Corrie
Date: 2025-01-03T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction; Christmas stories; Friendship -- Juvenile fiction; Siblings -- Juvenile fiction; Children with disabilities -- Juvenile fiction; Poverty -- Juvenile fiction; Fatherless families -- Juvenile fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Corrie

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Title: Corrie

Author: active approximately 1876-1880 Ruth Lynn

Release date: January 3, 2025 [eBook #75031]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1929

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75031

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CORRIE ***

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

"OH, ROBIN, HOW COULD YOU BE SO WICKED?" SHE CRIED.

CORRIE

BY

RUTH LYNN

AUTHOR OF

"CITY SPARROWS," "THE MYSTERIOUS LOCKET,"
ETC.

LONDON:

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 BOUVERIE STREET AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, E.C.4

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I. WHY THE BELLS SANG

II. A WALK IN THE WOOD

III. A RAINBOW IN THE NURSERY

IV. FATHER CHRISTMAS

V. THE GARDENER'S LESSON

VI. A TEMPTING BAIT

VII. THE BROKEN VASE

VIII. THE BIRTHDAY QUEEN

IX. CAUGHT!

X. SET FREE!

XI. FOREST LODGE

XII. CONCLUSION

CORRIE

CHAPTER I

WHY THE BELLS SANG

TIRRA-ling-a-ting-ding-dong!—Sang the bells, and the stars sparkled in the sky. The silver moonlight shone down softly on the streets of the city, making the weathercock on the blackened steeple glitter like gold, and throwing a tender radiance on the resting-places of the dead beneath. Silently the light stole along the street like the touch of an angel's wing, while the footsteps that sounded sharply on the smooth pavement told that rest comes late to many of earth's toiling ones in the busy town.

The bright patches on walls and roof still crept on, till the light shone straight down into one of the windows, as if moon and stars had an especial errand in there. And so they had; for there was no candle, and the small fire, though burning clear and red, did not flame, so the moonbeams came in and did duty for both.

They lighted up Corrie's bright curls as she lay quietly hugged in Robin's arms, and showed him the smiles on her pretty pale face as he talked to her in a low tone.

"Hark! Corrie! Do you hear the bells?"

"Pretty bells," whispered Corrie; "why do they ring to-night?"

"Because Christmas is coming, Corrie, and the ringers want to practise so that the bells may sing prettily on Christmas morning."

"Do they sing words, Robin?"

"Yes, I think so, Corrie, but it is not everybody that hears them; they are telling about Jesus Christ and the angels. You might think they would get tired of saying it over and over again; but you know, every year there are more little babies born who have never heard about it before; and so they will always sing."

"What is the story, Robin?"

"Why, it begins about when the dear Lord Jesus lived up in heaven with His Father and the angels. Look! Corrie! At the twinkling stars, how they shine! That is only a little peep of the glory and beauty of the happy home above the bright blue sky."

"Shall we go to that home some day, Robin? You and I and mother?"

"Yes, darling little sister, we shall, for Jesus has promised to take us there; and He always does what He says."

As the boy whispered this, a rush of hot tears came into his eyes, for he could not help thinking that the time might not be so very far off for Corrie, his poor little ailing sister, who had never known how to use her small feet: they did not seem to belong to her at all. For, alas! both legs were quite paralysed and helpless. All day long she had to sit motionless in her chair, or make feeble efforts to creep about on the floor. Robin knew he could never see her playing with other children of her own age among the daisied meadows out beyond the smoky town.

When she was a baby-child, he used to carry her out of doors for long distances, to let her breathe the pure country air. But at last the weight became too much for even his patient loving strength. And now, although she was four years old, there was no improvement in the state of her health. The doctor had told mother yesterday she would be a cripple all her life. This was why the boy's tears fell on Corrie's silky hair to-night; but he brushed them away, and went on with the story as the child nestled closer in his embrace—

"The holy angels live up there," he continued, "and we shall see them all some day; and you will never cry any more, Corrie, when you get there, because Jesus is going to take away everybody's pain."

Corrie gave a sigh of relief.

"Please go on," she pleaded.

"I heard a great deal about it from teacher last Sunday," continued Robin; "she said she was going to tell us a Christmas story, that we might think about it on Christmas Eve; so I listened to every word, that I might be able to tell you."

A transient smile flitted across the face made wan and small through suffering, and one white thin hand was raised to stroke Robin's cheek.

He kissed it, and went on—

"She told us first about the shepherds. They were the men who took care of the sheep and lambs, you know. And in that far country where they lived, there were wild beasts—wolves and foxes—who used to prowl about at night round the fold; so the shepherds lighted fires to frighten them away. No harm could happen while they kept guard. Who is the Good Shepherd, who always takes care of us?"

"Jesus," murmured the child.

"Yes, Corrie; and He is the best of all, because He never sleeps, but is always looking at the little ones who love Him and try to please Him. Well, these good men sat talking together that Christmas time so long ago, when all of a sudden a very bright light shone round them—a light brighter than the brightest sunshine; they could not look at it, it was so dazzling. It was a peep at glory—glory, Corrie, that you sing about in the hymn."

"What did the shepherds say, Robin?" asked Corrie, with an earnest look in her dark eyes.

"They did not say anything, for they were dreadfully frightened; but while they were wondering where the beautiful light came from, a holy angel began speaking to them; and what do you think he said?"

"What?" said Corrie, with parted eager lips.

"Teacher gave us the words to learn; so I can tell you exactly without looking in the Bible. The angel said, 'Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour which is Christ the Lord.' That night, little sister, while they had been watching the sheep, a baby had been born in a stable where the cows were feeding. The grand people would not let them come into the inn; there was no room there; so the King of Glory was laid in a common stable, with the oxen feeding round Him."

"Did they go to find Him, Robin?"

"Yes, they went at once; and when they saw the baby, they knew they were looking at the promised Saviour, whom they had read about and expected. He had come into the world to save poor sinners by washing them white in His precious blood; and they longed to tell everybody the good news. That is why we may be glad too, because we love Him as the shepherds did; and we know He loves us. We can sing—

"'I am so glad that Jesus loves me.'"

"Yes, I do love Him," said Corrie, stretching out her arms. "I do, very very much. I wish He would take me home to live in heaven now; I want to see His face."

"So you will some day, darling," answered Robin, clasping her tighter. "But you know we can be His servants here on earth; He has got work for each of us to do."

"Work for me, Robin! Oh, what is it? What can I do for the dear Lord Jesus?"

"You can try to bear your bad pain patiently, dear little sister, for His sake, and not be cross and fretful, to worry poor mother when she is busy. The best work of all is, I think, to see how happy you can be, because then you make everybody else happy. Oh, this will be the brightest Christmas we have ever had! We have got so many things to make us glad, Corrie."

Yet, looking into that dismal room with its scanty furniture, how few would have said that! True, everything was clean, from the boarded floor to the cracked cups and saucers neatly arranged on a shelf. But poor Robin knew well there was only just enough to make both ends meet, as his mother said. And it was indeed a hard struggle to the poor widow, ever toiling, never resting from Monday morning to Saturday night. But the peace of God was in that dwelling; and where that light shines, it can never be all dark.

"There is mother!" cried Robin, rising gently, to lay Corrie in the sort of sofa he had made for her by tying two old chairs together and placing cushions on them.

"Oh, mother! Why did you carry that heavy basket? I could have fetched it in the truck."

The poor woman set down her load on the floor with a sigh of relief, and sank down on the nearest chair. Yet her white face had a smile for her two children, as the boy, having lighted a candle, put his arm round her neck.

"I shall be better presently, after a cup of tea. Good Robin, to have the kettle boiling! I am so tired! You will have to go out to Oaklands, my son, the first thing to-morrow morning. The family has returned, and Jonathan spoke for me, and got the washing promised; so that will be a good bit for us this winter, as there are some children."

"All right, mother; I'll be off as early as you please. Why, it will be Christmas Eve! What shall we do to keep Christmas this year?"

"I don't know, my boy. We must be content with such things as we have, and make the best of them. The Lord never forgets us."

"Mother, the grand rich people do something on Christmas Eve to keep it, don't they?"

"Oh yes; when I lived at Oaklands long ago, as nurse, we had fine doings there. There was always a Christmas tree, and all sorts of games and fun; but that is only for rich people, Robin."

"Yes, I suppose so, mother; but how I wish Corrie could see something like that; I should like her to have a Christmas tree of her own. And why not?" he added, at seeing his mother shake her head.

He ran off to do a household errand in an adjoining street. "I must think of something to make this Christmas a very happy one for poor little Corrie, because she has so few things to make her glad!"

And Robin gave sundry leaps in the air as scheme after scheme presented itself, for he felt quite sure he could manage something for her.

Corrie! It was always Corrie in Robin's heart; and if he could only succeed now and then in letting bright glints of sunshine into that little shaded life, there was not a happier boy in the town. Ah! Yes, because he possessed the secret of true happiness, which consists in finding no time to think about self. Only those know this secret who, by the Holy Spirit, have been led to give their hearts to Jesus. He then teaches them to be like Him, when He walked about as the tender gentle Healer and Helper on this sorrow-laden earth. Robin prayed to Him every day to teach him to do His will; and Jesus will help you too, my readers, if you ask Him.

CHAPTER II

A WALK IN THE WOOD

CORRIE was breathing softly in a sound sleep long before Robin followed her into dreamland. He had so much to think about: first, it was mother sitting there so patiently beside the dimly-burning candle, stitching on another patch to the jacket he had just taken off. Dear mother! What a sad patient look sat on her peaceful face! That look had never gone away since the night strange feet were heard on the threshold, and husky voices told the tale, the mournful tale, of the hungry sea: "All hands gone down—a total wreck!"

"'God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble,'" was heard above the agony of that night of weeping. "'Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea. Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God, the holy place of the tabernacles of the Most High. God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved! God shall help her, and that right early.'" (Ps. xlvi.).

Robin always called it father's psalm after that, and often used to repeat part of it to himself and Corrie; for mother had told him there was "no more sea" now for father! He had sailed away to the river of life—"the river that makes glad the city of God, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb," where neither storm nor tempest can ever come.

Robin was thinking about the golden city to-night; and its brightness seemed to come down to him as he lay planning his happy schemes. "The angels sang about 'goodwill towards men,'" thought he; "so I know Jesus means us to be very glad." And his thoughts drifted on till he dreamed a happy dream.

His one sound sleep came to an end earlier than usual, for he had gone to bed with the determination to be up and stirring betimes. Robin, like other busy happy people, found there was nothing like the prospect of having plenty to do, to arouse the desire for a long day and put sloth and idleness to shame.

The boy rose softly so as not to disturb mother and Corrie in the next room, and peeped out in the cold dim dawn of that December day.

"I must be sharp," he said, hastily dressing himself, "or I shall not catch old Jonathan. Oh, dear! I forgot to bring in the sticks last night to dry, and they're ever so wet in the yard. Mother must find a good fire this cold morning."

Robin did not forget to kneel down and speak to God, to ask His help and guidance before beginning his duties for the day. If he had not done this, he would not have got on at all, for the provoking sticks hissed and refused to light until his patience had been sorely tried for a very long time. However, all was at length finished, and the newly-filled kettle set on the stove. Then Robin fetched his truck from the outhouse, and, having placed the large empty flasket upon it, started off.

He had two miles to go beyond the town before he could reach the large old-fashioned house called Oaklands, that stood within its high shrubberies and well-kept grounds. The sun's face was rosy red, as if he was quite ashamed of getting up so late; but as the clouds and mists dispersed, bright golden rays came shooting down between the bare branches that stood up straight and tall above the hedges, making the more lowly leaves and grasses glitter with a bright diamond tracery.

Robin enjoyed the crackling noise his feet made as he stepped into one iced pool after another, or trod on the firmly-edged ruts of that roughly-kept country road. When the robins sang, he whistled, and the blackbirds and thrushes did not mind hopping quite close to him as he trudged along so cheerily to the rattle of his one-wheeled barrow. Through the belt of firs that skirted the grounds of Oaklands, Robin could see blue smoke rising from the gardener's cottage.

"I'll leave my truck here, inside the gate," thought he, "and run across the short way to the kitchen garden; he's safe to be there." And Robin, with freed hands, at a single bound cleared the little stream that fed the large pond, and in a few minutes entered the high-walled garden by a low door.

Yes, there was old Jonathan at his work, as he expected. Now, old Jonathan was a well-known character for many miles round. There was not a child in the hamlet hard by that would not look up in his face with a smile as he patted its head, or took the little one on his knee. Those mysterious pockets of his seemed to have a never-ending supply of halfpennies and farthings, sweeties and nuts, or maybe a ripe apple now and then. Age had lined his face with many a wrinkle, and his back was a trifle bent; but he could still handle a spade with a vigorous will, and knew what it was to do a hard day's work as well as a younger man.

