay visits to our neighbors. Once he told me that he was going to show me a place that I must never forget; he said that we should be gone all day; so my mother, Effie, Uncle Alick and I started with our little basket of provisions. We crossed the lake, and made our way up the sides of the mountain; at length, we commenced descending, and soon found ourselves in a thickly shaded glen, covered with a heavy sward of rich green grass. We stopped under a large old tree, and after we had been seated awhile in silence, my mother said: 'Roland, do you see that old ruin behind that clump of trees?' 'I see a pile of stones and an old chimney, mother,' I replied. 'There lived our ancestor, the old pastor of Glencoe. His name was David Gordon; he lived in those dreadful days when men were hunted like wild beasts for conscience' sake—your great ancestor was a holy man, and had bound his soul by the solemn "League and Covenant," not to submit to the tyranny of the English Church. He was the father of a large family, and was a faithful shepherd of the flock of Christ. Many a time, when those bloody troopers were in hot pursuit, did this aged man of God, at the head of his little flock of parishioners, sally out at night, marching over the wild moors and up the steep mountain sides, seeking shelter in the caves of these old hills.'

"'Who was king then, mother?' I inquired.

"'Charles the First; and who, though a good husband and father, was a bigoted and tyrannical king.'

"'Did he hurt God's people?' I asked.

"'He let his soldiers persecute and kill them. Their blood cried to Heaven against him, and deeply were they avenged.'

"'Then I'll never love the Church of England, mother,' and my little heart burned within me. 'But, mother, you were going to tell me a story.'

"'Yes, Roland, I want to show you how strong the old pastor of Glencoe was when called to suffer for God. One day, his eldest son, Gilbert, had gone away from home on an errand that would bring him back late in the evening; and David Gordon, his wife, and granddaughter, Lilian, were left at home. Suddenly, they heard the sound of horses' hoofs, and they knew that their day had come. In a very few minutes, a company of troopers appeared in the green before the manse; dismounting, they fastened their horses to the neighboring trees; the captain, entering the manse, dragged old David Gordon from his study, and bade him prepare for death.

"'Down on your knees, you old canting hypocrite!' said the hardened man; 'you have but a minute to prepare for death.'

"'Just let me hae a few minutes for prayer,' said the old Christian; and, kneeling down, he raised his eyes to Heaven, while his white hair floated in the cool breeze, and ought to have softened the hearts of those cruel men.

"'In another minute his faithful wife, the companion of fifty years, knelt by his side.

"'I am wi' ye, David, whatever is yer fate; I will be wi' ye; and the blessed Saviour, who strengthened the martyr Stephen, will stan' by his weak disciples.'

"'Hold your clatter, you old beldame; see if your God will come to save you from the bullets when they are sent.'

"'How lang, O Lord! holy an' true, shall the wicked triumph?' breathed out old David. 'Wilt thou leave us forever? hae mercy, O Lord! upon our enemies; turn the heart o' Charles Stuart to thysel.'

"'Do you dare to speak the name of the king?' shouted the trooper, at the same time pointing to the band that stood waiting his orders.

"'Planting themselves opposite to the kneeling pair, they commenced loading their carbines; and, just as they prepared to fire, a young creature, not more than sixteen, rushed from the manse, and throwing herself upon the bosom of her grandfather, stretched forth one pleading hand, exclaiming,

"'Oh! spare his grey hairs; he has ne'er harmed ye! he has done naething but guid a' the days o' his life, an' if ye kill him, his bluid will call frae the ground against ye at the judgment-day.'

"'Take her away,' shouted the Captain; 'the old parson must die.'

"'I will na gae! I will na leave my dear auld grandfather; an' ye can na hae the heart to kill us a',' answered Lilian, in her innocent trust.

"'Fire, men!' shouted the Captain, and in another minute, the sharp report of a dozen guns, echoing through the glen, sending their deadly bullets among the kneeling group, released the souls of the aged pastor, his faithful wife, and sweet Lilian Gordon, covered with the blood of her aged grand-parents. She lay on the green sward, and even those fierce soldiers were touched when they looked at the pale face of the beautiful girl, around which hung in rich profusion those golden locks, stained with her life-blood, as it oozed quietly away.

"'She might have gone away,' said one of the troopers; 'we didn't want to kill her or the old woman; it was their own fault.'

"'All this fearful scene had been witnessed by a faithful servant, who had hidden herself in a loft, where, trembling and overpowered with grief, she had seen and heard all.

"'When Gilbert Gordon returned in the evening, what was his horror to see his father, mother and only daughter weltering in their blood on the green sward in front of the manse!

"'With the assistance of a few mourning parishioners, by the light of the pale moon, they dug a hurried grave, and after a few words of solemn prayer from the lips of Gilbert Gordon, they laid away the precious remains of the martyred dead in hope of a joyful resurrection, placing a small board to mark the place where they slept; and when those troubled days were over, an humble tomb-stone marked the very spot where they lay down their lives for Jesus.

"'Go, read it, Roland,' said my mother; 'and never forget that the blood of martyrs flows in your veins. Always be strong for the right, my son; and remember that you are a Gordon as well as a Bruce.'

"I read the inscription on the simple tomb-stone, partially defaced by time; the letters were very faint, but I still could read: 'The Rev. David Gordon; Janet, his wife; and his granddaughter, Lilian Gordon; martyred on the 20th day of October, 1643. They sleep in Jesus.'

"Maddy, I have never forgotten that sacred spot; and so deep was the impression that, boy as I was, I felt as if my soul grew larger from that day, and as if I would rather suffer anything than dishonor a name so sacred as that of Gordon. I remember every word my mother said. I have thought of the story in the dark hours of the night, and have prayed that God would give me such a heroic soul as David Gordon's."

