After the roll was called, Annie read a few verses from the New Testament, and then the children united with her in the Lord's Prayer, which they all repeated distinctly, and with decent propriety, which might shame some more educated boys and girls. Then began the lessons.

Annie divided the school into two classes, and giving one to Edah, proceeded to hear the other herself. Edah was surprised at the correctness with which the verses constituting the day's lesson were repeated, and still more, upon questioning them, to find them displaying such knowledge of the Bible generally.

"It is almost their only book," said Annie, upon Edah's remarking this to her afterwards, "and they become very fond of reading it. In my visits among them, they often bring their Bibles to me for explanations of difficult passages, and, I assure you, I am often puzzled how to answer their questions."

When all the lessons were recited, Annie gave them a short recess, saying, as she did so—

"I know I need not tell you not to make a noise, and not to go away from the door."

At the end of ten minutes, they were again called in by the bell, and took their seats as before, but with the addition of two or three stout-looking men, and several women, who sat down near the door. These were the fathers and mothers of some of the children, who had walked some of them two or three miles, as they said, to see their little ones safe home.

Annie took her station behind the teacher's desk, and after giving out the lesson for the next Sunday, proceeded to explain it in simple terms, with such illustrations and anecdotes as were likely to make an impression on their minds. Her voice, which trembled a little at first, soon became firm, and she seemed to forget that she had any other listeners than the children.

Edah observed that more than one of her grown-up auditors seemed considerably affected, especially one rough-looking man, with shaggy beard and whiskers, and accompanied by a dog as shaggy as himself.

The Apostles' Creed was now repeated by all the children standing, and the services closed by the singing of a hymn and the distribution of library books, two or three of the women taking books or tracts for themselves. The children were then dismissed, and quietly took their way home, comparing their books and talking as they went. The bearded man lingered a few minutes about the door, and Edah thought he seemed desirous of speaking to her companion, so she walked to the other end of the room, and busied herself in putting in order the library books, which were contained in a neat case, with a lock and key.

After a few moments she heard Annie say:

"I wish you would go and talk to Mr. Willson, Mr. Van Dake. He would gladly give you all the instruction you want, and do it much better than I can."

"I kind of hate to!" said Long John, twisting his cap in his hands. "The parson's always dressed so nice, and every thing about him is as fine as a fiddle, and I am such a rough customer—"

"Did you ever know him refuse to go anywhere or do any thing for any one?" interrupted Annie. "Don't you remember how he used to go up to Brunker's last winter, day after day, when their boy broke his leg?"

"He did, that's a fact," said John. "The parson's a clever man, I don't deny. The truth is, I believe, I am afraid folks will laugh to see me running after such things."

"But that is not right," returned Annie. "'The fear of man bringeth a snare,' the Bible says; and besides," she added, smiling, "I should think a man who had killed a bear and two panthers, fighting hand to hand, need not be afraid of a few people in Raeburn!"

Long John colored through his bronzed skin.

"I am a fool to mind it, and no mistake!" said he. "Well, Miss Annie, I believe I'll take your advice, and go to the minister. I wonder what my good old mother would say to see me in Sunday School. But better late than never, they say," and with a bow, which was not at all awkward, he departed, followed by his dogs, and leading his little daughter by the hand.

"That is a curious personage," said Annie, as they walked back to Spring Bank. "He lives in a little hut on the mountain yonder, with no companions but this little child and his dogs, and an old but white-headed negro woman, who is his housekeeper. At first, he sturdily refused to let Agnes come to the school, but she finally coaxed permission, and came with some children of their nearest neighbor—a very decent Scotch family. After a while, he used to come and wait for her at the door, and finally I persuaded him to come in and sit down. Now he is as regular in his attendance as any of the children, has left off drinking and swearing, never hunts on a Sunday, and I hope he is in a fair way of becoming a Christian man. We must persuade Addison to ride up there with us some time: his hut is a perfect curiosity, and there is a splendid view from it. He found out from Addison last spring, that Louisa was fond of painting wild-flowers, and hardly a week has passed since then that he has not brought her a splendid bouquet. I must show you her portfolio."

The rest of the day passed pleasantly and quietly, and the next afternoon Edah was conveyed back to Brooksville, as she steadily refused the pressing invitations of her friends to spend another day. Mrs. Laurence placed in the carriage a basket containing some beautiful fruit and other delicacies for Mrs. Champlin, and Annie sent Pauline two or three little books, which her little nieces had left behind the summer before.

She found all at home glad to see her, especially Sam and Pauline. Susan was a little inclined to be sullen at first, but she relented at the sight of the basket which Mrs. Laurence had sent her mother, and allowed that they were indeed very kind. Pauline was pleased with her books, and delighted to see her sister again; and on the whole Edah did not find it so difficult to reconcile herself to her return as she had at first feared.

CHAPTER V.

THE SHOCK.

THINGS went on very pleasantly at Brooksville for two or three weeks after Edah's visit to Spring Bank. Mrs. Champlin's health seemed to improve rapidly, and even poor little Eddy was, as Ruby-Anne said, "really picking up." Edah and Susan sewed busily from morning till night, and Sam enjoyed very much spending his spare time in reading aloud to them.

Two or three days after Edah's return home, came a kind note from Annie Laurence, with a basket of fresh brook-trout and delicate fruit for Mrs. Champlin, and, best of all, to Edah a package of new books. These volumes furnished them with reading for a number of evenings, and Mrs. Champlin declared one Saturday night that she had never spent so many pleasant hours since she was married, as since Edah came to stay with them. Pauline improved rapidly, not only in reading and sewing, but also in general good manners and behavior; and as for Sam, his mother declared that he was growing quite a dandy.

Among all these pleasant circumstances, there were one or two drawbacks to Edah's comfort.

The first of these was Susan's jealous temper, which every now and then showed itself in a very unpleasant fashion. So surely as Edah differed from her in opinion about any thing, or suggested any improvement in household matters, or, above all, offered to instruct her in any way, so surely did Susan take refuge either in sullen ill-humor or provoking sarcasm. The latter was the hardest to bear of all, for since her acquaintance with the Laurence family commenced, the arrows of Susan's wit were usually bestowed upon them, upon Mr. Willson, and Episcopalians in general; and it was sometimes very hard for Edah not to retort in what she felt would be a very unbecoming manner.

Two or three times, provoked past all patience, she had done so, but of course it made matters much worse with Susan, and added to her other troubles the reproaches of her own conscience. Mrs. Champlin paid very little attention to these disputes, and if she noticed them, she generally took Edah's part, and reproved Susan for not paying her sister more respect, which did not mend matters at all. Sam was usually on Edah's side, though he sometimes became offended with what he called her over-strictness, and then he was pretty sure to join with Susan in annoying her; but his ill-humor never lasted long, and he generally tried to make up for it by increased kindness and attention afterwards. Pauline was, of course, entirely on her sister's side; she was a sharp little thing, with as great a talent for making provoking speeches as Susan herself, and Edah's hardest task was keeping the peace between these two, and in imposing silence upon Pauline, over whom her influence wits almost unbounded. Sometimes for days together, Susan would be in the best of tempers, and then all was sunshine in the house, for no one could be more pleasant than she, if she were so disposed.