You had only to look into his honest eyes to know he could be a good friend, a friend for cloud as well as for sunshine, as many a one could testify who had felt the comforting grip of his horny hand in a time of trouble. The old gardener had seen several changes at Oaklands since the death of his old master and friend sixteen years ago; but he still held on to the place, the successors being only too glad to secure the services of such a trustworthy servant.

Robin's mother had lived in the house in former days as nurse to the children, who now had grown up and gone out into life. She was therefore an old friend of Jonathan, and her son could reckon upon the kind old man now as always, for he was in the habit of helping him in various ways, and was his beloved friend and counsellor in every emergency.

"Good-morning, Mr. Jonathan," said Robin, running quickly across the garden to where the gardener was pulling up something from one of the beds.

Jonathan did not hear him at first, for he was a little deaf, so the salutation was repeated, when the stooping figure raised itself, and the kind hearty face met Robin's eager look with a friendly smile.

"Well, you are early enough, youngster, anyway," said he. "What sort of a worm are you up to catch this fine morning? A bit of horse-radish is about all I've got to give you to-day, and I hope you'll have a good piece of beef to need the flavour. How is your mother?"

"Not very well, thank you; she feels the cold on her chest most days; but she wanted me to thank you for speaking about the washing up at the house. I've got the basket here now to fetch the clothes."

"All right, my boy, and welcome, though 'tis nothing to thank about. I would always do your mother a good turn if I could. Before you go up with the flasket, just lend me a hand, will you? I want to dig up one of those trees in the copse yonder."

Robin gave a hearty assent, and as they stepped together across the crisp ground and out to the open field beyond the garden wall, he ventured to ask—

"Mr. Jonathan, what are you going to do with the tree?"

"Why, 'tis for the young ones at the house; there are children there, you know, and they are preparing for some grand doings to-night: a Christmas tree to hang the pretty things upon, and neighbours coming from all round with their little ones to see it."

"Oh," said Robin, "that is what mother told us about; they used to have it long ago when she was in service there; it must be grand, Mr. Jonathan. I wish our little Corrie could see it; but she can never never come so far, even to peep in at the window. The doctor says she will never walk."

"Poor little lass!" answered Jonathan sadly. "But do not fret about it, my boy; the Lord will make it up to her somehow; if not in this life, when He takes her above. I must try to get her a pretty Christmas posy. She always smiles when she sees flowers. Never fear, she shall have a happy Christmas, if old Jonathan can do his part towards it."

"I knew you would help me if you could," cried Robin gleefully, as his companion pointed to a well-grown young fir tree, and proceeded to dig about its roots.

"There! Steady, my boy! We shall have it up as clean and clear as sixpence. Stay! Before we carry it up to the house, I must chop off one or two of the lower branches; that will make it a better shape."

"Mr. Jonathan," asked Robin wistfully, "may I have this one?" And taking up one of the freshly-cut fir boughs, he held it out to view. "If I may have this," he continued, "and you will give me a pot and some earth to stick it into, I will take it home to Corrie and make a Christmas tree for her."

"Have it, my boy, and welcome; and what should you say to a pen'orth of sweets to hang on it, if I can find a copper? Now run and fetch your barrow and the flasket; we'll go up to the house together. Fine-grown trees," he added, pausing to point proudly to the wood, whose boundaries he and Robin were skirting. "Different sorts there, and many a lesson to be learned from them."

"Lessons from the trees, Mr. Jonathan?"

"Yes, my boy; they are always teaching something new to me, and explaining God's Holy Word in a wonderful way. We must live and grow like those trees if we want to be worth anything. Our good minister told us last Sunday that the man who is not in Christ is like the grass that grows up to be cut down at last with the scythe. It is only those who are planted in Christ that can grow up into trees of righteousness, and bear fruit to the praise and glory of His name."

"I never thought of that before," said Robin.

"Maybe not, child; you are young, and have much to learn. A lifetime is not long enough to find out the wonders of His grace. But mind you, my boy, we must have the root of the matter in us before we can be right for God's garden. Some people are like plants put into the ground with their heads downwards; their lives are all wrong and topsy-turvy, and nothing can be done with them until they are turned right round, which is what is meant by being converted. When you ran up to me just now, I was thinking over the Apostle Paul's wonderful prayer; I had been reading it in my Bible before I set out for my day's work; I was saying ft over and over again for fear I should forget it:

"'That He would grant you, according to the riches of His glory, to be strengthened with might by His Spirit in the inner man; that Christ may dwell in your hearts by faith; that ye, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all saints what is the breadth and length and depth and height; and to know the love of Christ which passeth knowledge, that ye might be filled with all the fulness of God.' (Eph. iii. 16-19).

"Ah, Robin, my boy, God grant you that blessing, and then you will grow up a rare plant and noble tree,—'the tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season, and whose leaf shall not wither.'

"Yet, however far down our roots may strike, we shall never reach the bottom of Christ's love. But we can grow in it. 'It is the Spirit that quickeneth;' and He can give us all in and through our Lord Jesus Christ. Now run away, my lad, and fetch your barrow. I will wait for you at the turn of the shrubbery nigh the house."

CHAPTER III

A RAINBOW IN THE NURSERY

THE kitchen at Oaklands was a warm and cheery place to turn into on that frosty morning; at least so thought Robin, as, standing beside his friend Jonathan in the doorway, he watched the cook pour steaming bread and milk into the basins that were going up into the nursery. The scent of fragrant coffee, mingled with the savoury smell from the rashers of bacon sputtering and browning in the great frying-pan, made a most inviting combination.

"This is Widow Campbell's son," said the gardener, pushing Robin forward a little; "he has come to fetch the clothes for his mother."

"Then he must wait a while, if you please," said the housekeeper, who entered at that moment. "We are very busy this morning, and I am behindhand with several things. Cook, give the lad a cup of coffee and something to eat with it. It may be an hour before I can send him home again."

Robin, nothing loth, sat himself down as directed at a side table in the midst of this stirring scene, and the sharp morning air having given him a fine appetite, he lost no time in commencing an attack upon the plentifully heaped plate set before him. It was seldom indeed the poor boy got a chance of fried bacon and potatoes at home for breakfast. Before he had quite finished, he heard the sound of happy voices in the garden mingled with shouts of laughter; and presently two boys with their merry-looking sister chased each other past the kitchen window.

"Have you seen the Christmas tree?" shouted one.

"No; where is it?"

"Here! Old Jonathan has got it round by the kitchen door."

"Oh, what a beauty! Where is mamma? She must come and see It. Won't it look lovely with all the things hung upon it to-night? I wish they would make haste and finish breakfast in the dining room."

"Where did you get such a grand one, Jonathan? And what are you going to do with that branch stuck in a pot?" cried Clarice, laughing.

"That is a Christmas tree for a poor sick child, my little missie. She will never run about as you do, for her legs are no use whatever to her, and the doctor says she cannot get better."

"Oh, I am so sorry for her, Jonathan!"

"She has a kind brother, though," continued Jonathan, "who wants her to have as happy a Christmas as she can, so he has begged this bough from me, and I have found an old pot to put it in. Maybe, miss, among your things in the nursery you can find a broken toy or so and a bit or two of coloured ribbon, if I might make so bold. It will deck it up gay-like for the poor little creature."

"Oh yes, Jonathan, that I will! We have heaps of things that nurse calls rubbish in our toy drawers. I will ask mamma about it. But how shall we send them? You have not told me her name. Where does she live?"

"They call her Corrie, miss, though I believe her right name is Coralie. Widow Campbell named her after the youngest little girl she used to have charge of when she lived in this house as nurse many years ago. Corrie's brother is in the kitchen now, miss, if you would like to see him."

"Ask him to wait until we speak to mamma. She has sent us to get ivy for her now to decorate the rooms with, but we will be back very soon."

And away scampered the children.

Millicent, a little lady five years old, stood at the nursery window watching her brothers and sister as they ran races across the frosty lawn, trying who should be first to reach the wood. But the blinding shower of tears falling from her blue eyes soon hid them from view.

"They are very unkind indeed," she cried, stamping her foot, "when they know I cannot go with them. Papa and mamma are very cross not to let me. I want to go and get ivy too."

From low sobs, the crying swelled into a passionate roar, which reached even Robin's ears as he sat below in the kitchen.

"Miss Milly! Hush! Stop crying, dear," said nurse. "You will make your cough so bad. Look! Baby is quite frightened at the noise you are making."

"I don't care, nurse! Everybody is very unkind. I want to go out now and pick the ivy!" And the child's slight delicate frame trembled with the passion she was giving way to.

"Milly!"

It was her father's voice; and in one instant the screaming ceased.

"Milly!" he repeated, in a grave sorrowful tone. "Nurse, please take baby into the next room. I must talk to my little girl alone."

Gently he drew the naughty child into his arms, and placed her on his knee, beside the fire.

"Milly has made papa's heart very sore to-day; she has quite forgotten Sunday night."

"No, I haven't, papa."

"I see dark heavy clouds and streaming rain on my little girl's face, but no smiling sunshine. I hope it will come soon."

"I wanted to go out," she began; but a bad fit of coughing prevented the end of the sentence.

"Do you want to be in bed again, Milly, and have more biting mustard on your chest? Remember, the doctor said if you were not a great deal better, you could not go downstairs to see the Christmas tree to-night. I think I must tell nurse to undress you and put you to bed again."

"No, no, please not, papa!" pleaded the little invalid, with her arms clinging about his neck. "I have been very naughty; but I am good again now. I don't like being ill at all."

"Do you like being miserable, Milly?"

"No!"

"Oh, I thought you did. When people want to be very unhappy all day long, they have only to do one thing, and they will be sure to succeed. Can you tell me what that is?"

Milly's face was now quite hidden on her father's shoulder, but no answer came.

"They have only to think about themselves from morning to night, and cry me, me, for everything. That is a very ugly picture, is it not? Suppose we look at another: How to be happy all day long instead?"

"How?" whispered the little penitent, with a tighter clasp.

"Why, never to think about self at all, but try and see how many other people can be made happy. If everybody did that in the world, there would be much less sorrow. Suppose we try, Milly, you and I? I wonder who will succeed best? What does mamma say? Here she comes, and Clarice too; they look as if they had something to tell us."

Mamma smiled, while Clarice knelt down to whisper something in her sister's ear.

"But I want to hear too," said papa.

"Oh, very well, we will say it out loud!

"Papa, Robin Campbell, the washerwoman's son is here, and Jonathan has been telling me all about his poor little sister Corrie. She is quite lame, and never never can walk; and they are very poor. He wants to make a Christmas tree for her with a fir branch Jonathan has put into a pot and given to him. Mamma says Milly and I may have it up here in the nursery and dress it, and then Robin can come again to fetch it in the afternoon. Won't it be nice, Milly?"

Such a bright smile came over Milly's face on hearing this, that papa said, "Ah! There is the rainbow! I thought it would come; and here is nurse with the fir bough to be decked for Corrie. You will have a happy morning now, my little girls!" he added as he left the room.

And it was a happy morning, for its hours sped so swiftly away that neither of the children could believe it was over when dinner-time came. First there was a golden star to be cut out of some gilt paper that had adorned a cracker. This was fastened to the top of the bough.

"There are more dolls than we want in our dolls' house family," cried Clarice. "Let us take two of those, and put fresh sashes on them; and here is an old tin soldier, to keep them in order. Oh, I forgot this bag of sweeties! This will tie on here, and just fill up the bare space. What next, Milly?"

"My little sugar lamb, I think, Clarice. I do love my little lamb, and I have kept him so carefully. No; I really cannot let him go. But yes, yes I will. It will make poor little Corrie so happy. There! I have tied it on; and here is a pink rose to go next to it, and all these red and yellow crackers mamma sent up just now."

And so the miniature tree grew gay by degrees up in the nursery, while papa and mamma worked away at the big one in the dining room with locked doors.

Not even one peep could Alfred and Arthur obtain, though they hovered outside the windows all the morning!

CHAPTER IV

FATHER CHRISTMAS

CORRIE sat with clasped hands before her Christmas tree, her large eyes fixed upon it in speechless admiration. Robin stood beside her, waiting anxiously for the first word; he had persuaded her to shut her eyes as he carried her in from the adjoining room and placed her in her chair before the gaily-decked fir bough. It seemed as though some fairy vision had enthralled the child's senses as each green tip was gazed at in wondering awe.

Presently one small hand was raised gently to touch the sugar lamb, as if to make quite sure of its reality, and a deep sigh of satisfaction preceded the smile that broke over her features as she whispered, "Oh, Robin!"

As her arms stole round his neck, he saw there were tears in her eyes.

"Robin, did God send me my Christmas tree?"

"Yes, dear little sister. He put it into the hearts of those kind young ladies at Oaklands to get it ready for you; and they are all so glad to think you are having a happy Christmas. They are coming some day to see you, Corrie; and they have promised to bring you pretty flowers from the garden. Oh, mother, it made me so glad to bring home the tree yesterday, and the basket of meat and plum-pudding! Miss Clarice came down into the kitchen to watch her mamma and the housekeeper pack the things that were to be given away; and everybody was so kind and merry, that I wished I could run the whole way home to tell you about it."