Maddy listened to the recital, and all the deep feelings of her imaginative nature were stirred to their very depths. She could never again look upon Roland Gordon Bruce with any other feelings than those of deepest veneration; for, boy as he was, and poor as he was, was he not a descendant of martyrs? and as much of a hero in her young fancy, as though he had figured himself upon that bloody sward, and as though, instead of occurring in 1643, it had been an event of yesterday.

The story had ended—returning to the rock, they took their seat once more upon its summit. The storm had all passed away; the gulls were flying to their nests, their white breasts glistening in the bright sunlight that now flooded the waters.

"Maddy, I do think that I like storms better than calms. I like everything that brings the grandeur of God before me; there is a voice within, Maddy, that answers to the music of a storm."

"I never could tell just how it was, Roland, but I often think just as you do, only I never could speak it in words."

"Maddy, our talk to-day has brought back my home in Scotland; and it makes me feel sad to think that I am so far away from the land that I love. You ought to hear some of our music, it is so beautiful."

"Won't you sing me one of the songs that you like, Roland?"

"Will you try to sing one with me, Maddy?"

"Yes, I would if I only knew one."

"I will teach you one, Maddy, if you will try-.—I know that you will like it;" and Roland dictated the words of the following Scotch song:

"Scots, wha hae wi Wallace bled!
Scots, wham Bruce has often led!
Welcome to your gory bed,
                                Or to victorie!

"Now's the day, and now's the hour:
See the front of battle lour:
See approach proud Edward's power—
                                Chains and slaverie!

"Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
                                Let him turn and flee!" &c.

CHAPTER VI.

A SCOTCH MATRON.

Mrs. Bruce had seen many sorrows. She had married Stephen Bruce chiefly to please her father.

Early in life she had been betrothed to Malcolm Graham, a young man of excellent character, who dearly loved sweet Mary Gordon. She had another suitor, Stephen Bruce, the son of her father's most intimate friend; this was the one preferred by her parent.

Malcolm went to sea; the vessel foundered, and his name was among the missing. Mary pined away for two years in sadness and sorrow; at length, to please her father, she accepted the hand of Stephen Bruce, and made him a faithful wife.

When Roland was about one year old, one stormy winter evening, Mary was rocking her child to sleep, singing a sweet cradle hymn, when the door of the manse opened suddenly, and Malcolm Graham, her early lover, stood before her. A scene of agony passed—they parted in sorrow.

Stephen Bruce, on discovering that Malcolm was still alive, became morose, jealous, and at last unkind. After the birth of Effie, he suddenly embarked for America, where he lived with his family for several years. At length, he returned to Scotland on business; the vessel in which he sailed for America was wrecked, and nothing was ever heard of Stephen Bruce.

In Mrs. Bruce's neighborhood lived a strange woman, named Elsie Gibson, a Scotch woman, who had also lived several years in America.

She was a frequent visitor at the widow's cottage, and exhibited a mysterious interest in all their affairs. Soon after the wreck of the vessel in which Stephen had sailed, she presented herself at the cottage.

"I came to ask for the bairns, Mrs. Bruce," said Elsie. "We are baith Scotch people, and I kenned aboot the Gordons in the auld country. Dinna think me officious; are the bairns weel provided for?"

"Stephen had a good support, Elsie, but it will be some time before I can hear from home; then I shall know what is to be done."

Elsie was a strange, solitary woman, associating with no one but Mary Bruce. Sometimes they would miss her from the neighborhood for weeks, then suddenly she would make her appearance, always exhibiting the same interest in the Bruce family.

In about four months after Stephen's disappearance, a package, directed to Mrs. Bruce in an unknown hand, was left at the cottage door by a little boy, who as quickly disappeared. It was found to contain fifty pounds, saying that the same would come quarterly from her husband's estate.

Mrs. Bruce was amazed. How could it have come to her? Why did she not receive letters from Scotland? It was evidently not a foreign letter. She could not fathom the mystery. On the following day Elsie paid her accustomed visit.

"How fare the bairns, Mrs. Bruce? Where is Roland?"

When he stepped forward, Elsie laid her hand upon his head and said, with deep emotion,

"God bless you, my bairn, ye're the vera image o' yer father."

"Did you know my father, Elsie?" asked the boy, surprised.

Elsie seemed to recover herself in a minute, and replied, coldly, "I hae seen him, Roland."

This time her visit was a short one, and, as she left the house, Mrs. Bruce said to her children, "Elsie is a strange woman; I wonder what makes her think so much of us?"

Next evening she called again. They were all seated in the little porch enjoying the cool evening air.

"There, mother!" said Effie, "is the boy that brought the package."

"What package?" asked Elsie.

"A strange thing happened day before yesterday, Elsie. A little boy called towards evening and left a note, in an unknown hand, enclosing a remittance of fifty pounds from my husband's estate."

Roland was by this time running after the boy, calling to him to stop; but he was too quick, and disappeared in the woods close by.

Elsie looked pleased and said,

"I ween that Roland will na catch the lad, he is a swift little hare-foot."

"Why, do you know who he is?" asked Mrs. Bruce.

"I dinna say sae, Mrs. Bruce."

Elsie arose hastily and took her leave.

For several years the same mysterious notes came quarterly, but at last they entirely ceased. Elsie Gibson had been absent for months, and the family were wondering what had become of their old friend, when, one evening, Roland spied the same tartan plaid which Elsie always wore, and which distinguished her from all her neighbors.

"Mother, I do believe that Elsie Gibson is coming up the lane," exclaimed Roland, and in a few minutes she opened the door and walked in.

Elsie looked sad and careworn. "I maun sit me doon, Mrs. Bruce, for I'm a weary body this cauld night," and she took her seat near the fire.

"Where have you been so long, Elsie?" asked Mrs. Bruce.

"I hae been far awa', tending on a sick friend; but he's better now—that is, better in body, but sore stricken in mind."

"I have had trouble too, Elsie, since we parted. My quarterly allowance has all stopped, and I must look around for means of support."