The other and greater drawback to Edah's happiness, was her father. She could not but see, from day to day, that his degrading habit increased upon him, that he became more and more selfish and ill-tempered, provided less for his family, and seemed to feel less affection for them. She now fairly dreaded to see him enter the house, especially in the afternoon, for he was sure to bring disturbance with him. He found fault with Susan most unreasonably, scolded Pauline, and even on two or three occasions boxed her ears; which last, while it threw the child into a perfect phrensy of rage and grief, irritated and alarmed Edah to an almost insupportable degree, knowing, as she did, her frail constitution, and strong predisposition to nervous disease. He treated Ruby-Anne in such a way that she determined to leave them, and would have done so but for Edah's remonstrances.

"I can't help it, Miss Edah. I'd do a great deal for you and the children; but I won't stay anywhere to be treated worse than a negro slave. I've got a home, thank goodness, if it is a poor one, and I'll go to it this very day."

"And what shall we do when you are gone?" asked Edah. "I know you have had a great deal to bear, Ruby-Anne, but I believe you have had no more than Susan or I."

"That's a fact too!" said Ruby-Anne, pondering. "And it's harder for you, of course. I'm sure I wonder how you get on with things as you do. Well, Miss Edah, I guess I'll try and keep the peace a little longer for your sake. There ain't many like you in the world, that's certain;" and so Ruby-Anne, who was really a good-natured and conscientious girl, consented to stay, to Edah's great relief.

She dared not say a word to her father about his habits, for the most distant allusion to the subject put him into a fearful passion, and the only consequence was that he either came home entirely intoxicated, or remained out all night. Edah would have preferred the latter, but his continued absence always alarmed Mrs. Champlin to such a degree, as to cause her three or four days of intense suffering.

It usually fell to Sam to let his father in and get him to bed, and a hard time the poor boy had of it. On one of these occasions, as he was trying to prevail upon him to retire quietly, without disturbing his mother, Mr. Champlin became irritated, and struck him such a blow that it knocked him down, and discolored his face for some days.

Under these circumstances, Edah felt greatly the want of a friend in whom she could confide, and of whom she could ask advice; and having by this time become very well acquainted with Mr. Willson, she determined to seek such a friend in him. Accordingly, she rode over to Raeburn one day with a neighbor, intending to spend the day at the parsonage, in accordance with an invitation from Mrs. Willson.

Mr. Willson usually spent most of the morning in his study, and it was there that Edah sought him. Her rather timid knock at the door was answered by a cordial invitation to enter, and she found the Rector in his study gown and slippers, comfortably seated in his great armchair, and enjoying the luxury of a new review. Mr. Willson was a man of considerable tact and penetration: he partly guessed the cause of Edah's trouble, and gently and easily led the way to the expected confidence. It turned out as he had anticipated. Edah told her story, and begged for advice.

"I hardly know what to say, my dear child," said Mr. Willson, in a gentle, fatherly way that Edah felt to be very consoling. "It is a very difficult subject. The habit is not so recently formed with your father, as you suppose, but has been growing upon him for some years. At the time when I first began to think that he was going down hill, he was a tolerably constant attendant at church, and even came to the Communion three or four times a year. I took what I thought a favorable opportunity, and remonstrated with him on the subject; but though he admitted that he now and then took a glass with a neighbor, and perhaps sometimes a little too much, he laughed at the idea of his being in any danger of ever drinking to excess. My own temperance principles were not as ultra then as they have since become. I forebore to press the subject, and I think for some time my remonstrances had some effect, and he did better: but the amendment was very short. Again I attacked him about it; and this time he grew very angry, told me I was meddling with what was none of my business, and has never to my knowledge entered the church door since. I have often tried to speak with him, but he always avoids me."

"It seems a hopeless case, indeed," said Edah wiping the tears from her eyes, "but it seems too hard that nothing can be done to save him from destruction. It is killing my mother, too. I sometimes fear that it will be the death of her outright, or that her mind will give way entirely. I am sure I do not see what is to become of us if it goes on much longer. What do you suppose was the beginning of it, Mr. Willson?"

"I cannot tell, my dear. There has been a great deal of hard drinking in this part of the country, and some of our finest men have fallen a sacrifice to it. How does your brother feel about it?"

"It seems to me that indignation is the strongest feeling with him," replied Edah. "He is angry with father for so degrading himself, and, above all, for his harshness to my mother and the children. I have never said a word to him on the subject."

"That may, perhaps, be the wisest course."

"But, Mr. Willson, cannot you suggest some way to help us out of our difficulty? Cannot you try remonstrating with my father again?"

"I can try, my dear," replied Mr. Willson, "but I have little hope of any good resulting from it. When a man once becomes enslaved to this debasing appetite, he is as if possessed by an evil spirit, and it seems as if nothing short of a miracle could save him. In the mean time, I need not recommend you to be earnest in seeking for strength where alone it is to be found. I believe you have already learned where to look for it."

"I trust so, sir, and indeed I have found, more need of seeking that fountain than ever before. I think I have prayed more in the last month than in all my life."

"And have you not found your prayers answered?"

"In some sense, sir, I have. I have found strength to overcome temptation, and have often had it removed from me, and my way made plain when it seemed the most hopeless. It often seems to me that my prayers are directly responded to and that I have a sense of the direct absolute presence of my God and Saviour. I am afraid you will think me fanatical, Mr. Willson."

"By no means, my dear Edah. Such a sense of God's presence is what we should most earnestly seek for in our prayers and all our devotions; and when we lose the sense of His nearness to us, we should give ourselves no rest under the loss, but anxiously, by repentance and deep humility, and by carefully examining ourselves, seek to attain to it again. As to giving you any father advice, I hardly know what to say. I need not bid you keep yourself as busy as you can, for I know you do that already. Be not too careful in spirit, but strive to commit all your cares to God, as to a faithful Friend and tender Father. Make diligent use of all the means of grace in your reach, above all praying without ceasing. As to your father, I shall endeavor to see him, and talk with him, though I fear he will only repulse me. For yourself, you are in the path of duty—that strait and narrow path which leadeth unto eternal life, and I can only counsel you to persevere, looking not to an earthly but to a heavenly reward."

Edah returned home, greatly comforted by her talk with the Rector, and by her pleasant chat with kind, motherly Mrs. Willson and her two pretty, sprightly daughters. To these young ladies Edah was glad to find she could be of service, and thus make some return for the kindness of their parents. They were intelligent, lively girls, who were trying to learn to draw under the disadvantages of having no teacher, and of often being unable to procure suitable patterns. Edah was very fond of drawing, and excelled especially in sketching from nature, a pursuit for which the picturesque hills and woodlands around Raeburn and Brooksville afforded ample scope, and she was glad to place her portfolio at the service of Annette and Lucy, and to give them such instruction and assistance as they needed most. She would gladly have included Susan in her instructions, but Susan declined, on the plea of having no time.