"God bless them all!" murmured the widow. "I think they would be rewarded if they could see our darling now."

"Is the pretty wood you told me about like this, Robin?" said Corrie as she touched the spiky green.

"Yes, something like that, little sister, only ever so much taller. You look up and up, right through the green branches to the sky; and the trees stand all thick together, so snug and warm that the cold winds cannot hurt them. I wonder how the fir tree liked being dug up yesterday by Mr. Jonathan, and carried away from its companions? It could tell a pretty story after seeing all the grand things last night."

As Robin said this, a secret longing stole over him to have been there himself, to take one peep at the lighted rooms.

If he had, he would have seen a happy little girl carried in at the door, wrapped in a warm shawl; and Milly's smiling face would have revealed some of the gladness resting in her heart that forgetfulness of self and thought for others had awakened.

That castaway and seemingly useless fir branch had been as God's messenger, doing its work faithfully in both homes. It was like the olive branch of peace plucked off by the gentle dove that made Noah's heart glad, because it held the promise of a bright and living hope.

Milly joined in the general shout of admiration as children of every size and age trooped in from the hall.

"Father Christmas cut fruit from his wonderful tree for everybody that night; young and old, rich and poor, alike were remembered. To 'send portions unto them for whom nothing is prepared' is his special prerogative, as year after year he distributes his bounties, filling up the overflowing measure with plenty of hearty goodwill and Christmas cheer.

"I am so happy!" whispered Milly into her father's ear. "I should like to kiss Corrie for making me so glad. I forgot all about myself when I was doing things for her."

"Ah! You have found out the secret, my pet. Papa's darling must never forget it all her life. She will then always be able to find the rainbow among darkest clouds."

Robin had made his round rosy face shine with the soap he had scrubbed it with on Christmas morning. And now, in his neatly patched Sunday best, he left mother and sister to the enjoyment of a quiet morning at home, and followed the sound of the melodious bells up the street to the old grey church, whose porch invited all to enter and hear the sweet message of God's goodwill towards men. The holly leaves glistened bright among the woodwork, and blessed words were written in evergreen letters on the walls. Robin spelt them out reverently from his free seat:

"'Unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given; and the government shall be upon His shoulder: and His name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.'" (Isa. ix. 6).

The minister knew what wondrous tidings he had to tell the people, and his eye beamed with joy as he read the story of Bethlehem. He begged each one of his hearers not to be content with merely looking at the holy Babe in His humble manger cradle, and going away to their work in the world to forget all about Him. Christ must be born in each heart by the Holy Spirit of God, and then the life will be a Christ-life, because Jesus will be dwelling there.

The Lord Christ now, as then, stoops from the throne of His glory to knock at the door of every heart. Oh, do not let us say, "There is no room for Him in the inn;" rather let us open the door and invite Him to enter, to dwell with us as Lord of our whole life and being; so shall we walk with God.

"I hope He will come into my heart," thought poor Robin, "and never never leave it." And he prayed, "O Lord Jesus, I want to love Thee. Bless me now, and mother, and Corrie. Amen."

It was a long winter that year, and many a heart yearned wistfully for the genial spring sunshine, especially in homes where coals were scarce and garments thin and scanty, and the money which procured them hardly earned.

Milly thought it was bad enough to be a constant prisoner in her warm and comfortable nursery, and was at times sorely tempted to give way to peevish complainings and fretful temper. But the precious plant of love, which blooms brightly in the soil of unselfishness, began to take root in her young heart, to bear now and in after years much fruit to the glory and praise of God. Will those who read this story try each one to plant a slip of it in their life's garden? It is the true heartsease, for where it blossoms, there is always a contented happy spirit, rejoicing in the sunshine of God's love.

At last the snowy border of Nature's ermine robe began to fold away, and flowers were decking her green kirtle. The bulbs had lain so many weeks under their white covering that they had almost forgotten how long they had been asleep. But at last, the pale snowdrop and gleaming crocus peeped shyly up to nod to each other in the sunshine which had called them from their hiding-places.

One day, Milly's papa brought in a poor little motherless lamb from the field, nearly dead with cold and hunger.

To the great delight of the invalid child, it was wrapped in flannel and laid in a basket before the nursery fire, to be fed and warmed by her loving hands. What joy when the stiffened limbs began to move and the eyes to open!

"May I have it for my own?" cried Milly in ecstasy. "Oh, you darling!" she whispered. "You are much better than the sugar lamb I gave away at Christmas. I shall call you Daisy, because you are white and your eyes shine so brightly."

So Daisy grew and flourished, until he was too big to visit Millicent in the nursery any more. Fan, the black retriever, having been bereaved of her puppies, had taken kindly to the motherless stranger, and given it a warm welcome. The two would lie curled up in the straw together, in a snug corner of the stable; and on warm days, Daisy was tethered on the lawn in sight of the nursery window.

This new object of interest, and many indoor pleasures, planned by the thoughtful love of her parents, reconciled Milly to a necessary imprisonment of months; and she no longer looked with envy at Clarice and her sturdy brothers, equipped for walking or riding. They paid many a visit to the widow's humble dwelling, to take little delicacies to Corrie, and such cheer and brightness as would make the small pale face light up with a glow of pleasure whenever she heard the patter of their footsteps.

And all this joy had its beginning in Corrie's happy Christmas!

At the close of March, after a week of mild damp weather, there dawned a day of such rare sunshine and blue sky that the nursery windows at Oaklands were thrown open, and nurse looked in vain for the captive bird. For while she was engaged elsewhere, and mamma had baby in the drawing room, papa had been upstairs and stolen his white dove, as he called his delicate child. What fun to get out hat and jacket surreptitiously from the wardrobe, and the warm shawl to wrap over all, and the little boots that had not been on for so long! Milly laughed a merry laugh as she ran up and down on the smooth gravel path, holding her father's hand, while mamma smiled approvingly through the window with baby on her knee.

"You will carry me down to the wood, won't you, papa, when they are in sight? What will Corrie say when she sees the primroses?"

"Why, there are the boys, Milly; come along, little woman, we shall be in plenty of time." And papa's long legs went quickly over fields and ditches by a cross-cut to the meeting-point.

"Hurrah!" shouted Alfred and Arthur. "Look at Milly and papa! Make haste, Robin!"

But Robin at this moment had eyes only for the occupant of the neat and pretty basket perambulator he was steering carefully as Clarice walked by the side talking to Corrie. The use of this small carriage for the first time was to the children as important an event as the launching of a lifeboat; for had they not all combined since that happy Christmas-tide to obtain it for the poor sick child, who was shut away from all the country sights and sounds that would so delight her?

The money-box in mamma's room had grown heavier and heavier as pennies and threepenny-bits, and a bright shilling now and then, found their way through the small slit in the lid. These children were permitted to earn money in various ways, and all vied with each other in their interest and self-denial in this good cause. Papa and mamma finally completed the required sum by a handsome donation, after a prolonged trial of their children's labour and patience.

And to-day all these hopes and good wishes were realised; and the happy workers felt the reward fully recompensed the sacrifice. It had required no small amount of perseverance and self-denial in many ways, which children alone can understand. Yet they were far happier than the petted spoilt autocrats of some nurseries, whose wants are so abundantly supplied. There is nothing left to wish for; no channels open to them for the flowing out of a free God-like charity, the possession of which has power to make the desert places of any heart "rejoice and blossom as the rose."

When Robin heard of the prospect of a carriage for his little sister, his heart seemed almost too full for words. Was it a dream? Would Corrie actually see the flowers growing he had so often brought home to her in handfuls? He could picture in anticipation her eager hands reaching out after the countless treasures which he had not been able to carry her to look at since she was quite a baby-child.

No wonder, then, that his little sister's face was a study to him now as he heard her cry of delight when the woodlands appeared in view. A flush of gladness overspread her features, giving for the time an appearance of health. What the ecstasy of joy was to the poor sickly child only Robin knew fully. To be taken out of that dark street past budding hedges into the pure fresh country had long been a beautiful vision, which neither he nor Corrie had ever expected could be so soon realised. She had tried to content herself with seeing the glory and the beauty of rural haunts with Robin's eyes as he faithfully recounted each ramble; now she beheld them for herself, and rejoiced as a butterfly does who has found its wings.

Corrie was a little shy of the pretty ladies, as she called Clarice and Milly, who ran about close to her on the greensward, filling her basket with tufts of moss and flowers. Suddenly, as they passed round a clump of trees, a glade opened to view, the ground of which was studded thick with primroses. There was a universal scream of delight as Corrie's carriage halted on the soft flower-strewn carpet.

"Oh, the pretty golden stars!" she cried. "Robin, let me pick them myself. Oh, Robin, take me in your arms!"

The boy did so, after spreading mother's big shawl carefully beside a bright clump of primroses, that Corrie might gather for herself.

Ah! how quickly the little hands were filled as each slight stem yielded to the pull of eager fingers! All too soon the happy hour passed away, and it was time to go back to mother, hard at work, yet all the while thinking of God's goodness to herself and her crippled child in raising up such kind friends.

CHAPTER V

THE GARDENER'S LESSON

OLD Jonathan's home was a picture worth studying. It consisted of two small rooms, one over the other, in the little round house which stood at the entrance to Oaklands. Its name, "The Lodge," seemed given in irony. Passers-by often wondered why such a crazy old tenement should be allowed to remain on the boundary of so fine an estate; for it was more like a battered old pepper-pot than anything else, with its rounded roof and sides, and its cracked slates, which often, parting company in a high gale, left holes for the wind and rain to enter, thus making the resemblance more painfully exact.

Yet the old man loved his dilapidated cottage, and could never have felt at home in a new lodge, though faultless it might be within and without. How tenderly he would twine the tendrils of the vine still higher each year, and encourage the merciful ivy to creep up and up, to cover all defects, and shield the cracked walls from rude blasts, which sometimes threatened to shake them down!

"Let us crumble away together," was old Jonathan's speech to the proprietor of Oaklands whenever there was any talk of a new house. "It would break my heart, dear master, to have a stone of her touched. Let be, let be. Don't ye touch a stone till I am gone. One of the many mansions in glory will be my new home. I don't want any other till I go there."

And so Jonathan always had his own way, for his kind-hearted employer could not resist such pathetic pleading.

The aged pilgrim and his house were indeed a match for each other; and as he went in and out through the rustic porch day after day, the tender green tints of vine and Virginian creeper deepened and crimsoned, and grew golden with happy autumn tints, until they fluttered away on the wings of a wintry wind.

Robin often crossed the threshold, and the ideas of order and neatness which he found so useful in after life were chiefly gained from his observations in the old man's home. For here was a place for everything, and everything in its place. All was neatly arranged and scrupulously clean; and on the round table in the window was the great Bible that had belonged to Jonathan's mother, with the silver-rimmed spectacles beside it.

There was a small lean-to room behind, which was full of gardening pots and tools; also boxes with divisions, to keep the bulb roots and flower seeds separate. Knots of bass and twine hung from the wall, for tying up stray branches, and a great pair of scissors sat astride on a nail above. There were also bunches of dried and sweet-smelling herbs, of which Jonathan well knew the properties. His practical knowledge of simple remedies he was often called upon to use on behalf of his humble neighbours, who all looked up to him as an authority on most matters.

The villagers wondered how he could live there all alone from year to year, doing everything for himself. Only a few of the oldest inhabitants remembered the sad story he brought with him of the fever-stricken town he had fled from, a widower and childless. His Maggie would never grow old. She had gone away to the better land with her two little ones, just at the beginning of the life-journey which both husband and wife had thought would be such a long one together. Not many knew why he brushed away the tear that was ready to fall on the golden-haired child he would take upon his knee, as the little ones crowded round the porch of his house on their way home from school. There were three locks of hair in the old Bible, and sprigs of rosemary and lavender beside them. They were laid upon the page that told of a happy spring-time: "My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away." (Cant. ii. 10-13).

Those withered tokens were the old man's only "in memoriam." But they kept his heart tender and child-loving as now and then he touched them reverently, and thought how long it was since his loved ones had gone to dwell in the presence of the King.

It was in spring-time his great life-sorrow had touched him; yet he always seemed to love that season best. Keenly alive to the beauties of Nature, he would study her ways minutely in trees and flowers, birds and insects. The fruit trees in spring were as a poem to the aged man in their lovely blossoming.

One day Robin found him looking lovingly at some pale almond flowers flushed with faint pink. He was reading a lesson from their delicate petals.

"Isn't it beautiful?" said Jonathan as he bent the blossom-laden branch towards Robin. "Aaron's rod must have looked like that, my boy, when it brought forth buds, and bloomed blossoms. What a wonderful lesson for the Christian heart!"

"I don't remember about that, Mr. Jonathan. Is it in the Bible?"

"Ay, that it is; and you may read it for yourself, my lad, when you get home. Find out the 17th chapter of Numbers, and there you will get the whole account. There were twelve rods laid before the Lord, but only one was chosen—the one that belonged to the priest. Christ is our Priest, and He is the Ark of Safety, where we, as lost and guilty sinners, may hide ourselves and be safe in Him; then He decks us in His robe of righteousness, which is far more beautiful than these lovely perishing flowers, and we not only blossom, but bear fruit."