Elsie looked concerned; a deeper shade passed over her pale features as she replied,

"Great changes hae come owre me, Mary, that is, Mrs. Bruce. I too hae lost the wee bit o' money that I had, and I maun gang out to service."

"I am sorry, Elsie, but I hope you know the blessedness of looking up in the midst of all the sorrows of this life; if we have a home above, we need not mind the trials of the way, they will be very short compared to the rest beyond."

"Sometimes, Mrs. Bruce, I lose sight of the promises, and gang doon into the 'Slough of Despair;' then the burden is a heavy load to carry. But there is a storm brewing, and I maun hurry awa'."

Mrs. Bruce helped her on with her tartan, shook her hand warmly, and bade her look up in the midst of darkness.

"Guid-night, Mrs. Bruce; may the guid Lord guide and keep us a', and prosper his poor servant in her new home; it will na tak meikle to find my claithes, and the rest shall go to ane I luve weel; that is blessed wark, Mrs. Bruce, a' my puir life is spent for that."

Roland walked with Elsie to the turn of the lane, and as she bade him "guid night," she added, "I shall always luve ye weel, Roland, for the sake o' ane that's awa'."

Roland returned wondering how it was that they seemed to constantly connected with Elsie Gibson—some mysterious links which he could not trace, certainly bound them together.

In a short time Elsie obtained a good place, but with the condition that once a month she was allowed to be absent for one day, returning the next; and thus she had continued for several years, until we bring Madeline acquainted with the Bruce family.

* * * * * *

"Good morning, Mrs. Bruce; you are always so busy; don't you get tired of working all the time?" asked Madeline, as she entered the humble cottage.

"It is better, Miss Madeline, to have too much to do, than too little. I am never so happy as when I am fully occupied; and then I am working for my children, and that is always cheerful work."

Madeline looked around the humble room, and thought how neat everything looked. True, there was a rag-carpet on the floor, but the simple furniture was well kept; the tins, bright as silver, hung upon the wall, the family work was all done, and Mrs. Bruce and Effie were busy with their needles.

Effie was a mild, gentle girl, with a pale complexion, light hair, and very soft blue eyes, resembling her mother, only not so lovely as Mrs. Bruce had been in her youthful days. It was her delight to lessen her mother's cares, for she had a heavy burden to carry; but the devotion and love of her children was a sweet cordial to an aching heart.

Madeline sat down on a low chair by the side of Mrs. Bruce, and throwing off her flat, opened a little basket which she had brought with her.

"I hope you will not be offended, Mrs. Bruce, but I've brought you some very nice tea and coffee that papa has just received from Boston; there is some white sugar, and some rice, too. I hardly knew how to bring it, for you are not like the other people that live in the cottages round here; but I hope that you will not be hurt at me; we have so much, and I know that you have so little."

Mrs. Bruce dropped her head lower down to hide the tears that would start as she replied, "We Scotch people have a great horror, my dear, of receiving anything but what we work for; but I'll take the little gift to please you, Miss Madeline."

"I am so glad, for I was so afraid that I was not doing exactly what would please you, that I really trembled when I got to the door. I don't know how it is, but from the first day that I saw Roland on the shore, I knew that he was not a common boy."

Hanging between the windows was a small portrait of a venerable man.

"Whose likeness is that, Mrs. Bruce?" asked the child.

"That is my father's picture. He was the minister of the parish where we lived. He was a good man, Miss Madeline, but he is now among the spirits of the just made perfect."

"How is it, Mrs. Bruce, that you and Roland seem to think so much of the world to come? I never used to hear anybody talk about it until I met you."

"Why, my dear child, what should I do with all my cares and sorrows, if I had no hope of a better life than this?"

"I don't want any better world, Mrs. Bruce. I have everything that I wish, and more too. This world is very beautiful to me; I should not like to leave it and go down into the dark grave."

"That is the natural feeling of a young heart, Miss Madeline, but the day will come when you cannot live without such a hope."

"I don't have many cares, Mrs. Bruce," said Maddy, with a mischievous twinkle of her eye. "I am puzzled a little about the pattern of my doll's bonnet, but the greatest trouble just now is, that papa has brought down a French governess to teach me French and music. That is not very pleasant, for it takes so much of my time out of school that I get tired to death."

"You ought to be very thankful, Miss Madeline, to your father for all his kindness and care. I hope that you will improve your time diligently."

"You ought just to see Mademoiselle Fouladoux; she is such a queer little person. I tell you that I have fun with her; she speaks broken English, and makes such odd faces when she talks. She has a little lap-dog named Fanfan; she makes as much fuss with her as if she were a child—nasty, cross little thing it is! She must have sponge-cake and cream twice a day. I tell you, Mrs. Bruce, our cook gets mad enough. I wish the little cur was in the ocean. What do you think? she sleeps in the bed with Mademoiselle! Just think of that! a dog in the same bed with a lady!" and Madeline threw herself back, and laughed heartily at the thought.

"I hope you do not tease Mademoiselle, Miss Madeline?" answered Mrs. Bruce.

"Tease Mademoiselle! Not much!" answered the child, with a roguish smile upon her dimpled face. "Only when she gives me a hard lesson, I give her a hard one back by pulling Fanfan's tail, or boxing her ears slily; and then Mademoiselle rolls up her eyes, and cries out, 'Oh! ma petite mignon, ma pauvre petite Fanfan!' and then she takes up the horrid thing, with its sore eyes, and kisses it. Just think of kissing a lap-dog."

"Try to be a good girl, Miss Madeline; it is a hard task for a young lady that has a good home to go out to teach. If you'll only think of that, I am sure that you will be kind to Mademoiselle!"

"I'm not a good girl, Mrs. Bruce. I'm not used to thinking whether a thing is right or wrong; nobody ever said much to me about it but Roland. I am sorry to be bad when it grieves Roland, for he is such a good boy. I do believe that he is a Christian. Where is he to-day, Mrs. Bruce?"