Mr. Willson kept his promise to Edah by seeking an opportunity to converse with her father. Much to his surprise, Mr. Champlin received what he had to say with a civil indifference. He was aware, he said, that he had sometimes taken more than was good for him—quite as much so as his best friends could be. He knew that the love of pleasant society had sometimes led him into excesses, but he knew, also, that he had his own trials, of which Mr. Willson was not aware. When a man had no peace or comfort at home, he naturally went elsewhere to seek it, and for that, those who drove him from home were responsible in a far greater degree than he was.

Mr. Willson, however, not being disposed to admit the force of any of these excuses, Mr. Champlin went on to say that he was sorry he had caused any discomfort at home, as he supposed he might have done; and as Mr. Willson's sympathies seemed all enlisted on the side of his wife and children, he would assure him that their rest should no longer be disturbed by him. This was all Mr. Willson could get out of him, and he finally left him, completely in the dark as to what Mr. Champlin intended to do.

Two or three days after Mr. Willson's remonstrance, Mr. Champlin came home to dinner, and announced that important business required him to start for New York by that evening's train, which passed through Raeburn about seven o'clock. He spent most of the afternoon in packing his trunk, a work about which he would accept of no assistance, and having hired a neighbor to carry him over to the station, he bade his family farewell, as it seemed with unusual tenderness, even coming back, after he had gone out to the wagon, to kiss his wife and the baby a second time.

Edah long remembered the way in which he pressed her hand, as he said—"You are a good girl, Edah: take care of your mother and the children when I am gone."

He gave Susan fifteen dollars, and bade her be careful of it; shook hands with Sam, and then drove off at a rapid pace, looking back as far as he could see the house, till a turn in the road hid it from his view.

"Father is as affectionate as if he were to be gone a year, instead of a week," said Susan.

"There is something curious about his manner, too," replied Sam, to whom she made this remark: "I never saw him so at all. I don't understand it."

"What is the use of troubling yourself to account for father's whims? You know he is as capricious as the wind. There is one comfort about it—Edah will stay till he comes back."

"Oh!" said Sam. "I didn't suppose you would be very anxious to keep her here."

"That is just the way," returned Susan: "you think because I am not always running after Edah, and hanging about her, as you and Polly are, that I don't care any thing for her, but you are greatly mistaken. I like her just as well as you do; and if any thing were the matter with her, you would see that I do."

"I think she would be glad to compound for a little common civility now," said Sam, "for really, Sue, whether you know it or not, you are not half civil to her. It isn't very often that we want people to do grand things, or to make great sacrifices for us, but we feel the need of kindness and politeness every day and all day long."

Susan made no reply, and the subject was dropped.

Mr. Champlin had said before his departure that he might be absent about two weeks, and promised to write to his wife during the time, but no letter came.

The time drew near which Edah had set for her departure, and she began to make preparations for her return to Miss Anderson's, though she determined not to go until her father was again at home. The family had by degrees come to be very dependent upon her, and Mrs. Champlin especially felt as though she should not be able to live without her. As for Pauline, she could not hear of sister's going away, without a passion of grief, and Edah began to have serious thoughts of taking the child back to Miss Anderson's with her, when she received a letter from Milly with the intelligence that her father had concluded not to let her return to school again, and claiming the fulfilment of her promise to spend the winter with them. Of course she could not for a moment think of taking Pauline there with her. If she had been an ordinary child, Edah might have felt more at ease about leaving her; but Pauline was no common child: her thoughts and feelings were far in advance of her years, and her affections possessed more intensity than belongs to many grown-up persons. Then she was, unfortunately, far superior in natural abilities to those about her.

Mrs. Champlin was a kind-hearted and well-meaning woman, but she was without much cultivation, either mental or spiritual, and her words and actions were directed almost entirely by the impulse of the moment, whatever that impulse might be. Her naturally kind and gentle disposition had been fretted and soured by constant illness and suffering, and still more by domestic troubles; and the irritation she would not or dared not manifest towards the direct cause of her distress, was very frequently bestowed upon the other members of the family. Such a mother could be no fit guide for an irritable and delicate child, whose little head was constantly filled with thoughts and questions altogether too grave for her years, and the force of whose passions was as much above what it should be, as her strength was below. Mrs. Champlin had, in fact, almost no influence with her children: they were fond of her, and often assiduous in waiting upon her, but they never dreamed of obeying her unless it suited their own convenience. Edah was the only one of the family who ever thought of consulting her upon her movements, and Mrs. Champlin often felt painfully the contrast between the careful deference of her stepdaughter and the careless independence of her own children.

While Edah was revolving in her own mind what it was best to do, she was most agreeably surprised by a visit from her guardian. She was deeply attached to Mr. Liston, with whom she had spent almost all her early years, as well as her vacations since she had been at school, and he on his part loved his ward better than any thing else in the world. Mr. Liston was a straightforward, honorable, steady man of business, who never owed a penny that he could not pay on the instant, and never took the slightest advantage of any one. He went to church regularly once every Sunday, and read the papers the rest of the day, gave bountifully to charitable objects of every kind, without ever troubling himself to inquire into their merit, was a perfectly inoffensive neighbor, and a judicious and faithful friend to all his employees and dependents. He had made the most of Edah's moderate property, and no one doubted that she would be his heiress. His only brother had lately died in India, and it was some business in relation to his estate which now called him to that distant country, for which he intended to set out as soon as he had made the necessary arrangements for the comfort and security of his ward during his absence.

Mr. Liston stayed two days in Brooksville, lodging at the so-called "hotel," and held many long conversations with Edah about her plans and wishes, which conversations ended with his leaving it entirely optional with her to return to Miss Anderson's for another year, or to spend the time with her friends in New York. Edah thought, though he did not say so, that he would prefer the former arrangement, and asked him if it were not so. Mr. Liston admitted that it was.

"I shall not be away more than a year," he said; "and on the whole, I would prefer that your entrance into society—an absurd institution, my dear, but one to which we must all pay some deference—should be made under my own eye. Maria Concklin is a kind creature, but she is not over-wise, and Mr. Amory is as much out of the world as the stuffed elephant at the museum. Still, as this plan has been of long standing, and any alteration of it would be a great disappointment to your friend—a very nice girl, she seems—I am willing that you should spend the winter there. How much longer do you intend to remain here?"

"'Till my father returns," replied Edah. "I had no thought of staying any longer; but mother is so unwell, and the poor baby so sickly, that I do not like to leave at present."

"Very well, my dear; act your own judgment about it. I shall leave a suitable allowance for you in Mr. Amory's hands, which he will pay to you quarterly, and I shall expect you to keep strictly within it, incurring no debt, however trifling. You know that is the one thing, about which I have always been positive. I have given him directions not to advance a single penny, so if you use it up too fast, you will have to wait for more till next quarter-day. And now, I must bid you good-by."

"So soon!" said Edah.

"So soon!" replied Mr. Liston. "I did not intend to sail under two weeks, but circumstances have occurred to alter my plans. If any thing should happen to me, my affairs are all in Amory's hands, and he will take my place to you. So farewell, my child, and write to me very often. You will hear from London. God bless you!"