"But what is meant by 'bearing fruit,' Mr. Jonathan?"

"Well, my boy, I think kind words and looks, and struggles against sin, are fruits that God likes to see in us. When we give up doing what we like, and try to please God and everybody around us, I think He smiles and says, 'There is fruit, pleasant fruit on that tree.' But we must keep the branch inside the Ark; there the east wind of sin can never blight its fair promise. Out of that shelter, the blossoms must fall and perish, and there will be no fruit. 'Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine, no more can ye, except ye abide in Me.'

"'They who in appointed duty
Live most secretly with God,
Shall come forth in fullest beauty,
Blossoming like Aaron's rod.
Plants can flourish in the dark,
If within the Golden Ark.'"

Robin never forgot that lesson, learned among the fragrant trees. The old man was delighted to have so interested a listener beside him, as day after day he sought to open Nature's book before the boy in the light of God's revelation. The fig tree and the vine each had their instructive story as the work of cutting and pruning or dressing went on.

"Even the thorny bramble in the wood puts us to shame," said Robin's kind teacher, one September day; "for, look! How glad it makes the children as it offers its ripe blackberries to them as they pass. Can we do as much as that poor prickly thing? Or is it only thorns we have to offer?"

Jonathan's teaching was all given by parable and allegory, and Robin was only one of the many who benefited by it. The children of his beloved master shared in its happy influence as they played beside him or worked in their garden plots. Every opportunity was turned into a golden one, and much seed sown that for the time seemed trampled down, but which was destined hereafter to spring up and have its blossoming and fruitage in hearts that would bless the friend who had sown and watered with such loving careful patience.

The good man connected everything around him in some way with God's truth; and this it was that made his lessons so real and living. The children of Oaklands could never read about the wearied Saviour and the woman of Samaria without recalling the moss-grown well in the corner of the garden, with its rusty chain and buckets, where Jonathan had told that sweet story of old as he filled his water-cans.

The water of life, that in its freshness slakes all thirst for ever, had its earthly illustration in the dark depths of their own spring-fed well, and it was a life-long association.

But my readers will like to hear how it happened that Robin was able to be with his kind friend and teacher so constantly. After that sunny day of primrose gathering in the wood, the master of Oaklands had a long conversation with Jonathan about Robin.

The under gardener had been suddenly dismissed the previous week, and as the place was now vacant, there was an opportunity for saying a good word for the widow's son.

"I would like to find someone trustworthy, who would grow up under my eye and take my place when I am gone," the old man had said. "I am not so young as I once was, and the rheumatics, especially in winter, tell me the old tree must come down some day. But as in the forest I never mark a tree for felling without first planting a sapling beside it, so I would now like to find one of a good stock who will grow up faithful to your service, sir, when these hands can no longer work for you and yours."

Jonathan's advice was taken, and Robin duly installed in his new post. What a big man he felt the first time he put his week's wages into his mother's hand! He was to be the bread-winner of the family now, and mother could afford to pay a smaller boy to fetch and carry the clothes from the various houses. At church the following Sunday, who felt happier or more elated than Robin, dressed in the new suit given him by his master? Ah! how many good things grew out of Corrie's happy Christmas! It had certainly turned a bright page in the history of Robin's life.

Jonathan's words awakened many new thoughts in the boy's heart as day by day he listened to them in the garden at Oaklands. But Robin's youthful inexperience made some of the things uttered by his wise teacher hard to be understood, and roused doubts and questions which had not existed before.

One day he had been hearing much about the inborn corruption of the human heart, described in Scripture as "deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked." Robin remembered more than once having paused on the threshold of the lodge on hearing the prayer of faith being poured forth within; and he thought it strange that such agonising pleadings against sin should have such a prominent place in his friend's petition.

Jonathan seemed perfect in the boy's eyes; good, kind, generous, and a never-failing friend. There might be wicked people in the world; but it would be easy to keep separate from them. Could not Robin look with complacent satisfaction on his own life? Was he not a good son and loving brother, taking home his earnings on Saturday night with a punctuality that never failed? The public-house, with its crowd of idlers going in and out, had no attraction for him, thanks to the earnest and careful training of his good mother. He knew that not a more sober industrious lad could be found in the whole parish than he was.

But he had yet to learn that he carried the world in his heart, and that it was on this battlefield that he must war against its trinity of evil, "the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life." Robin began to think old Jonathan was over-conscientious in the discharge of duty, and over-strict about little faults.

Why had he spoken so sharply to him that very day about the watering of a few plants? "I did not mean to forget them," ought to have been a sufficient plea to justify him. Was forgetting a sin? A slip in the memory was surely to be excused. Why should Jonathan say the narrow path was thickly hedged with thorns, ready to prick on the right hand and on the left? It seemed such an easy thing to be a Christian!

What did old Jonathan mean by the east wind of sin coming to nip the early buds? Robin found the answer to his questions in a bitter and most painful experience.

CHAPTER VI

A TEMPTING BAIT

ONE morning, Robin entered the kitchen at Oaklands, carrying a basket of freshly-cut vegetables, which the cook stepped forward to take from his hand.

"Good-morning, Robin," quoth she; "you are a good boy, and never keep me waiting; your mother will find there are not many young men in the world like you."

The lad crimsoned to the roots of his hair, while a secret swell of pride inflated his heart, and echoed back the flattering words, as he thought over them with delight. Cook had called him a young man; no one had ever done this before! He felt several inches higher as he looked up and gave a bright smile by way of answer.

"Oh yes," added the cook, "you are just the sort of fellow that will always be a favourite. No one can deny that for a moment! I think there is a nice piece of cold apple-tart in the larder that will just suit you." And she disappeared to fetch it.

Now Robin was extremely fond of nice things, all the more so because he rarely got them. His good mother had always been too poor to provide many luxuries for her children. It was only by hard shift and toil that the wholesome loaf was placed before them. The baked joint, so temptingly surrounded by potatoes, which Robin fetched from the bakehouse every week, exciting often the envy of thoughtless neighbours, had to be eked out by dint of many a painful saving effort on the mother's part; and Robin could often have eaten a great deal more it there had been plenty on the table.

It is not to be wondered at that, under these circumstances, when a tempting bit of apple-tart was offered to him, a greedy pleasure filled his heart as he accepted the proffered dainty. There was no question in his mind whether it was right or wrong to take it, for Robin knew it was the recognised custom of the house to give away scraps in this way. The housekeeper had often desired cook to give him something to eat as he stood and waited.

The boy had yet to learn that the evil of the matter lay in the good things being offered him as a bribe to do wrong. But at the present time he was wholly unaware of such a motive, and only thought, as he munched away outside the door, that cook was very kind. He often wondered why Jonathan had so little to say in the kitchen. Robin had even seen him look severely at the woman sometimes as he gave her his short answers.

"She must be too full of fun," he thought, "for the sober old man;" for her loud laugh was constantly heard.

The boy had made his observations quietly, and, though he had never been told it, knew instinctively that cook detested the head gardener.

She had indeed reason to fear him, for Jonathan was only waiting till something should happen which would prove his surmises correct to speak plainly his opinion of her character.

Robin now began to think his dear old friend was too particular, and hoped he would not appear round the corner before he had finished his bit of tart. Both Jonathan and Robin's mother had warned the boy not to be more in the kitchen than was absolutely necessary, as they knew it was through a quarrel with the cook that his predecessor had lost his place.

But there was surely no need to be too strict! Alas! Poor Robin! How warily and subtly does the tempter take possession of the heart! When Robin had finished, he heard cook calling to him again, and went in to obey the summons.

"Here," said she, with a coaxing smile, "you will not mind doing an errand for me when you go home to the town by and by, will you?"

"Certainly not," replied the boy. "I shall be very glad to do it. What is it?"

"Well," said the woman, producing a good-sized covered basket, "I want you to be kind enough to take this to No. 15 Andover Street. There is a note inside for my mother, about something very particular. You can just hand it in, and call for the basket again on your way here to work to-morrow morning. But," she added, "don't let Mr. Jonathan see it or know anything about it. It is just a little errand for me, that need not concern anybody else."

Robin looked perplexed and uncomfortable. He had not been accustomed to do underhand things; his mother had always brought him up to be quite open; he had never concealed anything from her in his life. Why should he now? Yet, if he refused, cook would never give him anything nice again, and he should not be able to let Corrie have a share of the dainty morsels. That would not be kind, and yet—

A faint remonstrance rose to his lips; but cook did not hear it, as she said, "I will put the basket behind the knife-house door; you can fetch it from there when you leave work; and mind! not a word to anybody."

She was gone, and so was Robin's opportunity of fighting the good fight. He turned away, with a guilty feeling at his heart, to join old Jonathan in the kitchen garden. There was so much digging and planting to be done that day, that Robin's abstracted manner did not attract attention; and the boy set himself to work with double diligence, by way of relieving his conscience, which would awake again and again to trouble him with her stings.

"I have done nothing wrong," persisted Robin's heart; "why should I be unhappy?"

How strange it was that old Jonathan's talk to-day should be of the allurements of sin! "'My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not.' 'Wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way? By taking heed according to Thy word.'"

"The wise man's eyes are in his head," quoth the gardener, with a frank and sunny smile at Robin. "When you are going on a strange road, you do not walk along staring at the sky. No; your eyes are straight ahead, to see which way you are going. By this means, if there are any pitfalls, you can avoid them; and the finger-posts at the cross-turnings prevent any mistake as to the direction. So with the Christian. The Word of Life is his lamp and guide-book in one, and if he looks into it earnestly enough, he will never go wrong. That is what is meant by 'taking heed according to Thy word.' 'For the commandment is a lamp, and the law is light, and reproofs of instruction are the way of life.' The Holy Spirit feeds the flame in the lamp; and when it shines on the directions in the Word the path is as straight as an arrow."

"Yes," answered Robin, but so absently that his companion stuck his spade into the ground and looked at him.

"Is the little sister more ailing than usual to-day?"

"Oh no, Mr. Jonathan; but I want to get back to her as soon as I can this evening."

"Well, my boy, and so you shall; we have only got to finish this border, shut the glass-houses, and do a bit of watering; then I will walk down with you to my house on your way home. I asked master to-day if I might send a rose plant to Corrie in a pot, and he said, 'Yes; let her have one with plenty of buds on it.' Master is always good and kind. So it is all ready for you to take home to-night; that will be better than the fir branch."

But the gleeful sparkle that usually came into Robin's eyes when any pleasure was in store for Corrie was lacking now; and his old friend noticed it, wondering what was wrong, as the boy answered hurriedly—

"Oh, thank you! How glad she will be Master is very good."

How he wished old Jonathan would not walk down with him to the lodge. What excuse could he possibly find to go back and fetch the basket? There was none; and it seemed to get more and more hopeless as they walked down the avenue.

"There! Take care of the buds, my boy. Carry it steadily; the little lass will love to see them opening every day. Good-night, and God bless you!"

Robin carried the pot down the road a little way, until out of sight of the lodge; then, setting it down dose to the hedge, where it would be hidden by a tree, he climbed a fence, and by a short cut across fields and meadows soon found himself on the back premises of Oaklands. Like a thief, he went stealthily to the outhouse named by cook, snatched up the basket, and ran off again. He had to cross part of the avenue, and while doing so observed his master coming up on horseback, with Miss Clarice on her little white pony cantering by his side.

A dive! A leap! And he was crouching down behind a tree, where he remained in hiding until the riders had passed. He had never before felt ashamed to be found anywhere on the premises of Oaklands. Well, it would only be for this once! Cook would probably never want him to do it again; then it would be all right.

Robin felt greatly relieved when he had rid himself of the basket in Andover Street; but to go there he had to deviate considerably from his homeward route, so that he was later than usual.

"What has kept you, my son? You are a good hour behind time."

"There was some extra work to do, mother; we did not leave work punctually this evening."

Now this excuse was true to a certain extent, though the working hours had not been exceeded beyond ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. Yet Robin felt he had told a lie. Why should his mother have asked that question to-night? She so seldom seemed to notice the hour he got in. But further questioning was cut short by Corrie's exclamations of delight over her rose tree, and in gladness of heart for her poor sick child, Mrs. Campbell forgot all else.

So Robin's remark about the extra work was met by no comment. But when the boy knelt down as usual to pray that night, how strange it was that no words would come! That covered basket was the only object that danced before his eyes! He had not looked into it, and knew no more than Corrie what it contained. Yet he felt it was not all right. He could think of nothing else. He rose from his knees and opened his Bible; but the texts seemed just black print, and nothing more. He did not even remember what he had read a moment after the book was closed. Hastening into bed, he went off to sleep as fast as possible, and awoke next morning feeling as if something dreadful had happened.