"He has gone to market with the vegetables; he always goes on Saturday, for he saves his mother all the labor that he can."

"How does he go? Has he a little cart?" asked Madeline.

"One of the neighbors lends him an old cart and horse, that is too old to be used by the family; but it makes Roland feel badly, because he is afraid that the poor horse is too old to work."

"Is that all you have to live on, Mrs. Bruce?"

"No, my dear, I sew and knit for several of the neighbors."

"I think we can send you some work. Aunt Matilda often wants some one to do plain sewing."

Mrs. Bruce loved the warm-hearted little girl, and pitied her motherless condition. She saw countless weeds springing up in the heart of the child, and resolved to try to scatter seeds of truth around her.

"What are you making, Effie?" inquired Madeline.

"I am making a shirt for George Belton, Miss Madeline. I made two last week."

"Why, how in the world did you do that, Effie? go to school every day, learn your lessons, and make two shirts!"

"I rise very early in the morning, and sew two hours before school; I study as much as I can in school; and I sew all my leisure time."

"That's what makes you look so pale, Effie; what a pity that you have to work so hard!"

"I don't feel it, Miss Madeline; my mother has been so good and kind to me, that I am only too glad to help her now." And Effie's blue eyes were turned upon her mother's face, with a look full of filial love.

"Well, I must go now. I learn good lessons here, Mrs. Bruce; you'll let me come and see you often—may I?"

"You are always welcome, Miss Madeline, for I love you for your goodness to my dear children."

"Good-bye, ma'am;" and Madeline Hamilton touched the hand of Mrs. Bruce with more real respect, than she felt for most of the circle of rich friends who visited at Woodcliff.

"Aunt Matilda, don't you want some plain sewing done?" said Maddy, as soon as she entered the house, for her little brain was teeming with plans of how she might do good to the Bruce family.

"I think we do," was the answer. "I want some bed linen made up; our stock is getting low, and I was wondering whom I would get to do the work."

"Mrs. Bruce will do it, aunty; she is such a nice woman, and such a good sewer; and then she is so good, and so poor."

"You may tell her, Madeline, to come up to-morrow, or next day; the work is all cut out; I should like her to have it."

Maddy hurried off early in the morning on her errand of love, tripped in so merrily, regardless of the dew upon the grass, so eager was she to carry good news. Roland was at home, and met Madeline with a respectful manner that seemed very cold to our little girl. Handing her the best chair, he bade her sit down, for this was the first time that he had ever welcomed her to his bumble home.

"Aunt Matilda wants you, Mrs. Bruce, to send for the work to-day; she has it all cut out, and wants you to do it all."

"I'll come up for it, Miss Madeline," answered Roland; "we are so much obliged to you for your goodness."

Maddy began to laugh. "I thought, Roland, that we made a bargain a little while ago; have you forgotten that you were to call me Madeline?"

"I don't think that it would be very proper for one who comes to your house to get work for his mother, to take such a liberty with the heiress of Woodcliff."

"Good-bye, Mrs. Bruce," said the child, and away she ran.

"Mother, I cannot bear to see you work so hard," said Roland; "and then dear Effie looks so pale, her step is so languid. Try, mother, to look up to Heaven, hoping and trusting; but everything looks so dark around us."

"You must not say so, my son; the promises of God are 'yea and amen in Christ Jesus;' we believe that we are his children;' 'all things shall work together for good to those who love God;' let us keep our eyes upward, my dear boy; God is there, Roland—Jesus is there—our home is there."

"There is not much for us here, dear mother."

"Don't forget, my son, the blood that flows in your veins, the blood of Christian heroes; do not be unworthy of them, Roland. I gave you to God as soon as you were born, my child; I have trained you for Him; He has work for you, my son—I am certain of that. Just trust Him; look upward, Roland, and you will see everything that is noble and holy. Don't keep your eyes upon the earth; that will draw your soul downward. There is a great deal to live for, Roland; God will lead you to some high and holy destiny, if you will only trust Him."

"Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
    But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning Providence,
    He hides a smiling face."

"You have cheered me, dear mother; what should I do without you?" answered the boy.

The next morning, Roland went to Woodcliff for the work. Madeline was not at home, and Roland was not sorry; for he felt that it was humbling to be there on such an errand. The feeling was a wrong one, but Roland was a proud boy, though a poor one. There was no little confusion in his soul on that day. He was performing a filial duty, that he knew; he was doing nothing that he ought to be ashamed of, and yet the pride of his heart did rise up against the humiliation of menial service, in the sight of Madeline.

Not far from Roland's home lay the village church-yard, whither the inhabitants of the country around often resorted. It was a charming spot, beautifully kept, and adorned with shrubbery, fine trees, and a variety of exquisite flowers. Many of Mrs. Bruce's lessons to her children were taught in that rural cemetery on Sunday evening, after the services of the day were over.

On the following Sunday, Roland strayed thither alone. He had not been there long, before Madeline entered, with Hector for her only companion. Roland joined the child.

"This is a beautiful place, Miss Madeline," remarked the boy.

Maddy put her fingers on her lips with rather an arch expression, as she said:

"I will not talk to you, if you call me Miss."

Roland smiled, and continued, "Very well then, I suppose that it must be Madeline."

"Come with me, Roland; I want to show you my mother's grave," and Madeline led her companion to a secluded corner of the cemetery, where stood a splendid monument, on which was inscribed, "Sacred to the memory of Julia, the beloved wife of Lewis Hamilton, who departed this life June 16th, 1837." The enclosure was beautifully laid out and adorned with choice flowers, and over the monument bent the branches of a noble tree.

"Was your mother a Christian, Madeline?" asked the boy.

"I do not know, Roland; I was too young to remember anything; I hope that she was."

"Do you ever think of dying, Madeline?" asked her friend.

"Not often, Roland; it is too dreadful to think of the dark and gloomy grave. I would rather think of living, Roland, in this bright world."