Edah knew very well how much her guardian disliked a scene, and she restrained her tears till he was out of sight, making herself amends by a regular school-girl fit of crying afterwards.

She could not help thinking her guardian unusually strict in regard to money matters, and puzzled herself to think what could be the reason. The fact was, Mr. Liston had thought it very probable that Edah's father would want to borrow money of her, and he determined to put it entirely out of her power to lend him any. Then a few days afterwards, she received a note from Mr. Liston saying that he was just going on board the steamer, and should write again as soon as he landed in England.

Mr. Champlin had been absent nearly two weeks, when one afternoon Sam came up from the post-office, bringing a letter for his mother.

"It is from father, and there is money in it," said he; "I do not believe he is coming home after all. There are heaps of things for you, Edah. I declare, I wonder how girls can write so many letters. You have certainly doubled the revenue of our post-office since you have been here. I am sure you cannot find sense enough to fill up all these pages of fine writing."

"And there is something for you, which is more than you deserve, after your ungallant speech," said Edah, handing him some numbers of popular magazines which Milly had sent her, and then becoming absorbed in the perusal of her own letters. She was so intent upon the contents of an epistle from Mr. and Mrs. Wardwell that she took no notice of her companions, till she was roused by a sort of hysterical gasp from her mother, and a shriek from Pauline, and saw Sam spring forward just in time to prevent Eddy from falling to the floor, as Mrs. Champlin sank back in her chair, in a violent fit of hysterics.

Throwing down her letter, she sprang to her aid, and having quieted Pauline by giving her the baby to hold, she took the first means at hand of restoring her mother to consciousness, without having any idea of what had caused her agitation.

Mrs. Champlin recovered for a moment, but it was only to fall into another fit, more violent than the first, and Edah, becoming seriously alarmed, dispatched Sam for the doctor, and with the assistance of Susan and Ruby-Anne, got her upon the bed.

Doctor Longford happened to be passing near the house, and came in almost immediately. He administered such restoratives as he thought proper, and when his patient became in some degree quiet, called Edah into the other room, and asked her if she had any idea what had caused the seizure.

"Not the least, sir," replied Edah. "She has been remarkably well for several days past."

"I think it was something in father's letter," said Pauline, who, after her first fright was over, had devoted herself to the baby. "She was reading it when she made that noise first."

"Where is the letter?" asked Edah.

"There, on the table, and the money that was in it. I laid them all together."

"Read the letter, Sam," said Edah, relieving Pauline of her charge.

Sam glanced his eye over it, and then, with a flushed face, he said, in a tone of extreme bitterness—

"He has finished up the matter now. He has gone off to California."

"Gone!" exclaimed Susan, who had come into the parlor, leaving Ruby-Anne with her mother. "He has not really gone, has he?"

"Gone for good!" said Sam. "Hear what he says:

   "'MY DEAR WIFE—

   "'Before this reaches you, I shall be on the sea, far on my way to California, or somewhere else, when I shall be out of the way. I am aware that I have been nothing but a burden to you for a long time, and that the whole family will look upon my going as a relief. I send you some money—all that I can spare, and shall let you have more, if I get it myself. You won't see me again until I come home a rich man. If you had made things comfortable for me at home, I should never have been driven to the tavern, and so have been ruined; but I forgive you, and hope you will be happy. The children must go to work and earn their living, and Edah may do something to help you—she is rich enough. I tried to borrow some money of old Liston, but he would not let me have a cent. Good-by, and God bless you!'"

"It was worth while to put that in at the end, to be sure," said Susan, bitterly. "I don't care; I am glad he has gone!"

"Hush, Susan, love! Don't speak so," said Edah. "Remember he is our father, after all. I can hardly believe that he is really gone."

"I can," replied Sam. "Don't you know, Sue, we noticed his manner the day he went away, and he has taken all his clothes. What is to become of us now, I wonder?"

"How much money has he sent?" asked Susan.

"Twenty-five—no, forty dollars," replied Sam, counting it over. "That will last a little while, and we may get something out of the office and lumber-yard, though I doubt it. I presume his debts cover all that, and more too."

"We will not trouble ourselves about that, just at this moment," said Edah. "We have enough to do to take care of mother. I am afraid this will be altogether too much for her."

"And to charge her with it!" exclaimed Susan. "That is the worst of all. I should think he might have left that out, at any rate."

"It is the nature of men to throw all the blame of their own faults upon their wives," remarked the doctor. "They have all done it, from the first man down. But I must look in at your mother again before I go."

For two or three hours, Mrs. Champlin alternated between violent convulsions and insensibility, but by degrees she became more quiet, and finally sank into a deep slumber.

The kind old doctor took his leave, promising to call the first thing in the morning.

Pauline, who had quietly cried herself to sleep on the sofa, was carried up stairs and put to bed. Edah persuaded Susan to retire and take the baby with her, and the house was again quiet.

CHAPTER VI.

THE RESOLUTION.

FOR several days and nights Mrs. Champlin continued very ill, and her life was almost despaired of. Edah and Susan took the principal care of her, though the neighbors were very kind in offering to watch; but Mrs. Champlin was so unwilling to have any one with her but her own children that they feared the presence of strangers.

The news soon spread through the little village that Mr. Champlin had deserted his family, and gone off to California. He had departed in debt to half the village, and the indignation of the little public was extreme against him. Edah paid some bills which had been incurred for necessaries out of her own pocket, but she absolutely refused to have any thing to do with his tavern and grocery bills, which far exceeded the others in amount.

Mr. Champlin had not been content with spending all the ready money he could lay his hands on, but he had also run large scores at the principal tavern in the place, to pay which, and to raise a little ready money for his journey, he had given a mortgage upon his household furniture, and the landlord threatened to levy upon it immediately.

Mr. Willson had come over as soon as he heard of the distress of the family, and to him Edah confided all her troubles. He did not, at the time, suggest any remedy. But the next morning, Captain Laurence's light buggy and young horses were seen stopping at the door of the Eagle—a very unusual sight—and Captain Laurence himself held a long private conference with Mr. Scott. Nothing further was heard from that personage by the Champlin family, who puzzled themselves in vain to account for the change. But Mr. Scott knew his own interest too well to disoblige Captain Laurence, and when the latter requested that the mortgage should be made over to him, Mr. Scott was fain to consent, making himself amends by some very hard swearing as soon as the old Captain was well out of hearing.

Mrs. Champlin's bodily health gradually improved, and in about three weeks she was able to be about for part of the day, as usual. But it became by degrees apparent that the shock had had its dreaded effect upon her mind, already somewhat enfeebled by sickness and trouble. She was not, perhaps, actually insane, and a stranger might sometimes talk with her for an hour without perceiving any thing out of the way, but her children saw the difference in her increased irritability, which made it sometimes utterly impossible to satisfy her in her fits of nervous fear, when she could not bear to be left alone a moment, and above all, in her indifference to Eddy, so utterly opposed to the solicitude with which she had watched over him from his birth. The girls were now obliged to take the whole care of him, as if he were left to his mother, she would often forget him altogether.