It was later than usual, and he must hurry off without lighting the fire or filling the kettle for mother, because he had to go round by Andover Street for the basket. It was a great relief on reaching Oaklands to see old Jonathan afar off at work in the garden, so that Robin could skirt along by the avenue without being noticed.

Cook received the basket with a nod and a smile, saying—

"Come in after breakfast."

The old gardener stopped for a moment in his work as Robin ran up the path to join him.

"You are late, Robin," he said quietly; "this must not happen again. Remember, we rob our master if we do not give him the full time that he pays us for."

"I could not help it," murmured the boy as he met those kind eyes looking sadly at him.

"There is something the matter," muttered his quick-sighted old friend. "Out with it, Robin! What is troubling you, my lad?"

Ah! how often and often did the boy wish afterwards that he had responded to this loving appeal; but his heart seemed growing as hard as a stone, as, making some trivial excuse about Corrie, he continued his work, and even tried to assume a careless cheerful manner, talking and whistling by turns.

But Jonathan was not deceived, though he made no further comment.

"I must go in presently and ask cook what vegetables are wanted to-day," said the elder man, after working away for some time in silence.

"Oh, let me go!" answered Robin with alacrity; and, almost before his companion could look up, the boy was off at full speed towards the kitchen door.

Cook met him with a smile of approbation. "It is all right," she said. "Mother was so glad I was able to send her that note. I can trust you again to do errands for me. See! here is a good hunch of plum-cake, which you can put in your pocket; and if it is too much for you now, save a bit for your poor little sister. Another day you will go again to mother's house for me, won't you? I cannot get out very often; there is so much to be done in this family."

Robin was thankful she did not ask him to go again to Andover Street that day. It would be time enough to refuse the next time she asked him to do it; he would not make her angry to-day. Thus he silenced the inward monitor once more.

"Has mother been out long, Corrie?" was his first question that evening on returning home, to find the little sister playing alone on the floor with her toys.

"No, Robin, only a few minutes; she said you would be coming directly, and she was obliged to go and get the money from some of the houses. Oh! what is that?" she added, looking with unfeigned satisfaction at the piece of cake.

"Nice cake for Corrie," replied Robin; "you like plum-cake, don't you?"

"Yes, very very much; may I eat it now? We must keep some for mother."

"No," said Robin, as the uneasy thought struck him that it was the price of sin. "You may eat it all; I will bring mother some more another day. Make haste, Corrie, and then I will tell you a story."

"A pretty Bible story?" queried Corrie with a wistful smile.

"Yes, if you like."

So Corrie ate her cake and then curled herself up into her old attitude in Robin's arms, as on that happy night before Christmas, while he began to hunt in his memory for a story.

But somehow it seemed as though he were trying to sing a song and had forgotten the words; each Bible incident that came to his mind brought a condemning meaning with it.

"Tell me about the naughty people in the beautiful garden, Robin, who stole the fruit from the tree God told them not to touch!"

Her brother obeyed; and when he had finished, she looked up into his face and said—

"They would not have been afraid of God, would they, Robin, if they had not been naughty?"

"No!" groaned Robin.

"Does God see us all day and all night too?" continued Corrie. "Even in the dark, when we are under the bedclothes?"

"Yes," answered the boy. "It is never dark with God. He is always looking at us."

"But we need not be afraid," persisted the child, "because you have often told me, Robin, He loves us very much. Mother says she loves me, even when I am naughty, only it makes her heart sore when I do bad things. Does God love like that?"

"Yes, little sister, He does."

And putting up her hand, Corrie felt that Robin's eyes were wet.

At that moment their mother returned, and stories were over for to-night.

"Such nice cake!" whispered Corrie as she was being undressed.

"Did you bring it home for her, Robin?" asked Mrs. Campbell.

"Yes," answered her son; "they gave it to me up at the house."

The answer was scarcely heeded, for with a preoccupied air, the poor woman kissed her little girl as she covered her over in bed, and then sat down at the table to count her earnings, and consider what she could afford to buy the following day.

CHAPTER VII

THE BROKEN VASE

TO free himself from the accusations of conscience, Robin determined to keep out of cook's way for a few days. But resolutions made in human strength are but as grass: "The sun is no sooner risen with a burning heat, but it withereth the grass, and the flower thereof falleth, and the grace of the fashion of it perisheth."

Repentance without a root will only endure for a while; and so the poor boy found.

Cook soon made an opportunity, and silenced his well-meant excuses by the most plausible reasoning, as well as by unlimited promises of dainty bits for himself and Corrie.

Again and again the covered basket was placed in readiness for removal from its place of concealment, and frequent practice made Robin very expert in eluding Jonathan's sharp eyes; so much so that the old man began to think his suspicions were groundless as far as the boy was concerned, especially as he had seldom now reason to find fault with his work.

Robin often noticed the clink of glass bottles as he was carrying back the basket to Oaklands, but as the cover was always securely tied down with cord, he did not feel tempted to look inside. It was not until long afterwards that he connected this sound with the woman's frequently excited manner, which at times quite frightened him. Yet the poor lad felt himself enthralled in a hard bondage. Cook had at first made him her slave, and now kept him so chiefly through well-timed flattery. So, though he often thought of rebelling, Robin still continued to obey her secret orders, having little reward beyond that of seeing his little sister's face brighten up when he produced a nice piece of cake or pudding for her. This pleasure could be enjoyed in some cool green spot beyond the town, where Robin would take her in her little carriage of an evening when his day's work was over. Yet the boy was miserable, and the prattle of his innocent sister made him more so.

"Why should I be afraid of cook?" he reasoned with himself. "I will tell old Jonathan all about it, and he will help me."

This sage plan would have been put into execution, if something had not happened the following day which tightened yet more closely the chains that bound him. Robin had put on the fetters when he first listened to the tempter's voice.

Some friends were invited to dine at Oaklands, and Jonathan had begged, as a special favour, to be allowed to arrange the flowers for the centre of the table. Robin had carried in the basket, and now stood beside the old man in the china pantry, watching him select the choicest blossoms for the handsome china vase placed ready to receive them.

The lovely bouquet was soon complete, and Jonathan went off again to the garden. Robin lingered behind for a few minutes, gazing with delight on the pretty cups and plates and glittering glass, all so neatly arranged upon the shelves. It was seldom he had an excuse for coming farther into the house than the kitchen. Alas! His curiosity cost him dear, for, turning round suddenly, his arm came in contact with the lovely vase, knocking it against an awkwardly projecting corner of a cupboard. One of the handles snapped off and fell to the ground. The boy stood aghast for one moment; then, snatching up the fragment, flew with it to the kitchen.

"Oh, cook, help me!" he cried. "What shall I do? Look what has happened! I didn't mean to break it; it just chipped off as I turned round. Please don't tell master or mistress: I might lose my place if they heard of it!"

"Yes, that you would," cried the cunning woman triumphantly, with a sharp look in her eyes, though she well knew that an accident such as Robin had just met with would not be considered in the light of a crime, but would only elicit a sorrowful regret and a request to be more careful in future from the gentle mistress of Oaklands. But at the present moment it suited her purpose to terrify the lad with the fear of consequences; so, raising both her hands with a deprecating gesture, she continued, "Well! You have got yourself into a fine scrape; but as you are a good lad, and always do what I ask you, I will be a friend in need. I know where the housekeeper puts the diamond cement; the handle shall be mended so that no one shall know it was ever broken; it will never show."

"Oh, thank you!" said Robin, in the relief of the moment feeling grateful enough to be always her willing slave. "Can I do anything for you to-day?"

"No, not to-day, but to-morrow perhaps."

And Robin went out feeling that now he was completely in her power. And so it proved. From that day his excuses were of no avail. The vase had been so well mended that no one knew of the breakage except cook; and she had only to threaten a disclosure of the fact if there was the least hesitation in the carrying out of her commands.

The poor boy found that the way of transgressors is hard, and that one false step leads to many more. He was very miserable now, though keeping up an outward appearance of good by being extra diligent at his work. Fear of man was the one thing that spoiled Robin's character; he lacked the courage to say no, and present a bold front to the enemy. He had not yet learnt how "to add to his faith virtue," that fearless valour for the truth without which no Christian soldier can fight the good fight, and as a conqueror obtain the victory over the world, the flesh, and the devil.

Some weeks after the accident in the china pantry, Clarice sat in the drawing room practising at the piano. It was a hot day in July, and the French windows were open down to the ground. The lazy hum of bees, and the sweet breath of flowers, and the sunshine outside made the child feel idle. A sudden fancy impelled her to leave her music and flit out through the open window.

She presently returned with some roses off a bush she was allowed to gather from. Looking about she perceived the china vase in the centre of the table, and proceeded to turn out some of the fading flowers, and replace them with those she had brought in. This was a disobedient act, for she knew well that neither she nor any of the children were allowed to touch that vase. However, she did not think of this until too late, so engrossed was she in her self-imposed task.

The withered rose leaves fell in a shower on the crimson cloth, and in one instant the child resolved to lift the vase to a side table, and gather up the fallen leaves to throw them away. Poor Clarice! The handle that had been so cleverly mended was the first she took hold of, and with a smash the costly china ornament fell upon the table, while the water streamed among the scattered flowers down to the carpet.

Clarice uttered a loud scream, which quickly brought her mother to the room, who stood in consternation at seeing the wreck before her.

"Oh, mother!" sobbed Clarice. "Indeed I didn't do it; it was not my fault. I don't know how it happened. I was lifting it so carefully."

"Clarice dear, you know quite well you are never allowed to touch anything in the drawing room. Your disobedience was the cause of this accident; and my favourite vase cannot be replaced. I am grieved that my little girl was tempted to do what she knew was wrong. You wasted your time instead of practising your music. How true it is that:

"Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do."

"But I did not break it, mother; it broke by itself!" pleaded the child in a tone of the deepest distress.

"Hush! Clarice darling. Do not say what is untrue. My beloved child must be careful to keep to the exact truth, come what may. I am not angry with you for breaking the vase, because an accident may happen sometimes even to the most careful. Your fault lies in the disobedient act. Go away upstairs now by yourself, and think about it quietly. By and by you will tell me you are sorry. I shall not be able to take you out driving with me this afternoon, as I intended."

Clarice did not wait to hear any more, but ran off to the night nursery, to fling herself on her bed and have her cry out there.

"It is very unfair!" she sobbed, pushing back the hair from her flushed face. "Mamma won't believe me. Oh, dear! What shall I do? Why did I look at those roses?"

"You were disobedient," suggested Conscience, that faithful monitor, as Clarice began to feel the force of her mother's words. Yet she did not wish to give up the idea that she had been unjustly condemned. It was pride alone that prevented her going at once to her mother's room to confess her fault.

The dinner hour arrived, and Clarice took her place in silence with the other children. Still there was the same sulky tear-stained face, though her mother looked with such loving sadness at her naughty child.

Clarice watched her go upstairs to get ready for the afternoon drive, and longed, in spite of herself, to run and say just the little word that would put it all right again. But no, she lingered and hesitated until it was too late; and from the schoolroom window downstairs she watched the carriage drive away, with Milly seated beside mamma. With her eyes full of tears, Clarice sat down to prepare her lessons for the morrow.

While so doing she heard steps on the gravel path, and knew old Jonathan was at hand. He had heard about the accident from the servants, and felt very grieved that his dear little Miss Clarice should be in trouble. She was so seldom naughty that it was a great puzzle to him how such a thing could have happened. The child gave one look, to make quite sure it was her dear old friend, and then held out both hands towards him.

"I have been naughty, Jonathan," said the honest little offender; "but it was not quite my fault, though nobody believes me."

Then followed a faithful narration of facts, exactly as they had occurred.

"Well, my dear little lady," replied the gardener, twisting the rose off the empty watering-pot he held in his hand; "old Jonathan is but a poor comforter; yet he always likes to look for the rainbow in a shower. Dry up the tears, and let us see what can be done. God knows all about everything, and that is why it is such a comfort to go and tell Him. There! There! Don't cry any more," added the affectionate old man, taking up a corner of the child's white pinafore to wipe away the blinding tears, which flowed all the faster for this loving sympathy.

"Mamma loves her little girl more than a thousand flower vases. She is not angry with you for breaking it, my love. Bless her dear, kind, gentle heart, she is the last to punish for that sort of thing. It was only because you did not mind your music, my dear, and what she told you about keeping from touching the things in the drawing room.

"My mother used to tell me when I was a little chap that I had no eyes in my fingers; and 'twould be a good thing if all children remembered that wholesome lesson. It would save them from many a mishap. Now, when mamma comes back, let her find her little girl with a sunny face and lessons all ready for to-morrow. Why, some day perhaps you will be able to buy her another vase; that will be something for you to save up your pennies for. Crying will not mend the broken pieces. When we have done a naughty thing, the best way is to be very sorry for it, and then turn over a new leaf and to begin again quite fresh."

As Clarice began to see the force of this sound reasoning, a happy light broke over her face, and the sobbing ceased.

"Oh, Jonathan!" she whispered. "You always make me want to be good."