"Mother never lets me call it gloomy, Maddy; she says that it is only the gate which opens into heaven; and since Jesus hath lain there himself, she says that none who believe in him need be afraid."

"Do you believe in him, Roland?" asked the child.

"Yes, Maddy, I do with all my heart, and love him, too; and all I want is to serve him here on earth, and live with him forever."

"How long, Roland, is it since you have thought about these good things?" asked the little girl.

"Ever since I was a very little boy, Maddy. I remember when I was so small that I could scarcely talk plain, that my mother used to lay her hand upon my head, and ask the dear Saviour to bless her boy. Then, when I was older, she used to take me every night to bed, and that was the time when she led my young heart up to Heaven. She has had many trials, Maddy; but she is always happy, for she is always looking up, and she tries to make me just as hopeful."

"I wish that I had such a mother, Roland; nobody ever talks so to me. Aunt Matilda taught me the catechism and the creed, but it was just like saying parrot words; I do not know what they mean. I believe in Jesus, but not the way you do. I believe more in Roland, I think!" and the child smiled.

"Why; what do you mean, Maddy?"

"Why when I want to do something wrong, I don't ask, how would Jesus like it; but I often ask, how would Roland like it?"

"Just pray, Maddy, every night, 'Open thou mine eyes,' and 'Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.'"

"What is that rock, Roland?"

"That rock is Christ, Maddy; if we keep our hearts fixed on him, we shall walk in the blessed way safely."

While talking thus, Elsie Gibson joined them.

"What are ye talking aboot, children?" asked the woman.

"Roland was showing me how to find the blessed way, Elsie."

"He can lead you, Miss Madeline; he has a holy mother, he is a chiel o' prayer; and his ancestors were maist o' them holy men. In the bloody days that tried men's souls, Roland's race was foremost in bearing their testimony to gospel truth."

"You like Roland, Elsie, don't you?"

"Yes, my little bairn, I luve him for his ain, and for his father's sake. I kenned his father, Miss Madeline, when I wore the snood o' a Scottish maiden."

"Wasn't his father a relation of the great Bruce, Elsie? I have often thought so, but Roland laughs at me."

"I dinna ken, Miss Madeline, for ye ken that was mony years syne, and we canna find kinship back so far awa'."

"Elsie, is Roland's father really dead? sometimes I think that he may be alive yet;" asked the child suddenly, fixing an earnest look upon Elsie Gibson's face.

The question was evidently unexpected, but after a moment's silence, Elsie replied:

"The vessel was lost, Madeline, and it has aye been said that ilka soul went doon."

The shadows of the setting sun were deepening, and Maddy, Roland, and Elsie walked together to the widow's cottage.

Mrs. Bruce invited Maddy in.

"Will you take a seat among us this evening, Madeline? It is the time of our family worship."

Maddy sat down on a low chair by the side of Mrs. Bruce, much sobered by the conversation in the cemetery.

Reverently the mother read the sacred volume, and after singing a Sabbath evening hymn, in the words of solemn prayer, she addressed the throne of grace, commending all her dear ones to the care of the Good Shepherd, not forgetting the little girl who knelt with the humble family around that altar of domestic piety. It was the first time that Madeline had ever joined in such an exercise, and she was deeply impressed by the sweet and soothing worship.

It was so different from her own domestic circle, that Madeline could not but muse deeply on her way home; and, unconsciously to herself, from this moment really commenced the germ of that life which, though smothered for awhile, still the seed, perhaps smaller than the grain of mustard seed, was planted, which would hereafter lead the warm young soul upward, heavenward. Ever looking aloft was the load-star at the widow's cottage, around which revolved all their plans, all their hopes. Perhaps wild little Mad-cap, attracted by the same power, may also learn to look aloft from even the dangerous heights of Woodcliff.

Effie's feeble health called for many little comforts which Mrs. Bruce could not afford; but ever and anon the tripping feet of Madeline Hamilton, or a basket of delicacies brought by Nanny, made large demands upon the gratitude of the widow's family.

"Don't thank me, Mrs. Bruce," Maddy would often say; "Roland is so good to me, is so kind at school, and teaches me so much, that I cannot feel that I ever do enough in return for you."

It was, indeed, a strange sight to behold this little girl, usually so ungovernable, yielding to the slightest check from Roland; for she really respected the boy, who carried out his principles.

Occasionally her wild spirits would burst forth, and an innate love of teasing led her to play jokes, even upon her friend Roland. Fear of ridicule was his weakness; he could not bear to be laughed at; he was almost ashamed to own it, but it was really a fact. Brave in other respects, he was really a coward here, and Maddy discovered it.

Woe to Roland, when her mischievous fits were upon her!

"Who is there, Nanny?" asked the child, perceiving that some one was in the hall.

"A boy wants to see you, Miss Madeline; he has something for you."

"Oh, Roland, is it you? come into the parlor."

Nanny looked surprised, but Roland stepped in, and, taking off his cap, seated himself respectfully. He looked as if he really belonged to the parlor of Woodcliff; his whole bearing was so manly and self-possessed.

"Madeline, I have something for you. You know how often we have admired the sea-weed together; for a long time I have been gathering the most beautiful specimens that I could find, and mother has been drying it, and together we have arranged it in a book."

Roland opened the pages, and Madeline's joy was unbounded.

"Oh, how beautiful! How did you ever do it, Roland? They look like the most lovely flowers. Stop, Roland! I'll get our microscope," and away she flew.

"Look! Roland, look! I never saw anything so sweet. It is the most charming present I ever had in all my life."

"I have some shells too, Madeline, but they are not very rare; but such as I could gather I have brought. I am so glad that you are pleased."

"I have nothing that I shall think so much of as these. Your dear, kind mother, with all her cares, could remember little Mad-cap; and, Roland, it was so sweet to bring me just what I admire so much. I shall keep them all the days of my life, to remember Roland and his mother."