Susan came out nobly under the trial. She seemed to forget herself entirely and devoted herself to her little brother with a patience and wisdom not to be surpassed by Edah herself. Sam, poor boy, was for a time quite overcome and broken down. He felt keenly his father's disgraceful conduct and shameful desertion, and it seemed as if he could hardly endure to look anybody in the face.

In the midst of her grief and perplexity, Edah found some consolation in the active sympathy of Annie Laurence and her mother, and the affectionate counsels and prayers of good Mr. Willson. Between Annie and Edah there had grown up a strong friendship, rendered doubly firm by their community of tastes and pursuits. Edah could not, of course, leave home to go to Spring Bank, but there were not many days in the week when Annie's active little brown horse was not to be seen standing at the gate of Mr. Champlin's house; or that Mrs. Laurence's black man Jube—her prime minister as she was wont to call him—did not come over with a basket on his arm, containing something for the invalid.

But if this friendship was a great comfort to our young heroine, she had a source of anxiety which altogether outweighed it—this was the state of her sister's health. Susan had grown up very fast, and, as is often the case, her strength did not keep pace with her growth, and, moreover, she had been entirely overburdened with work much too hard for her, and with anxieties far beyond her years. For some time she had appeared quite unaffected by her labors, but since Edah's coming had relieved her of some care, and a great deal of her hard work had been taken off her hands by Ruby-Anne, she seemed to droop at once. She grew very thin and pale, and was troubled with a hard, dry cough, and Edah discovered by accident that she had had two or three slight attacks of bleeding at the lungs—very slight, indeed, they were, and Dr. Longford made light of them, when Susan was finally persuaded to consult him; but Edah was alarmed, nevertheless, and watched her anxiously from time to time.

One day, after Mrs. Champlin seemed quite to have regained her former not very high standard of health, and things were going on in the household pretty much as they had done before the great shock, Edah received a letter from her friends in New York, pressing her to come to them immediately.

   "I would not urge you," Milly wrote, "while stepmother was so ill, and while it seemed doubtful how your sister's case would turn out, but now that she is as well as usual, and the doctor says that Susan is in no danger, I cannot see what there is to detain you longer among the stumps and aborigines of Brooksville. They certainly have no particular right to claim your services, and I think that I have, both on account of our long-arranged plan, and of our intimate friendship. You can certainly find no society in Brooksville at all suited to you, except the Laurences, and they live so far off that I think you cannot see much of them. Besides, I have another reason to offer as an inducement for you to come to us speedily. My father has promised, if you get here in time, to take us on an autumnal trip to the White Mountains. I shall expect to receive a letter by return of post, saying when you will come."

Edah read this letter once and again, and felt that the time was come when she must make a final decision. It was true, as Milly said, that they had a strong claim upon her. She had promised to be with her friend through the winter, and her guardian did not object to the plan. She could not tell what he would say to her spending the winter in Brooksville. It was true, as Milly urged, that she would have no society where she was. There were the Laurences, but she could not expect to spend much time with them, even if they remained at Spring Bank through the winter, which Annie had told her was very uncertain. The winters in that region were very severe, and Louisa's lungs had been delicate for some time. There was talk of their going South, and in that case they would be away from Spring Bank till late in the spring.

Edah had no fears for her own health; she had scarcely been sick a day in her life, and her strength, instead of diminishing, seemed to grow with what she had to do; but she thought of the long dreary winter, the absolute want of any companionship or sympathy such as she had been accustomed to, of books, of every thing, in short, which she had usually looked upon as rendering life desirable. She thought of the trials of temper and patience she would have to endure; of the daily and hourly tax upon her strength, her time, her income; of the few and vulgar people who would constitute her only society. She did not think—no, scarcely at all—of the good profession she had professed before so many witnesses; of the resolution she had made at the beginning of her Christian course—to live no more to herself, but to devote her time, her talents, her means to the service and glory of God. She did not remember the sign of her baptism—the sign of the Cross—the symbol of self-denial and disinterestedness. She thought only of her own trials and perplexities, on the one hand, and of the enjoyments promised her, on the other. She looked at the matter, not through the eyes of prayer, but of her own self-love and self-interest, and in this view she had almost resolved to return to her friends in New York.

While she was yet pondering, afraid to decide irrevocably, and conscious in her own heart that something was wrong, she was aroused by the sound of a horse's feet, and looking out, she saw Mr. Willson fastening his horse to the post before the gate. She was always glad to see Mr. Willson, and now hastened to meet him. He shook hands with his usual cordiality, and entered the sitting-room, where Edah's desk was lying open, with writing materials ready for use.

"So you are writing letters," said he.

"Not exactly," replied Edah; "only thinking of writing. I have just received a letter from my friends in New York, urging me to come to them directly, as they are planning a tour through New England for next month."

"And have you decided to go?" asked Mr. Willson, looking, as Edah thought, a little grave.

"Why, no, sir—not exactly; but it is an old plan of ours, and I have never thought of it in any other way than as entirely settled."

"Do your friends in New York 'need' you?" asked Mr. Willson, with a little emphasis on the word "need."

"Oh, no," said Edah; "they are as pleasantly situated as people can be."

Mr. Willson listened quietly, while Edah went on urging all the reasons by which she had almost convinced herself that it was her duty to go, and when she seemed to have arrived at the end, said quietly—

"You seem to have considered one side of the question, at any rate, but now what of the other? What will they do here when you are gone?"

This was just the side which Edah did not wish to consider, and she said, rather hastily—

"I do not know, Mr. Willson, that I am called upon to renounce all my own pleasures and engagements for the sake of the family here. I gave up a good deal in coming at first."

"Very true," said Mr. Willson; "so you did! Perhaps you gave up as much as could reasonably be expected of any Christian. I confess, however, I did not think so much of pleasures and enjoyments as of usefulness and duties. I thought these were the chief concern of the children of God, and not enjoyments and pleasures."

Edah felt keenly the tone and look with which these words were accompanied, and the rebuke contained in them came home with power to her conscience. She colored deeply, and was silent.

Mr. Willson went on in a milder tone:

"Your Christian principles have had, as yet, very little to try them. Your trials and temptations have been comparatively small. It remains now to be seen how much they are worth!"

"Do you think, then, Mr. Willson, that a Christian has no place in society, or that there is any thing wrong in her taking such a place?"

"I think the place of a Christian is where there is the most work to be dons in his or her Master's service. We are to do our duty in that state of life to which it pleases God in His providence to call us, and if we would fight under His banner, it must be in the station which He assigns us. But permit me to ask you, Miss Edah, have you made this subject—this decision—a subject of prayer?"

"No, sir."

"Then let me urge it upon you not to decide upon any course till you have done so. Ask counsel, not of your own erring judgment, or still more erring will, but of the oracles of God. Ask with a determination to submit to the will of God, as it shall be made known to you. Do not answer this letter now. It will do your friend no harm to wait another post, and in the mean time, seek the enlightenment of the Holy Spirit in humility and sincerity, and, trust me, you will find some new light thrown upon your course. Promise me that you will do this."