"It is not me, dear child; it is not me! It is God's Holy Spirit, which is promised to all who ask for it. This is the candle of the Lord; and when it lights up our dark hearts, we see our faults as God would have us see them, and we are so sorry. Then He makes us good again, and the darkness all passes away, and we are happy once more. O Lord, help Thy dear lamb!" murmured the aged man, looking up into the blue sky as he moved away to continue his work.

Now Robin happened to be weeding a path close by, and consequently overheard most of this conversation. Every word had pricked him like a sharp thorn, for he knew well that if it had not been for his concealed transgression, Clarice's trouble would not have been so great.

Yet he dared not confess the truth. A guilty feeling made him tremble and turn pale as he passed that window and caught sight of the tear-stained face within. He could watch the quickly moving lips, as Clarice set herself resolutely to master her lessons; yet, though it touched him and made his heart sore, he had not the moral courage to say the word that would free her from much of the blame. He dared not face the consequences involved in such a course of action, and therefore still determined to keep his unhappy secret.

That night the silver moonlight shone down alike into hall and cottage window. Dear little Clarice knelt by her white bed, with her hands clasped and a happy smile upon her face as she looked up into the starry sky. She was thanking God for making her good again. The burden had been lifted off her heart by her mother's kiss of forgiveness, and "the peace which passeth all understanding" left its seal upon her brow as she fell asleep.

Not so Robin: he looked out of his bed into the moonlight, and turned away from it quickly with his face towards the wall. The brilliant beam seemed too pure for his eyes to-night, and he could only think of the words his mother had been just reading aloud from her Bible: "'The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!'" (Matt. vi. 22, 23).

CHAPTER VIII

THE BIRTHDAY QUEEN

IT was like a musical alarum, when Carolus, a bright golden canary, began to trill one morning early to Mistress Clarice. His companion, Chérie, who shared with him the pretty blue and white cage, thought the song was meant for her, and began to stretch her wings and plume herself as she listened. Blackbirds and thrushes called and chirruped from the garden below; but the canaries could not see them, as the nursery blind was not yet drawn up. Those merry singers on swinging boughs outside in the clear morning sunshine made Carolus very restless. He hopped from perch to perch, pecking up seeds faster and faster, and peering through the slender wires with his bead-like eyes, as if longing that the sleeper in the small white bed near the window would awake and talk to him.

But Clarice was still in dreamland, and so was Milly in the opposite cot; for it was only six o'clock, and even nurse, who was an early riser, had not yet begun to stir.

Poor Carolus grew desperate, for the sunlight came slanting in between the bars of the venetian blind in the most provokingly tempting manner. At last, he piped his loudest, shrillest notes, and actually succeeded in making Clarice open her eyes.

"Thank you, Carolus," she whispered, springing up lightly; "you are the first to wish me many happy returns of my birthday. Oh, it is a fine day! I so am glad. Is Milly awake, I wonder? Yes, the clothes are moving."

In another moment two little feet were standing on the cane chair by the window, and Carolus came to the bars of his cage to take some hemp seed from a pair of red lips. One peep through the blind, out into the garden lying in sunlight and cool shadow, a happy look towards the rosy-tipped clouds in the blue sky, and Clarice skipped across the floor to the other cot.

"Hush! Don't wake nurse and baby," said the elder child gravely, with upraised finger. "Come into my bed. I want to talk to you about so many things."

Milly rubbed her eyes as if she could not quite tell what was happening, then her arms were round her sister's neck in a loving clasp. "Do you know what I am going to give you for a birthday present?" was Milly's first question.

"No. Shall I guess?"

"Yes, you may guess it; but I cannot tell you if you are right, because it is a great secret."

"One of your white rabbits?"

"No."

"A gardening-basket?"

"No."

"A story-book?"

"No."

"Something to use?" suggested Clarice.

"Oh, please don't guess any more! I am so afraid you will find it out; and you must not ask me about any of the parcels I saw in mamma's room last night. One was such a funny shape, I wanted to open it, and peep."

"Who is awake so early, I wonder?" laughed nurse, for it was in vain to try any longer to close her ears to the whispering buzz. "Many happy returns of the day, my dear Miss Clarice."

"Oh, nurse!" pleaded Milly. "Please dress me very early to-day, because I want to go to my garden before breakfast. You know what for, nursey dear."

"Oh yes, I know," answered nurse; "but you must have a little patience. There! You have wakened baby with your chatter. I thought you would. Now I wonder if you two little girls can keep him quiet, and amuse him, till I am ready."

"Oh yes! Oh yes!" chimed in both voices. "Come here, you darling baby-brother!"

Baby allowed himself to be transferred from the cradle to his sister's bed with the greatest equanimity, only opening his large solemn eyes a little wide as they laughed and played with him.

"Baby George has only had one birthday since he was born," cried Clarice, kissing him. "I have had eight; that is seven more than he. I don't think he cared much about his presents, not even the pretty coral and bells that grandmamma gave him. Did you, darling?" she added, proud of the responsibility of holding him in her arms. "One, two, three, four, five kisses more for the sweetest baby that ever lived."

A merry shout from the adjoining room told the sisters that Alfred and Arthur were also awake.

"Many happy returns of the day!" they cried, peeping in at the door. "Make haste, Milly; we want you in the garden."

Just then mamma appeared to give the birthday kiss and carry off baby. When the chatter ceased, the children were got ready for breakfast; and Carolus went on with his song through everything, trilling out his full clear notes in the summer sunshine, which now flooded the room.

Pale blush roses, with the dew still upon them, nodded in at the window, and ivy-twigs bent and trembled as the free birds alighted on them every moment, charmed and attracted by the clear song of the captive canary.

The four elder children were allowed to breakfast downstairs with papa and mamma on birthday mornings; and this was considered a special treat. Clarice felt quite shy when Milly met her at the dining room door with a wreath of flowers, wherewith to crown her queen of the day, and papa led her to the chair beside him.

A number of tempting unopened parcels half-buried in flowers quite covered her plate, as though she were not expected to eat any breakfast. Then all the servants came in to prayers, and papa asked God especially to bless his dear little girl on her birthday by giving her His Holy Spirit, to teach her to walk in the heavenly way all the years of her life.

Clarice herself joined earnestly in the petition, for she had lately learned by experience that being happy meant being good, and this made her long that God would teach her the way. It was a great puzzle to know which packet to open first, there were so many. A reference Bible from papa; a writing-case from mamma, fitted up with everything a little girl could want to write a letter with; a birthday text-book from Milly; a silver thimble from Alfred and Arthur; a blue sash from Aunt Emily; and last of all, in a little box to itself, an old-fashioned embroidered silk purse, with a golden sovereign shining inside.

Clarice gave a cry of delight, and clasped her hands together. Papa looked grieved as he saw the fascination the piece of gold had for her, and said, "I hope my Clarice is not too fond of money?"

"No, papa dear; I am sure you would not think that, if I could only tell you something. I am so glad I can do it now. I thought I should have to wait for months and months."

"Do what?" inquired mamma.

"Oh, mother, please don't ask! It is a real secret—only old Jonathan knows about it; and he will be so glad too. Papa, I shall whisper to you about it by and by. There! I won't talk about it any more now," said the delighted child, closing the snap of the purse resolutely, and beginning to admire the other presents over again.

"There is the postman coming up the avenue," said Alfred. "Let me go. Three letters for Clarice!" he cried, after a speedy return. "One from grandmamma, one from auntie, and here is another with the London postmark, and a roll of music. That must be from Uncle George. How rich you are, Clarice! I wish my birthday was coming soon!"

Breakfast over, and the presents removed to a side table, Clarice sat herself down in one of the bay windows to read her letters over and over again, for one contained an invitation from Uncle George to go to London with papa next month. The other children had left her alone, to run off and watch the erection of a large white tent on the lawn; for Clarice had begged, as her birthday treat, that she might have the school children and their parents to tea. To this request her father and mother had willingly consented, so glad were they to encourage kind thought for others in their little ones. The shouting and laughing outside soon drew Clarice from her retreat; and, as it was a whole holiday, the morning was spent in decking the interior of the tent with evergreens and flowers, Jonathan and Robin assisting.

"Jonathan," whispered the birthday queen, after enumerating to him her various presents, "only think: grandmamma has sent me a golden sovereign. Will that be enough to buy mamma another vase?" she added wistfully.

Robin heard the question and the assenting reply. "Ah, if Miss Clarice could only know the truth about the broken handle!" thought he. "I hate cook for making me so wicked," he said, half aloud, as he went off to the shrubbery for more green boughs. "I never was so unhappy in my life."

And all through that bright birthday there hung a gloom over the boy that he could not shake off; its shadow pressed upon him as he watched the merry groups of people trooping through the gate by Jonathan's cottage, and saw their smiles of satisfaction and delight as the white tent appeared in view. He had scarcely any heart to go home and fetch Corrie and mother, though Miss Clarice had herself told him how glad she should be to see them.

Once more he tried to forget as he watched the bright face of his little crippled sister, and saw that in his mother's eyes the weary look of toil had given place to one of real enjoyment and delight.

"It would break her heart if she only knew how bad I am; if it were not for that, I think I would make up my mind to tell her all."

"Robin does not look a bit glad," said Clarice to Arthur as she ran forward to welcome the trio. "Has Jonathan been scolding him, I wonder?"

"Mountains of cake!" shouted her brother in answer. "Look, Clarice, at the trays going into the tent. They will never eat all that."

It certainly did seem an endless supply.

Nevertheless the trays returned again and again to the house to be replenished, as the happy entertainers went in and out among those seated at the long tables, to see that everybody had plenty and enjoyed themselves.

Milly took especial care of poor little Corrie, and sat beside the basket carriage, holding her plate and cup. She had not forgotten the lesson of unselfishness learned while decking Corrie's fir bough. It had formed a link between the two children, that would never be broken.

A few kindly words were spoken by the master of Oaklands at the close of the feast. He said he hoped they would all remember the greatest birthday that had ever dawned upon this world, the birthday of the King of Glory, without whose presence and blessing no life could be a real true life.

"Everybody," continued he, "who loves God has had two birthdays in their history: the first, when they were born into this world; the second, when God opened their eyes by His Holy Spirit to know and love Him in believing on His dear Son Jesus Christ our Lord, who loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood. For those who, in the power of this new birth, have entered the true life of the children of God there can be no doubt; for, when their earthly life is over, God will Himself open to them the gate of everlasting life. I want you all to remember about this wonderful soul-birth. You may all of you have it if you will, for the Holy Spirit waits to breathe upon you the breath of life; and God has promised to give that blessed Spirit to those who ask—'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.' May our heavenly Father, who loves you, bless you one and all."

Clarice stood by her father to shake hands with everyone as they went away; and in that calm summer evening, as the happy village folk wended their way to their several homes, that message of peace and goodwill echoed in their hearts, causing many of them to covet earnestly the best gift—that blessing of the Lord which maketh rich, adding no sorrow with it.

"'Truly the Lord is good,' 'and His tender mercies are over all His works,'" said old Jonathan to himself as he lifted the latch of his cottage door, after bidding good-night to the last straggler at the gate.

It was not till the festivities of the birthday were over, that Clarice returned to the dining room to fetch her presents from the side table, where she had left them in the morning. She began gathering them up one by one, and only lingered yet another moment to unsnap her purse, and take one more look at her golden sovereign. It was gone! The pretty purse was quite empty. A look of dismay crossed the hitherto untroubled face; tears welled quickly into the blue eyes, and, a few minutes after, the little birthday queen was sobbing bitterly in her mother's arms.

"Oh, mamma! You don't know how dreadful it is to bear, because I can't tell you my secret. Who can have touched it? I put it so carefully into the purse this morning. Surely nobody can have come in from the garden to steal it!"

The poor excited child was gradually soothed and calmed, till nurse, with a pitying look, suggested she should go to bed. The search continued through the house. The servants were diligently questioned, and all set to work to look for the lost money, but in vain.

"Little missy must have thought she put it back into the purse," said cook, who, down on her knees, feeling all over the dining room carpet, was foremost in the search. "It must have rolled away into a corner."

Poor little Clarice dried her tears, and said good-night to her father with a desperate effort. She knew well that no one could be more sorry than he that a dark cloud should have come to overshadow her happy birthday. Yet when the nursery door was shut, and Milly asleep, another shower of tears wetted the tired child's pillow ere she sank into forgetfulness of her trouble.

"I never heard before that a piece of money had legs to walk away upon," said Jonathan the next morning, as the tale of the lost sovereign was repeated to him by cook. "Let those who hide find, say I."

"You don't suppose the thief is In the house!" replied the woman tartly. "I am as honest as yam, old Jonathan."

"I am glad to hear it," was the gardener's quiet comment as he went out.

CHAPTER IX

CAUGHT!

"GOOD-NIGHT, my boy."

"Good-night, Mr. Jonathan," said Robin as he turned the corner by the lodge to go towards his home the following evening.