It was really an exquisite little book, arranged with the most delicate taste, and when Aunt Matilda was called in to see the gift, she was quite struck with the evidences of refinement visible in every page of these beautiful sea-weeds.

"I have something else, Madeline," and Roland brought out a tasty little moss basket, the gift of dear Effie.

That evening found Madeline running down to the widow's cottage to thank her for the gift.

"Thank you, dear, darling Mrs. Bruce, for your beautiful present," exclaimed the impulsive child, throwing her arms around her, and showering kisses upon her pale face. "I shall keep it as long as I live, for I have nothing that I shall value like these beautiful weeds."

"I am glad that you are pleased, Madeline; it made us so happy to arrange them for you."

"How could you find time to think of little Mad-cap, with all your cares and troubles, dear Mrs. Bruce?"

"How could you, Miss Madeline, surrounded by all the elegance of Woodcliff, find time to think of us in our humble cottage?"

CHAPTER VII.

THE COTTAGE AND THE HALL.

There are sorer battles than those waged on the field of strife, where the old and the new man contend in a human heart; and such had Roland fought on the morning of this day. He thought that he had conquered, and with a brave spirit and cheerful countenance, he started for Woodcliff with the bundle of work which his mother had completed. When he came in sight of the Hall his courage began to fail, for on the porch were several of Madeline's young acquaintances. Roland recognized Mary James, Minnie Scott, and Ella Taylor, all schoolmates, but who had little to do with the Bruces.

"What ails me?" said Roland to himself; "is it possible that I am so wanting in manliness, as to fear the ridicule of those silly girls? Down at once with the feeling; poverty is nothing to be ashamed of;" and Roland hastened on with a firm step and head erect.

"You seem to have a heavy load, Roland," said Mary James; "have you garden truck in your basket?"

"No, Miss; I do not carry my vegetables around, we sell them in market."

"Perhaps you are coming for old clothes, Roland; you look as if you wanted some," remarked Minnie Scott.

"If you'll come round to our house, we can give you some," sneered Mary James.

Poor Roland was sorely tried; his clothes were very shabby, for it had been a long time since his mother had been able to buy him any—patched pantaloons and worn-out shoes indicated his poverty. His cheeks were crimson, and his eyes flashed indignation, but he took no farther notice of the insulting remarks, or of the titter which passed round among the girls.

"For shame, Mary!" exclaimed Madeline; "have you no feeling? Roland is my friend, and shall be respected here."

By this time the boy had advanced to the piazza, and Madeline called for Nanny to come and take the bundles which he had brought. Madeline then invited him into the house, and with real delicacy of feeling, made no farther allusion to the insolence of the children. They entered the drawing-room where Aunt Matilda was seated.

"Aunty, this is my friend, Roland Bruce; he has brought the work home."

She bowed stiffly. "Could you not have taken the boy into the sitting-room, Madeline?"

"If those upstarts had not insulted him, perhaps I might have done so; but, as it is, I prefer to bring him here."

Madeline was by this time fully roused. She could not endure that a boy of Roland's character should be first insulted by her friends, and then by her aunt. Turning to the latter, she said, "Will you please, ma'am, to entertain the young ladies while I shall be engaged with Roland?"

"Which are your guests, Maddy, this boy, or the young ladies who have come to visit you?"

"Just now this is my guest, Aunt Matilda. There is no use of arguing with me," and with a proud toss of her brown ringlets, she turned to the boy who stood a silent listener.

"Come with me, Roland, I have many things to show you," and Madeline led the way, while Roland followed, by no means abashed by the magnificence which everywhere surrounded the young heiress—velvet carpets, lace curtains, rich furniture, splendid paintings, &c., had no effect upon the manly boy, who, with a proud step and dignified carriage, followed his friend.

First she led him to the library. "I want you to look around, Roland, at the books; here is where I like to come on stormy days, when the wind is howling around. Many an hour I've spent in this room."

Roland looked around delighted; he had never seen so many books together before.

"Why, Madeline, I should never want any other friends. Here are Cowper, and Milton, and Shakspeare, and our own Burns—and all these books of history. You ought to be a very wise little girl."

"Yes, I know that, Roland; but I have not read the useful books; I read novels, and fairy tales, and all kinds of poetry, and aunty says they fill my head with nonsense. Would you like to read some of these books, Roland? for I have only to say so to papa, and he would lend them to please me."

"I could hardly ask such a thing, Madeline, but if he will, I promise to take good care of them, and to keep them covered."

Out of the library into the conservatory, Madeline conducted her friend. Here again Roland was delighted, for dearly did he love flowers and all beautiful things.

"How happy you ought to be, Madeline, with such a world of beauty all around you."

"Which of these flowers would you rather take home, Roland?" asked the child.

His eye roved hastily around, and rested with a smile upon a simple purple flower, as he said, "That little mountain heather."

"What! pass by these lovely roses, and take that little flower!"

"Yes, Madeline, I love it best; it is our own Scotch flower, and grows all over our dark mountains."

"You shall have a plant to take home to your mother, Roland."

Next she led him up a long staircase and directed him to stand still at the head of the first landing; leading him to the window, she said, "Hark! Roland, do you hear any music?"

Roland stood entranced as he listened to the low, plaintive strains that came swelling over the strings of an Eolian harp, and as the breeze rose higher, louder, wilder, fuller swept the weird sounds among the strings.

"How beautiful, Madeline!" exclaimed the boy.

"That's what I call the fairies' concert, Roland; on wild winter nights you cannot imagine what that music is like—it puts me in mind of Ossian's poetry."

Down the stair-case and out among her pets, next we find our little girl.

"Here are my pet doves, Roland; Patty and Jim; they know me now, and always begin to coo when I come near them. And here is my canary—but I want you to see Bob," and out into the stable-yard trotted Maddy and ran up to a donkey that stood nibbling away at some grass. She patted him on the head, and Bob made a singular noise to show his pleasure.