"I give you my word, sir, that I will. I will not answer Milly's letter till the day after to-morrow."

"That is well; and now let us talk of something else. How is your mother?"

"She is pretty well to-day; as well, I suppose, as we can hope to see her."

"Do you think she will see me?"

"I presume she will be glad to do so," replied Edah; "she has several times asked when you were coming again."

She left the room to speak to her mother, and found her descending to the parlor.

"I was just coming to look for you," said Edah, pleasantly. "Mr. Willson is here, and asked for you."

"I was coming to see him, at any rate," replied Mrs. Champlin. "I concluded of course that he would ask for me, though you seem inclined to take his visits, as you do Miss Laurence's, entirely to yourself. No, thank you," declining Edah's proffered arm to help her down the steps; "I am not quite as feeble as you and Susan would wish to make out. I am not quite superannuated yet."

Edah saw that her mother was in one of her fits of irritability and suspicion, and made no reply.

Mrs. Champlin entered the parlor, and seating herself, conversed with the Rector in a tone and manner which would certainly never incline a stranger to think her mind affected. She was very polite to Mr. Willson, urged him to stay to tea, and inquired after the health of his family, all with perfect propriety, and Mr. Willson could not help believing that the children must be mistaken in thinking her at all deranged. He declined the invitation, much to Edah's regret, and as soon as he was gone, Mrs. Champlin resumed her complaining tone, not only to Edah, but to Susan, who had entered with the baby in her arms.

"Yes, when Miss Laurence or Mr. Willson comes, you take their visits entirely to yourself, and never seem to think of referring them to me. You make me a perfect nobody in the house, both of you. Susan spends her whole time waiting on that baby, who is perfectly spoiled with so much tending."

"I am sure, mother," said Susan, "I do not attend to the poor little fellow more than he needs. You would not have me leave him to cry, would you?"

"Hush, Susy!" whispered Edah.

"What shall I hush for?" returned Susan, turning quickly upon her. "I have as much right to speak as yourself."

"Certainly she has!" joined in Mrs. Champlin. "And it is very unbecoming in you, Edah, to stop her. You take great airs upon yourself in ordering Susan about so: it is very improper in you;" and so on, till Edah was able to make some excuse for escaping from the room.

She paused in the hall, to try and check the tears which flowed in spite of herself; and a moment after, Susan came out.

"Don't cry, Edah!" she said, going up to her kindly. "I am sorry I spoke so, but I can't bear to have any one order me so."

"I did not mean to order you," replied Edah; "only I think when mother gets into that way of complaining, it is best not to make her any answer. You know she would not do it if she were herself."

Susan sighed.

"What shall I do when you are gone?" said she. "I shall never get on as you do."

"I am not gone yet," said Edah; and then wishing to change the subject, she asked, "how is your cough to-day?"

"Oh, it is well enough: I don't think it was any thing but a cold after all."

Edah felt uncomfortable and ill at ease all the evening, and it was harder than ever to have to listen to Mrs. Champlin's peevish complaints. She was glad when she said she was tired, and announced her intention of retiring early, for Edah felt a strong desire to be alone.

At last all was quiet in the house. Pauline was fast asleep, and Edah was at liberty to sit down with her candle and her Bible, to think about what Mr. Willson had said, and to make a final decision. But before considering the subject of her return to New York, she fulfilled her promise to Mr. Willson, by kneeling in prayer, and entreating the influence of the Holy Spirit to guide her in the decision she was about to make. She prayed in faith, truly believing that her thoughts would be rightly directed, and then, with a very different spirit from that in which she had first read her friend's letter, she sat down to think the matter over again from beginning to end.

"I need not think of the advantages of going to New York," she thought, "as Mr. Willson says I have considered that thoroughly enough. Now let me look at the other side, and think where I can do the most good. I suppose I might find something to do in New York. I could take class in Sunday School for one thing. But there is no Sunday School at all here, and perhaps I might get up one like Annie's at the Mills. Mr. Willson said something about it when I first saw him. That, however, is a secondary consideration; I must think about them here at home first.

"What would they do without me? In the first place, what would they have to live on? Sam says he has about fifty dollars beforehand, and that he means to try and get a place to earn something; but it is doubtful how much he could earn. Mr. Liston has left me an allowance of three hundred a year, and that would go a good way towards supporting the family, if they could have the whole of it; but if I were to be in New York at Mr. Amory's, I should be obliged to dress somewhat as they do, and that and other expenses would use up every cent. If I stay here, I can make all my last winter's dresses answer, cloak and bonnet and all; and the fifty dollars that I shall receive at Christmas, with what little we have now, would almost carry us through the winter, I think.

"Miss Concklin would say they have no claim on me for support; but what of that, so long as they need it? I should not feel that I had any right to be living in luxury, while they wanted even the common necessaries of life. Then, if I stay here, I can be educating Polly, and training her, I hope, in the right way, and influencing Sam. Perhaps my being here may make all the difference between his growing up a Christian or not. I am certain that he takes more and more interest in such things now, and I am afraid if I go away, he will return to his former carelessness. I cannot feel that I have any influence over Susan in that way. Sometimes I think her jealous lest I should rule her in some way, which makes her more opposed to religion than she would be if I were not here. Still I know she depends upon me in a great many ways, and a great deal more than she is aware of, and I am afraid she would get on at all with mother as she is now, if I were not here to keep the peace between them. I do not think she is very well either, and if I were away, the work she would have to do might be quite too much for her. Then there is mother—she has learned to depend entirely on me, especially since father went away; no one else can do any thing to suit her, when she has one of her fretful turns, and she cannot bear me out of her sight. What would she do with no one but poor Susan to depend upon?

"I wonder what Mr. Wardwell would say? I have a great mind to write to him; but I know very well what he would think. How many times I have heard him say that a Christian has no right to live to himself, or to seek for pleasures of any kind out of the path of duty! Could I say or think that I was in the path of duty, if I went to New York to enjoy myself in Milly's society, and that of her friends, knowing all the time that I was needed here? But what would Mr. Liston say? I know very well, he did not much want me to go to Amory's, or into society at all, till he came home: he spoke of my going to Miss Anderson's again, but after all, he told me to act according to my own judgment. I do not think he would be displeased. No, my place is here! I wonder now, that I could ever think of going anywhere else. Milly will be disappointed, but I am sure she will see on consideration that I am right."

The next morning Mrs. Champlin had slept off her ill-humor, and was in excellent spirits: every thing was as it should be—the breakfast was excellent—Ruby-Anne was the best of girls—Susan the most excellent of nurses, and nothing went wrong or could go wrong in the whole world. Edah knew by experience that this mood would not last long, but she was thankful for even this short respite, and made the most of it, by keeping her mother amused and diverted as much as possible.

After breakfast, Mrs. Champlin went into the kitchen to have a gossip with Ruby-Anne, and Edah sat down to answer her friend's letter.