The old man shaded his eyes with his hand as he watched the retreating figure for some distance, until a bend in the lane hid him from view, then said aloud as he entered his house, "There is something wrong with the lad, and I cannot come at it; he is no more like the same boy he was three months ago than a fresh rose is like the withered one I have just thrown away. What can it be? Bad companions, perhaps; but I never see him about with any of the town lads. I wonder if his mother notices the difference."

Jonathan was about to seat himself in his big arm-chair for a good rest, when suddenly he recollected there was something he had forgotten to see to in one of the glass-houses; so, taking his knotted stick from behind the door, he once more began to trudge slowly up the avenue. Did his eyes deceive him? It was surely Robin that he saw leaping over the fence and running across the field as if for his life. Why did he come that way? Was he going to the house? Yes; he opened the white gate leading to the back premises, and presently disappeared.

Jonathan's first impulse was to meet him in the field on his return, and question him as to his errand; but the old man knew his stiff legs would not reach thus far in time, the boy was flying at such a rate. He therefore hid himself behind a large tree, and from his place of concealment saw Robin a few minutes after return through the gate, and by the same short cut regain the high road. But he had a basket on his arm! Where was he taking it to? Why did he come back to fetch it? Here was an explanation of the boy's restless impatient manner when detained at the lodge gate for a few moments before wishing him good-night.

"There is something underhand going on," muttered old Jonathan sadly. "I was sure of it. The poor lad could not look me in the face to-day when I asked him a question; he got scarlet when I mentioned cook's name. What can it be? He has got into a thorny path, and I must see him out of it, even though my own hands get torn. I will be his friend, whatever it costs; and I pray God we may see the right side of this business before long."

While his dear old teacher and friend was thus sadly musing over what he had just seen, Robin, wholly unconscious of detection, was doing his utmost to make up for the time so unwillingly lost while talking to Jonathan at the lodge. But he had not got more than half-way when he heard the sonorous tones of a church clock warning him that the hour had come when he had promised his mother he would try to be at home. She had said she wanted him particularly.

There was therefore no time to go round by Andover Street, though cook had urged the necessity of his doing so. He must carry the basket home with him, and take it there in the morning. Thus resolved, he sped swiftly up the street leading to his own home; and, lest his mother should question him about the basket if she saw it, he ran quickly through to the court, and deposited it in a corner hidden by a stack of sticks, before entering the room where she and Corrie were sitting.

Mrs. Campbell greeted her son with a bright smile, saying, "Ah! Robin, you are a good boy. I hoped you would not keep me waiting long, for I have to go and see a lady to-night who owes me some money for washing. Take Corrie out for a bit to the green fields. It has been so hot here all day for her. I am obliged to keep up the fire for the ironing."

"All right, mother," was Robin's quiet response. And she, hastily putting on her bonnet and shawl, had not time to observe how miserable he looked.

After her departure, Robin carefully considered whether he could not first take Corrie to Andover Street and leave the basket. But he knew that the house his mother was bound for was in that immediate neighbourhood. What if she met and questioned him? He dared not risk it.

Besides, she had often said she did not wish Corrie to be taken into close dirty streets; and there had been a great deal of fever in the town of late. The child, too, would be sure to tell mother about the basket if she saw it. No; he must leave it until to-morrow morning; but meantime, for greater security, he would remove it from the backyard and hide it away under his bed. So Robin kept Corrie waiting in her carriage outside the door while he did this.

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave
When first we practise to deceive!"

He went sadly and quietly along towards the fields, which lay some distance beyond the town. At last they turned off the high road to a favourite spot beside a running brook, where were grassy hollows and tall shady trees.

Robin was so busily occupied gathering wild flowers for Corrie, and so preoccupied with his own thoughts, that he did not notice the gardener of Oaklands was trudging, quite close to them, the other side of the hedge, along the white dusty road. But old Jonathan's sharp eyes had spied out the brother and sister, though he passed by without any sign of recognition, muttering, "There is no time to be lost."

Mrs. Campbell was disappointed In not finding the lady at home, and therefore returned sooner than she expected. Great was her surprise after reaching home to hear old Jonathan's voice at the door.

"Come in, Mr. Jonathan," she answered cheerily, on catching sight of the wrinkled face. "It is many a long day since I have seen you down as far as this. I hope nothing is wrong at the house, or that Robin is not wanted, for he is gone out with Corrie; but I expect them in soon."

The old man seated himself, and paused for a moment to wipe his forehead with his red handkerchief and regain his breath, for he had walked quicker than was his wont. Then he said, "Did Robin not tell you about the lost sovereign?"

"No," replied the widow, turning pale at the thought of her son being suspected of a theft. "Indeed, he has had no time, for I went out directly he got back this evening. Pray tell me about it."

The gardener accordingly proceeded to recount the story of the missing money as he had heard it in the kitchen that morning.

"You don't think Robin touched it, do you?" said his listener, aghast and trembling.

"No," replied her true-hearted friend, "I don't, for I believe he is honest to the backbone; but, for all that, there is something wrong with the boy, Mrs. Campbell; and I've failed as yet to find it out. I can only see he is miserable and unhappy; and I've a notion that cook has beguiled him into underhand ways. I have long suspected this, but could prove nothing until this evening, when I watched him return by a short cut over the fields to fetch a basket from the back premises."

"He brought no basket here, Mr. Jonathan. Of course I should have seen it if he had," added the poor woman hotly, for she felt her temper rising.

"Then he did not come straight home," said the gardener.

"Oh yes, he did; he was in much earlier than usual, and there was nothing in his hand."

The conversation continued until it was suddenly interrupted by Corrie's voice in merry chatter as Robin brought her in. Jonathan was the last person he expected to see, and he looked both ashamed and foolish on perceiving him seated by the fire. The boy's guilty fears, bred of an accusing conscience, nearly made him drop his sister after lifting her from the carriage. Mrs. Campbell saw the look, and, taking Corrie from his arms, she carried her into the adjoining room to put her to bed.

"Robin," said Jonathan sternly when they were left alone, "tell me the truth at once: what did you do with that basket I saw you fetch from the house?"

"The basket?" stammered the boy, hoping to evade the question by gaining time to frame a suitable answer; but, meeting the piercing look of those keen grey eyes, his own fell before it. The whole truth must come out now, and Robin burst into tears. "Oh, Mr. Jonathan!" he sobbed. "I am so glad you know about it! I have been so very very miserable? There it is," he added in a husky tone of voice—"there it is, hidden away under my bed, because I could not take it to Andover Street to-night for cook. But oh, Mr. Jonathan, I know no more than you do what is inside it!"

Then followed a full and free confession of the sin that like a millstone had been weighing him down for so many weeks. Mrs. Campbell entered the room unobserved by her son, so great was his agitation.

She listened in silence for some minutes, then sat down upon a chair, to cover her face with her bands and weep bitterly.

"Oh, Robin, how could you be so wicked?" she cried. "What would father have said if he had been here? Oh, that I should have lived to see my son act so deceitfully!"

A piteous glance at his mother was the only answer he could make.

"Give me the basket," said Jonathan, stretching out a hand, which shook as though palsied. "Robin, you must return with me to Oaklands. I must see the master to-night. There can be no sleep for either of us until this matter is cleared up."

"Oh, Mr. Jonathan, I dare not see master! He will turn me from his service directly he hears what I have done."

"Don't be a coward, Robin! 'Dare and do the right!' is the Christian's motto, whatever the consequences may be," said the old man resolutely. "Master is a just and upright man, and ever a friend to those who need one. Commit your cause to God, and He will plead it for you."

But the boy's agony of mind was so great that he still sought for a subterfuge, and said, "But there may be nothing wrong in the basket. I never looked inside to see what cook put there. She said it was only something for her mother. Do open it and see."

"Not for the world," replied Jonathan. "Nobody but master shall cut that cord. Ah, Robin, Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you like wheat; but the Lord Jesus is praying for you, I am sure of that, though you are now too miserable to pray for yourself. If there was nothing wrong about that basket, there would have been no need to send it away secretly. You know that as well as I do. I quite believe you did not know what terrible trouble you were bringing upon yourself when you promised to obey that dishonest woman; but that is another matter altogether."

"It will be in the hands of the police to-morrow!" sobbed the poor mother as her head bent still lower.

"Well, I believe there will be a piece of work for them here," said Jonathan, pointing to the basket, "if ever they were wanted; but I hope, for your sake, master will not expose it publicly. Come, Robin, we are wasting precious moments."

But the boy still lingered, though his old friend had moved to the door.

"Mother, forgive me!" he cried, melted into the deepest contrition, and quite overcome at sight of her hopeless stricken expression. His arms were round her neck now. "I never never will do such a thing again! Do believe me!"

"Robin," she said slowly, and raising her tear-filled eyes to his, "you have sinned deeply against God, and brought a stain on our good name which can never, I fear, be wiped out. Your master could not keep anyone in his service who had acted as you have."

"Do not add to the lad's distress," said kind old Jonathan, returning to lay his hand upon her arm. "Rather encourage him to face his duty like a man. Master is a Christian gentleman, who will do the right, whatever that may be. Pray for Robin; and may God send you an answer of mercy and peace! But take heart to believe your prayer will be answered, or it will not be the prayer of faith. I will do my best to speak up for the lad, you may be sure."

So saying, he went slowly out.

The boy gave one more look at his mother, and followed Jonathan with a sinking heart.

The two walked on together for some time in silence, Robin feeling as though he were being led to execution, while Jonathan lifted up his heart at every step to entreat the Father of the fatherless to look down in pity, and avert the shadow of evil now resting upon those in whom he took so deep an interest.

CHAPTER X

SET FREE!

THE master of Oaklands was somewhat surprised late that evening to receive a message from his gardener requesting to speak with him in his business room.

"Say I will be there in a few minutes," was the answer. "I hope there is nothing wrong," said the gentleman to his wife. "It is most unusual for Jonathan to ask for me at this time in the evening."

The few minutes seemed like hours to poor Robin as he sat waiting with Jonathan, his ear attent for the first footstep along the passage, his eye fixed on the handle of the door, watching for it to turn. Even the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to be pronouncing a severe sentence as it ticked loudly, and presently struck the hour with a sharp decisive clang like the strokes of a hammer. Before Robin had finished counting it, the master entered; and one look at the lad's downcast shame-covered face caused him to inquire quickly, "Why, what is the matter, Jonathan? Is Robin in disgrace?"

"Ah, sir, he is in sore trouble," replied Jonathan, rising to speak, "and there can be no relief for him till you know all about it. I will tell you the whole matter from beginning to end, and may God guide your judgment."

So the master listened patiently to every word, only interrupting the gardener now and then to ask Robin some questions, which were truthfully answered.

"Say to your mistress, I should be glad if she would come here immediately," said the gentleman to a servant, after ringing the bell; "and tell cook I wish to speak to her."

Robin ventured to lift his eyes to the gentle lady's face as she entered, hoping to find pity and sympathy there. As he did so, cook appeared, looking very red and uncomfortable, yet with a bold stare on her face, as though she could not imagine why she was wanted. She darted a keen look of hatred at her victim, when she caught sight of the fatal basket on the table, which so terrified the poor boy that he shook from head to foot.

"Cook, will you tell me what is in that basket?" said her master quietly.

The woman muttered something indistinctly about mother wanting a few things; then, trying to cover her defeat by an outburst of passion, said fiercely, "That is my basket. No one has a right to touch it but me. That boy is a sneak and a liar, and—"

"Silence!" interrupted the master. "Before you say any more, I will, in the presence of these witnesses, open the basket; and if it is found to contain nothing but what belongs to you, all shall be returned."

The string that had so carefully secured the cover was then cut, and the contents exposed to view. There was a large piece of bacon, with some lard, half a pound of butter, two pots of jam, and a good-sized cake. Nor was this all. On searching further, a small box was discovered containing a sovereign, and beside an empty bottle marked "Gin" lay a note addressed to her mother, and signed by cook. It directed that fifteen shillings of the money should be taken to a certain pawn-shop in Andover Street, with the enclosed numbered ticket, to redeem a certain valuable ring her mistress had dropped in the hay-field three weeks ago. Further instructions were added about the refilling of the bottle, and a special request that all might be ready for Robin to bring back the following morning. This was read aloud.

And the woman, seeing now there was no hope of escape, confessed to the whole of her misdeeds, imploring forgiveness, as the sudden terror seized her that the affair would be made public in the police-court. She said she had been tempted to take the sovereign from the embroidered purse on the morning of the birthday, when everybody was engaged in the tent on the lawn. She had heard her master promise a handsome reward to the finder of the lost ring, and therefore wished to redeem it quickly, that she might receive the promised sum.

The truth was all out now; but the master and mistress soon discerned there was no real repentance connected with cook's confession. It was only made under fear of the retributive justice she expected would swiftly follow. This was evident from the fact that, though the reading of the note had proved Robin to be no accomplice in the theft, she did her utmost to involve him in her own disgrace by telling tales of his frequent visits to the kitchen, the half of which were untrue.