Roland attempted the same liberty, but in a minute, Master Bob kicked up his hind legs, and set up a hideous bray.

Maddy laughed heartily, and said, "Bob don't like strangers, Roland; but that's the most harm that he ever does."

"They are useful animals, Madeline. I have often thought that it would be such a treasure if I had a cart and donkey; but that I cannot get, for we are too poor."

Maddy smiled with a knowing look as she conducted her favorite back into the drawing-room, and, finding the coast clear, she described the pictures to Roland, and then sat down to the piano, and played and sang sweetly,

"I remember, I remember
    The house where I was born—
The little window where the sun
    Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
    Nor brought too long a day;
But now I often wish the night
    Had borne my breath away."

"I am much obliged to you, Maddy, for your kindness, but I really must go now; I have kept you long enough from your friends," and Roland took up his pot of heather to go home.

"Friends, indeed! Fudge upon such friends! They have no sense, and I don't care for one of them."

Just then, Mademoiselle put her head into the drawing-room door. "Oh! Mademoiselle Madeline, que fait vous? vous êtes trés impolie, voila vos jeunes amis, et vous êtes ici avec ce pauvre garçon."

"Do not faint, Mademoiselle, I know what I am about."

"Que dira Mr. H.? Lui qui est si Monsieur. J'ai peur que tu ne seras jamais une dame; vous êtes impolie, M'lle. Venez avec moi!"

Madeline burst out laughing, and whispered to Roland, "She is a poor simple thing; I can't help laughing at her."

"Don't, Maddy; she is your teacher, and therefore ought to be respected."

"That will do for good people like you; Roland, I can't be so good."

By this time they had left the piazza, and Madeline conducted Roland out to the gate, passing Aunt Matilda and the young ladies in the avenue. He raised his cap and bowed gracefully as he took his leave. "Good evening, Miss Hamilton, I am sorry to have intruded so long."

"Good evening, sir," replied the lady haughtily.

"Where in the world did he learn to make such a bow as that?" said Mary James.

"He was born a gentleman," answered Madeline, "and if he were clad in rags, he would carry the same manners everywhere."

"Don't talk such folly, Madeline," said her aunt; "Roland is well enough, but he is not a gentleman, nor the son of a gentleman, and no associate for Madeline Hamilton. You make a dunce of yourself, in the way that you behave to these people."

"Perhaps so, aunty; but I shall never forget that I am a lady to every one."

"You forgot it, Maddy, this afternoon, when you left your young friends, to entertain that boy."

Madeline blushed as she replied, "They were so rude, aunty, that I could do nothing else."

"Madeline has a remarkable taste," said Ella Taylor; "Roland and Effie Bruce are her chief companions at school."

"I choose them for their worth, and because all the rest treat them badly," answered Madeline.

"Well, we will not talk any more about it now," said Aunt Matilda; "Maddy always has her own way, and there is no use of crossing her while Lewis Hamilton is master."

* * * * * * *

"Papa, do you care much about my donkey?" said Maddy that evening to her father.

"Why, Mad-cap, what makes you ask that question?"

"Because I am tired of riding about with Bob. It has been several months since I drove him, papa, and I thought that we could put him to such good use now."

"Why, what do you want to do with poor Bob, Maddy?"

"It would be such a nice little animal for Mrs. Bruce, papa. Here, we only keep him for amusement, there, he would be so useful. They have to borrow a crazy old cart, and a broken down horse every week to go to market, and if they only had a little cart, Bob could take their vegetables to market. Shan't I give him to Mrs. Bruce, papa?"

"Well, Mad-cap, I believe that you would give your head away if it were loose; you may do what you please with poor Bob; but what about the cart?"

"Why, papa, there's a little cart that he used to drag sometimes; we don't use it now."

"Do what you choose, Maddy; it would be a good thing for the widow."

Maddy did not wait a second bidding. Accordingly, on the next Friday afternoon, Bob was geared up to the little cart, and Maddy took her seat, full of glee. He was a perfectly safe animal, and our little girl had driven him many a time around the lanes of Woodcliff. Madeline drew up to the door of the widow's cottage with a laughing countenance.

"Come, Roland and Effie, I want to take you a ride this afternoon; jump in; I want to see if you can drive Bob, Roland."

They were soon seated in the little cart. Bob was rather restive at first, for he soon recognized the voice of a stranger; but with Madeline's coaxing, they proceeded very well, and had a merry ride.

"Shall I drive you home, Madeline?" asked Roland, after Effie had dismounted at the cottage-door.

"No, I believe not, Roland; Bob may as well stay here, for cart and donkey are both yours."

"It cannot be, Miss Madeline; the gift is too costly."

"Miss Madeline! here comes Roland's pride again!" answered the child. "Bob is of no use to us now; I am tired of driving him about, and he's just the animal for you, Roland."

"What a good little friend your are, Maddy! You are just like some kind fairy."

"What a good boy you are, Roland! You are just like some grown-up friend; so you see we are about even after all. I can give you what money can buy, and what will soon be gone; and you give me light, knowledge, strength, goodness, Roland, and that money cannot buy; so you see at last I can make it out that your gifts are better than mine."

This was an invaluable gift to our young friend, for it enabled him to go regularly to market without borrowing from his neighbors; and it made Madeline very happy to see the sunshine which she had carried to the cottage.

Effie was a gentle girl, and all that she could do to show her gratitude, was to raise her soft blue eyes to Maddy's face with speechless thanks, and to press her hand as they passed into the cottage.

"May the good Lord bless you, Miss Madeline, for all your goodness," was the spoken gratitude of Mrs. Bruce.

"It is getting late now, good-bye; I hope that Bob won't be running away to his old stable; give him plenty of cabbage or turnip-tops;" and, with this injunction, away scampered the child, happier than she had ever been in all her life before.

Maddy was nearly right when she said, "we are about even after all," for the influence brought to bear so unconsciously upon her by this humble family, was of a character that could not well be measured.