"They are expecting you in New York, I suppose," said Susan; "when do you go?"

"I do not go at all," said Edah; "that is, if you will keep me here."

"Not going!" exclaimed Sam and Susan in a breath, while Pauline uttered a scream of joy. "Why, I thought you had decided to go long ago!"

"So I did," said Edah; "but I have undecided again, and now I am decided the other way. I have a great desire to see how these hills look in winter."

"That isn't the reason you stay, though," remarked Pauline; "it is because you think we can't do without you; and you are the dearest girl in the world: isn't she, Sam?"

"To be sure she is, Poppet! Every one knew that long ago."

"I am sure," Susan said, with some constraint, "I don't want you to give up all the pleasure of your winter in New York, for the sake of staying with us here. I am sure you would much rather be there; and I don't want you to be feeling all the time as if you were making a sacrifice for us."

"Now, Sue," exclaimed Sam, "that is downright ungracious. Of course it is a sacrifice for Edah to stay here, but if she is willing to make it, I think the best return we can make is to take it kindly."

"I am not fond of being sacrificed to," said Susan. "If Edah is going to feel all the time how much rather she would be there than here, and how good she is in staying here instead of going there, I would rather she went."

Edah could not help feeling very much annoyed at this speech, but she controlled herself, and said gently—

"If I made up my mind to stay here, I hope I should be more sensible than to spend my time thinking how much better off I should be somewhere else; and as to feeling good," she added laughing, "I will try not to show it, if I do. But I am almost afraid you don't want me, after all."

"I should be very glad to have you, I am sure," replied Susan, apparently ashamed of what she had said. "I do not know, as Sam says, what we should do without you, especially mother, for I can do nothing to suit her lately."

Thus it was decided finally that Edah was to stay, and she dispatched an answer to Milly to that effect. She also wrote to Miss Anderson to send her her clothes and other matters she had left at W., and began to consider herself settled for the winter. Mr. Willson smiled approvingly when he heard her decision, and told her he had felt no doubt how she would conclude, if she took time enough.

"You must now begin to consider how you can make yourself most useful, and do the most good. I think I must constitute you my curate in this place, and let you lay the foundation of a church here."

These words were not lightly spoken, nor lightly heard. From that moment, Edah began to consider what she could do towards establishing a church in the hitherto destitute village of Brooksville.

CHAPTER VII.

THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS.

EDAH now considered her plans for the winter as settled, and began to make her arrangements accordingly, for she was very much given to making a systematic division of her time, and giving to each hour its regular employment. She thought that by rising early enough she could perform all her household duties before breakfast, and be free to sit down immediately afterwards with her books or her work, or to instruct Pauline, who had become really fond of study, and was making very good progress.

She found many interruptions, however, to this plan. Mrs. Champlin often exacted the whole of her attention, or some of the neighbors would drop in to spend an hour or two, or sometimes Susan would take a perverse fit, and persist in interrupting her just when she was the most engaged. She sometimes found it hard not to be irritated under all these hindrances, especially as she grew more and more interested in her studies; but she made great efforts, and felt that she was really gaining very much in regard to temper. She forced herself to lay down her books cheerfully, and to attend to Mrs. Champlin's long stories about nothing, and what was still more difficult, she obliged herself to bear with perfect gentleness all her complaints and insinuations, which sometimes put Susan, and even Sam, entirely out of patience. Still, with, all her interruptions and hindrances, she continued to have a good deal of time, and really made good progress in her studies.

She did not forget Mr. Willson's remark about the Sunday School, and was anxious to make a beginning, but she did not exactly know how. She thought it over and over, and at last decided to do nothing till she could ask Mr. Willson's advice.

One day, two of the neighbors' children came in to play with Pauline. They were pretty little girls of ten and eleven years old, and Edah, who had taken a good deal of interest in them, was always glad to see them. Pauline, who was very assiduous in entertaining her visitors, was on this occasion showing them the new hymn-book that Edah had given her, when Sarah Bell proposed that they should sing some of the hymns. Nothing could please Pauline better. They sang one after the other, and Edah joined her own sweet and cultivated voice to those of the children.

"Sister," said Pauline, "I wish you would sing that chant out of the Prayer-Book that you sang the other night—the one you said they sang in church."

"The Gloria in Excelsis, do you mean," asked Edah; "the one that begins—'Glory be to God on high'?"

"Yes," replied Pauline. "Now, listen, girls."

Edah sang the glorious old chant, and the children listened with breathless attention.

When she had finished, Abby Bell said, drawing a long breath—

"I never heard any thing like that. It seems as if it took me right up into the sky. Do you know any more such hymns, Miss Champlin?"

"They are not hymns—they are chants, Abby," said Pauline, proud to display her superior knowledge. "Sister says they always sing them in her church, and some day she is going to take me there."

"I wish there was a church here," said Sarah Bell. "In B—, where we lived when I was a little bit of a girl, there was a church and a Sunday School, and Abby went all the time."

"Miss Champlin," asked Abby, "why can't 'you' have a Sunday School—just for us children, you know? There would be Pauline, and Sarah, and I, and I know Lizzie and Kitty Smith would like to come, and Mary Crampton and her little brother. It would be so nice."

"Oh, do, do!" exclaimed Pauline. "It would be just as nice as it could be. Do, sister, won't you?"

Edah smiled.

"But what should we do for books?" she asked.

"Oh, we could do without just at first, and perhaps we could get some after a while," said Sarah. "We could learn lessons in the Testament, at any rate, and you could explain them to us, and we could sing. It would be delightful."

"Do you think your mother would be willing?" asked Edah.

"I know my mother would, and I am sure Lizzie Smith's mother would like it," said Abby. "May I ask her, Miss Champlin?"

"You may," said Edah, after a moment's consideration; "and if they are willing, you may come here next Sunday, at two o'clock."

There was a little whispering among the children, and then Abby said, with some hesitation—

"Miss Champlin, may we ask the little Fisher children? They are poor, you know, and their father is a bad man, but their mother is a good woman, and they are nice little things. They live on the hill, back of our house."

"Certainly," said Edah; "ask them by all means. I wish, Abby, that you would come round on Saturday afternoon and tell me how many there are likely to be, that I may make arrangements accordingly."

Abby promised to do so, and the children went home full of their plan, and impatient to put it into execution.

The next day Edah had an opportunity to send to Raeburn, and she wrote a note to Mr. Willson, mentioning her project, and asking some directions as to beginning. She was agreeably surprised on the return of her messenger to receive about thirty books, new and old, suitable for a Sunday School library. Mr. Willson gave her his advice as to the course best to pursue, warning her against attempting too much, and giving the plan his cordial approbation.

"Did you see any one else at Raeburn?" asked Edah of Mr. Bell, who had executed her commission.

"I saw Miss Laurence at the parsonage, and some one else was there that I'd as soon have expected to see a'most anywhere else, and that was long John Van Dake. They say he is getting to be a real steady fellow. But I say, Miss Champlin, what's this about the Sunday School? The children are so full of it they don't know whether they are on their heels or their heads, hardly."