It was a true remark which, in her simplicity, she had uttered, when she said, "I believe in Roland." A word from him was of more avail than aught else, in checking her impulsive actions.

On the next Sunday morning, as Roland and Effie were on their way to the Sunday-school, whom should they see, smiling at them from the carriage window, but Madeline, who was riding out with her Aunt Matilda. Roland hoped that they were going to church; but he had some doubts, for he had seldom heard the child speak about the house of God.

In the evening they met at the cemetery, for it was a common thing for Madeline to walk there on Sunday.

"Where were you going, this morning, Maddy?" inquired her friend.

"Aunty and I were taking a ride to see Mrs. Linden; she has not been very well all the week, and she thought that a ride would do her good."

"But, Maddy, don't you know that this is God's day, and that we are commanded to keep it holy?"

"I have never been taught, Roland, to make much difference; papa spends his Sunday mornings in the library; Aunt Matilda often has the head-ache, and cannot go out, and then I run off down to the shore with Hector, or else take the boat, and paddle about on the lake."

"God did not give us the day of rest for our own pleasure, Maddy; it is the day when we ought to think especially of holy things, and spend it in such a way as will do our souls good, and please our Father in heaven."

"What do you do on Sunday, Roland?"

"We go to the Sunday-school, where we learn about our blessed Saviour, and join in singing sweet praises to his holy name; then we go to church; and when we come home, dear mother always contrives something nicer for dinner than on other days, though remember, Maddy, it is prepared the day before; then she explains the Bible to us, and tells us some of those old Scotch stories, which we love to hear, about the holy men who died for their religion. Sunday is such a sweet day at our little cottage, we are all so close together then, and we feel how blessed is the thought that we shall spend our heavenly Sabbath together forever and ever."

"Oh, Roland! how different you are from us at Woodcliff. I get so tired of running about; I get tired of reading; I have no one to speak to, and we don't go to church more than once in every few weeks. I run out in the kitchen and talk to our old cook, then I go talk to my pets, then I run into the library and read a little, but all the time, Roland, I want something that I cannot find."

"I wonder if your father would let you come to our Sunday-school?"

"I'll ask him, Roland; what do you do there?"

"We learn Bible lessons, hymns, and catechism; we have such kind, excellent teachers; and once a month we have missionary meetings."

"I should think that it was very stupid to hear nothing all the time, but solemn talk about death and judgment."

Roland smiled. "We hear of something else, Maddy; about the blessed Saviour, the friend of sinners, and about that happy land where Christians hope to go."

Maddy turned an earnest look upon Roland's face.

"How do you know, Roland, that all these things are true? How do you know that the Bible is really God's word? Papa has some books in his library, by great men, who don't believe the Bible."

"The Bible not true, Maddy! I know but little of the reasons which prove it to be God's own word; but it would take me hours to tell you even what I know, there are so many things which prove it true. It tells about so many things which were to happen hundreds of years before they occurred, and they came exactly as the Bible said they would. It told that there would be a flood, and the flood came; we know that, not only from the Bible, but from other old histories, and from the sayings of many ancient nations. Who could tell but God, what was going to come to pass, Maddy?"

The child sat with a serious face turned towards Roland, as she replied, "I cannot answer that, Roland."

"It has also foretold the fate of wicked nations, of Babylon, of Jerusalem, of Sodom and Gomorrah; and just as it declared, has it happened. It told of Jesus, when, where, and how he should be born; and just so he came—and, Maddy, there is a voice in all our hearts, that wants something better than we can have here, something that will last forever. The good Father knows that, Maddy, for he put within us that immortal soul that longs for immortal joys; and then he sent us down from heaven these precious letters, which tell us of just such a state beyond the grave. These letters were sent to God's own servants at different times, and gathered together in the days of King James, and made into the book which we call the Bible."

"I suppose, Roland, that the voice which you speak of, is that which makes me sometimes feel so tired of everything, although I have so much; yet I am always wanting something that I have not got."

"That's what you want, Maddy; a heart at peace with God, through Jesus Christ our Lord."

Madeline wore a very serious face, as she turned to leave her mother's grave, where she had been sitting; and, plucking a flower from one of the plants, she said:

"Roland, I'll go with you to Sunday-school; I want to know more about these good things."

"I am afraid that your father will not want you to go among the people of our church, we are not of the same sect as he."

"Why, you know, Roland, I can coax him to anything; and though Aunt Matilda is very bigoted in her notions, he won't mind what she says, if I want to go."

Saturday evening came, and Maddy, mounting her father's lap, said,

"Papa, what would you give to know what I have in this paper?" (and folding her hands tight over the package, she turned her beaming face upon her father). "Before I open it, I want you to promise me something—it is something very good, papa; just say I shall have it, and then I'll show what I have for you."

Papa smiled upon his little daughter, as he said, "I should like to know what it is before I promise."

"It is, indeed, papa, something very good—just say yes; that's a dear, good papa."

"Very well, Maddy, I say yes—now open the paper."

Bending over her package, she opened just a small portion, and holding it up before her father, said, with an arch expression on her bright young face,

"Just peep a little, papa," (and then closing it again,) "now, as soon as you give me two sweet kisses, you shall see what I have."

Papa was only too willing to grant the request, and Madeline, trembling with delight, said,

"There, papa, see what little Mad-cap has made for you;" and, opening wide her package, she produced a pair of beautiful slippers, which, after months of labor, she had worked for her father. It was her first piece of work, and quite a triumph of her skill.

"It is a sweet gift, Maddy; I shall be almost too proud of them to wear them. Who would ever have thought of my wild little daughter's working a pair of slippers?" and Mr. Hamilton kissed his darling child again and again.

"I never should have thought of doing it, papa, but Mrs. Bruce told me that I ought to do something for my kind father; and she showed me how to work them. Come, papa, put out your foot, let's try them on; why they fit beautifully; I am so glad!"

"And now, what does my little daughter want?"