Edah smiled, and explained the project to Mr. Bell, who approved of it entirely.

"I like the notion very well," he said. "I'm not sure but I should like to come myself, though I suppose you wouldn't take me. The young ones shall come, if 'she' is willing, and I know she will be."

Mr. and Mrs. Bell had a habit of speaking of one another as "he" and "she," as if there were no other he and she in the world.

Towards evening of the same day came over Jube, with the usual basket, and a note from Annie:

"I am sorry to tell you, my dear Edah," she wrote, "that the matter is decided, and we are really going away for the whole winter. If it were not for my mother's health, and for the sake of poor Lulu, who, we hope, will be benefited by the sea voyage, I should not know how to feel reconciled to it. Mrs. Millar will stay in the house and keep things in order, and father says he shall leave the key of the library with you, so the old place will not be quite deserted; and, moreover, Dick will be up several times in the course of the winter, if he stays in New York. My superfine brother Addison is going to Europe, where, I presume, he will acquire a new stock of airs and graces wherewith to astonish the natives and more thoroughly to disguise his native geed sense and kindness of heart. I send you some packages of tracts, of which Dick has supplied me with a perfect magazine, and which you may find useful. We are counting on one more visit from you before we go."

On Saturday afternoon came over Abby Bell, her eyes sparkling with delight.

"We are coming, Miss Champlin—all of us. Sarah and I, and Kitty and Lizzie Smith, and Mary Crampton, and Polly Fisher; and Jane and Selina Bostwick will come too, if you will let them. They are quite big girls, you know, and Selina can sing beautifully."

"We shall have quite a school," said Edah. "I must be sure and have seats enough provided. I think we will meet in the kitchen, and then we shall not disturb mother, and you must be very careful to come punctually."

Edah was both surprised and ashamed at the reluctance she felt to mentioning her plan to the family, but she felt that it was necessary to do so. Mrs. Champlin wondered that she should put herself to so much trouble, and thought she would soon be tired of it, but she was in a good humor, and made no substantial objection. Susan thought it would be very disagreeable to have the children running in and out all day Sunday.

"But they will not be running in and out," said Edah; "they will only come in at the side-gate, and go quietly into the kitchen, and as quietly go away again."

"What good will it do them?" asked Susan. "Do you suppose it will be any better for them than if they read their Bibles at home?"

"Perhaps not, if they read them," replied Edah, "and yet I think it may give them rather more interest in the matter, and they will have their little books and tracts too."

"From which they will derive great benefit, no doubt; Sunday School books are usually so very entertaining and instructive! However, if you like to amuse yourself in that way, I don't know why you should not, only I don't think those Fisher children will be very nice playmates for Pauline."

"They will not be playmates for her at all," said Edah. "I do not propose to have any play in school, and after school they will go home."

"Now, Sue," said Pauline, "you are only talking so, just to be contrary, you know."

"There," returned Susan, "that is a good beginning. If you teach them all as good manners as Pauline has acquired, you will be a benefactor to the community. For my part, I think—"

Susan stopped short, and Edah, seeing that she was a good deal out of humor, thought it best to drop the conversation for the present. She took an opportunity when she was putting Pauline to bed to tell her how very improperly she had spoken.

"You do a great deal of harm," said she "and make me a great deal of trouble, when you talk so, and you know you would not like to have any one speak so to you."

"I don't think!" said Pauline, hanging her head.

"But you must think! 'Don't think' is youngest brother to 'Don't care,' and does quite as much mischief. You must think, and you must ask God to teach you to curb your tongue."

Pauline promised to try and do better. She was really improving very much in every respect, but the habits of her little lifetime were not to be conquered all at once, and every little slip she made was noted and commented on by Susan, because she knew very well that it annoyed Edah. It is a strange pleasure certainly which some people take in seeing others do wrong, especially those who are trying with all their might to do right. This was not always the case with Susan; but certain it is, that there were times when it was her greatest delight to see Edah's color rise and her eyes flash, and to see her utter some hasty retort or angry sarcasm, and it really seemed as if she lent all the energies of her mind to bring it about.

On Sunday afternoon at two o'clock, the children made their appearance, for the most part shy and silent enough. They were all nicely dressed, with the exception of Polly Fisher, who was, however, clean and neat. She was a mild-looking little morsel of a child, with large gray eyes, and "lint-white hair," and Edah thought there was something very prepossessing in her almost infantine countenance: she was surprised to learn that Polly was twelve years old. Selina and Jane Bostwick were dark, pale girls of thirteen and fifteen, with good manners, but very silent and shy. Mary Crampton and the little Smiths were nice little children about nine or ten, and Pauline was the youngest child present.

Ruby-Anne came in just as the children were taking their places.

"Law sakes! What a nice little school!" she exclaimed. "I suppose you will take me too, won't you?"

Edah would rather have preferred not having any grown-up spectators at first, but she did not see how to avoid it in this case, and Ruby took her place with the rest. After a few words spoken to the children, Edah requested all present to kneel and join her in the Lord's Prayer, and when this was concluded, she read a collect or two from her Prayer-Book. Mr. Willson had sent her among other things, half a dozen hymn-books, and when the prayers were finished, she selected a hymn, which was sung to a familiar tune. Jane and Selina had sweet, though uncultivated voices, and Ruby-Anne joined with the rest.

"Children," said Edah, when the hymn was finished, "why have we come together here this afternoon?"

There were several answers. "To have a Sunday school," said one. "To learn about God."—"To study the Bible," said others.

"Those are all very good answers," said Edah. "We have come to have a Sunday School, to study the Bible, and I hope to learn something about God and our duty. I think the best way to begin will be to read over some verses, as of course you have not learned any lesson to-day, to talk them over, and then you can learn them for next Sunday. We will begin with the second chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel, and take seven verses for our first lesson; but first, can any one tell me what is the meaning of the word Gospel?"

"I believe it means good tidings," said Selina, modestly, after a pause.

"That is quite right. When the angel came to the shepherds on the plains of Bethlehem, he said, 'I bring you glad tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.' But why is the Gospel good news?"

"Because it tells us how to be saved," said Pauline.

"Yes, because it tells us of a Saviour. It tells us how good God was in sending His only Son into the world, to die for us that we might be saved if we believe in Him and obey Him and love Him. We wish to understand that good news, and to know all about it. Suppose your father were in some distant place—in Europe, for instance—and he should write you a letter, telling you that you might come and see him there, and giving you directions how you must come, and promising you money for the journey—you would be very anxious to understand the letter properly, would you not?"

"'I' should," said Mary Crampton.

"Well, this is what Christ does in the Gospel. He tells us that if we will, we may meet Him in heaven; He tells us how to come, and promises us His Holy Spirit to help us on the way. But suppose any child should get such a letter from her father, and should just put it away on the shelf, and think no more about it—suppose, too, that unless she did attend to the letter and go to meet her father, she would certainly starve to death in a little while, or be carried away and made a slave of. Would you not think her a very strange child?"

"I don't believe any child would be so foolish as that," said Mary Crampton.