"You have said enough, cook," said her master sternly. "I do not wish to hear any more. You have nothing to do with Robin; he has his own punishment. You will leave my service to-morrow. A cab will take you to your mother's house. For the sake of Mrs. Campbell, whom I respect, and whose son's ruin you have sought, I will not bring the case before the police; but let me never see you on these premises again."

The sentence was received with an expression of dogged indifference, which changed to a look of defiance as she left the room. Long and earnestly did her gentle mistress plead with the woman before her departure, trying in vain to awaken the hardened heart and conscience to a sense of sin. Those words of loving reproof and counsel fell upon an ear of stone—an ear that some years afterwards longed for that voice of Christian love, when none were nigh to speak a word of hope, as she sat a wretched prisoner in a county jail.

Robin did not lose his place. His humble and penitent confession, given without reserve as soon as cook had left the room, convinced the master that his was genuine sorrow. Another chance of gaining an honourable character must be given to the boy. This kind decision was confirmed by Jonathan's entreaties, who pleaded for Robin as if he had been his own son.

"Go home," said the old man after the interview was concluded, and he was walking down the avenue with Robin. "Go to your knees in humble thankfulness, and pour out your heart to your loving Father, against whom you have sinned. If you want words, turn to the fifty-first Psalm. You will find everything there; and God has said, 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'"

So Robin went home; and there, after saying good-night to his mother, who had awaited his return in much anxiety, and receiving her forgiveness, he knelt down beside his bed, with his Bible open before him, to cry with his whole heart:

"'Have mercy upon me, O God, according to Thy loving-kindness; according unto the multitude of Thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions. Wash me throughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. For I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. Against Thee, Thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in Thy sight. Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.'"

That prayer rolled back the cloud's dark face, and showed its silver lining. The load was gone from Robin's heart, and he could rest in peace.

Jonathan's master did not forget to thank his faithful servitor for all the trouble he had taken in discovering the theft. But the ring was still to be redeemed. Would Jonathan go to the pawn-shop and fetch it back?

To this, he willingly consented.

"It will be best for me to go," said he. "They are a rough lot down in that part of the town."

Accordingly, the following morning, he trudged off upon his errand, and slowly threaded his way with his trusty staff through long close streets, every turn of which he knew well.

At last he stood before a house, above whose doorway swung the familiar sign of the three gilt balls. Jonathan had to wait ten minutes before he could be attended to, as the shop was rather full, even at this early hour.

"What a history some of those things could tell!" thought he, as he stood and surveyed the various articles hanging one above another without reference to sort or kind. Those little petticoats and shoes! Where were the poor helpless children who once had worn them? Alas! Perhaps hungry and barefoot, because the huge public-house at the corner had tempted fathers and mothers to rob their little ones for the sake of that cursed drink. A small hungry-eyed girl, with a tattered pinafore and no frock, who held on by her mother's dirty gown, glanced up at the kindly old man, as if the smile she found on his good-natured face was something new in her experience.

At length there was a movement and shuffling of feet towards the door. Jonathan's turn to be served had come. Several of the rough customers eyed him askance as they passed out. His honest respectable face looked as if it had no business in such a place. A sullen-visaged woman scowled suspiciously when he made known his errand by presenting the ticket. Some low-muttered words passed between her and the rascally-looking man who held out his hand to receive the money. The pearl ring was in Jonathan's possession; and he clutched it nervously, lest by any mischance it should slip through his big fingers before he had restored it to its rightful owner.

Robin met Jonathan as he went to his work, and the old man noticed that the lad looked into his face with glad fearless eyes. The guilty shame was no longer there. Ah! How happy Robin felt as he ran along the road after that morning greeting! The birds' merry matin song made true music in his ear, for he was in tune with it now. The hardest work would be light to-day.

But it was some time before the shadow of that dark experience left the boy's heart. In his calm review of the past, each wrong step showed clear before him; he could see how pride had been his stumbling-block, because he had been "wise in his own eyes." How easy he had thought it was to be a Christian!

"The grass is always greenest in the valley of humility," he had heard old Jonathan say, and wondered what he meant. It is there that the Good Shepherd maketh His flock to lie down in the sultry noon, beside the still waters. The boy recalled the lesson taught by the fragrant almond boughs, and awakened to its meaning. Out of the shelter of the golden ark, the rod had remained bare and fruitless. It was the work of the Holy Spirit alone to revive and freshen, by leading him back to the ever-open door.

One day, to Robin's great delight, he saw Miss Clarice running through the garden gate towards him, rake in hand. There had been no opportunity of speaking to her since the day cook departed, and there was still something on his heart which made it heavy; so, moving forward to meet her, he said, with a downcast look, "Please, miss, I wanted to tell you it was I who broke the vase, and got you into trouble. Mr. Jonathan knows about it."

"Oh yes, Robin! And so does mamma now; but she is not angry with you, because you are sorry. I was naughty, you know," added the child, with a sad look, which, however, quickly changed to a bright smile as she ran to her garden, calling out, "It is all right now, Robin."

Ah! How free and unfettered did the boy feel now! That gentle touch had healed the wound remorse had kept open.

"The birds have never sung so merrily before," thought he, as he worked away with a happy will. "Surely the sky was never so blue!"

Certainly the mother had not heard her boy whistle so blithely for weeks, or noticed such a bright smile on his face, as she did that evening when he ran in and put his week's wages into her hand.

"I am so glad to think you know about everything, mother, and that there is nothing to hide now," he whispered.

"You will tell me a nice story to-night, Robin," pleaded Corrie, who had caught the reflection of her brother's smile.

"Yes, darling. Come away to the green fields. You shall fill your basket with beautiful flowers to-night, and we will be so happy!"

"Happy and good," said Corrie, repeating a favourite household word.

Its significance sent a strange thrill through Robin's heart as he bent down to kiss the pale face.

CHAPTER XI

FOREST LODGE

THERE was great excitement in the small hamlet near Oaklands when one day some passers-by observed that bricks and mortar lay in heaps close beside Jonathan's cottage, and that workmen had already begun building just behind it.

"The old man's home was going to be pulled down," they said. "It was too bad, after he had lived in it so many years."

Jonathan smiled at the gossip, and patted the children's heads as they stopped to stare or climbed upon the railings; yet no amount of questioning could make him give the information so eagerly sought.

"Those who live longest will see the most," was his conclusive answer; and nothing further could be got out of him, though everybody tried by turns.

Day by day the walls of the dwelling-house grew higher and higher, until it was ready for its roof and chimneys. Not much could be seen of it from the road, as it was partially hidden by Jonathan's cottage, and faced the forest trees he loved to muse among. The setting sun would glide over their waving tops and fill the rooms with a happy evening glow, and the wood-pigeons would coo their dreamy song close by, all the summer day.

So thought the old man, for it was spring-time again before the last workman departed. But though the new house stood ready for use, who was to occupy it still remained a secret. Neither had any orders been given to pull down the old lodge,—that was the strangest part of all, people thought.

And Robin was as much in the dark as anyone else, though every evening, he recounted in his own home what was going on at Oaklands.

The mystery was solved a little sooner than was intended, through the following circumstance.

Mrs. Campbell, hard at work as usual, was one morning interrupted in her occupation by the entrance of the rent collector, who with his cross red face and inevitable book was seldom a welcome visitor among the poor.

"Called for the rent," said he gruffly.

"It is quite ready," replied the widow, reaching down a cracked teacup, into which she had put the required sum the night before, to be at hand when wanted.

"All right, missus! I've come to tell you the rent is to be raised five pounds a year."

"Oh no surely not," replied the poor woman, aghast. "I cannot pay more, and you promised it should not be raised for three years."

"Then you must be off; property is rising in this part of the town," was the only answer as he tore off the receipt; "plenty of room in the workhouse, failing other lodgings."

This parting piece of insolence went to the poor woman's heart like a sharp arrow, though she concealed her feelings till the man had departed. How dared he say such a thing, when she had always paid her rent like an honest woman! For the moment she forgot to lift her heart above, and her tears fell fast.

But Corrie's arms were soon about her neck, and the child's touch recalled her to herself.

"I will go to Oaklands this evening when Robin comes home, and ask to see the master; he will help me, I am sure, if he can, and will tell me what I had better do."

Thus setting aside her care, and asking her Father in heaven to give her strength and guidance, the widow went briskly to work again, and by the time Robin returned, was quite ready to set forth on her errand.

"'God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble,'" was the reassuring whisper she seemed to hear as she walked along, though fears innumerable would crowd into her heart. "He has never failed me yet; and I will not distrust Him now, for He has promised to help me."

Meeting her kind old friend Jonathan at the gate, she told her tale to him first.

"The master is just gone up the avenue," he said. "Follow him at once, and you will be able to speak to him."

Mrs. Campbell obeyed, and ten minutes after found herself sitting waiting in the business room, where the gentleman did not keep her long in suspense.

"Well," said he cheerily, "good-evening, Mrs. Campbell. Nothing wrong, I hope? But it is unusual to see you so far from town at this hour."

The poor woman then told her story without interruption; and as soon as she had finished, her patient listener looked at her with a kind smile, saying—

"I do not think you need distress yourself. I was coming to-morrow to tell you something that I think you will be glad to hear, and which will quite set your heart at rest about the landlord. The new cottage has been built for you and your children. You are to live there rent free as our laundress."

"Beg pardon, sir?" said Mrs. Campbell, in her sudden joy believing she could not have heard aright.

Robin's kind master repeated his speech, adding, "We want you to move into your new quarters next week."

"Oh, sir!" she faltered, in an unsteady voice, and feeling completely overcome. "I have done nothing to deserve such kindness. Robin has often told me about the new cottage; but I never paid much heed to what he was saying, not thinking I should have anything to do with it."

"Neither did he, my good woman. Jonathan and I have kept it a secret; and in concluding my bargain, I shall ask you to be a good neighbour to the dear old man, and look after him in his old age. He is failing sadly; and I much fear we shall not have him with us many years longer. Now go home and tell Robin about it. It will be convenient for him to be near his work; and Corrie will, I hope, get some colour into her pale cheeks in this fresh country air."

Oh, what a light heart did the glad mother carry back with her that evening to the smoky town! The distance seemed as nothing to her eager feet. Could it be really true? It must surely be a dream. But no; the sight of the two joyful faces at home when the news was told made her begin to realise the fact. Neither Robin nor his mother could sleep till late that night for thinking it over. The stern landlord might do what he pleased now; they would soon be out of his power.

The evening before the departure to the new home, Robin sat with Corrie in the old window-seat. His arms were round her, and she was looking up into the sky, watching the twinkling stars.

"Do you remember that Christmas Eve, Robin, when you told me what the bells sang about?"

"Yes, Corrie; that was a happy time for us all. God has sent us good things ever since, and now the best of all is coming. Mother need not work so hard; and you will be always in the beautiful country, instead of coming back from the green fields into this dark street. Perhaps you will get well."

Corrie looked at her helpless feet, and shook her head.

"I don't think so, Robin," she said in a grave sad tone, far beyond her years. "The doctor told mother I should never run about like other girls."

Her brother kissed her, and could make no answer. He knew it was true.

Presently the child looked up again and said, "Will going to heaven be like that, Robin?"

The boy did not catch her meaning at first.

"Like what, Corrie?" he asked.

"Like going to Oaklands," she replied, watching his lips for the answer.

"Yes, something like it, because the Lord Jesus will take us to a brighter, fairer home than we have lived in before. But heaven is more beautiful, little sister, than anything we can think of on earth."

And with this explanation, Corrie was content.

The day of the flitting was quite a festival, the children coming down from the big house to give their willing help and hearty welcome to the new occupants of Forest Lodge, for so Clarice had named the house. There were bright pictures to be nailed up on the spotless white walls for Corrie to look at, and pots of flowers to arrange, that Jonathan had brought in for the window-sills.

A comfortable old couch had been found and placed in one corner, for the invalid child to lie on. It was drawn close to the window that looked towards the wood, so that she might watch the green trees waving, and see the gay flowers in the pretty garden, that Jonathan and Robin had put into such neat order. It was indeed as perfect a home as anyone could desire; and Mrs. Campbell thought so again and again, after taking joyful possession of it. Old Jonathan was there also to give her the word of welcome.

"So glad to see you back again at Oaklands! I remember when you first came here as under-nursemaid; you were quite a young girl then. It is not many that can look back as far as we can into the history of the dear old house. Every stick on the place is dear to me."

"Yes," answered Mrs. Campbell; "I little thought to return to such rest and peace after all my troubles. 'Hitherto hath the Lord helped me,' I can truly say."

"'The Lord is thy keeper,'" responded her aged friend, "'the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth, and even for evermore.'"

The fresh country air soon told favourably upon poor little Corrie, and it was indeed a new life for her. She revelled in the rural sights and sounds around her, and flowers were her perpetual delight. The fretted wistful expression that pain and weakness had stamped so early on her face began to wear away, and a bright contented look to come instead.

In summer she liked to lie among the fragrant swaths of hay, while Clarice and Milly played beside her; and when the days were very hot they would take her to the shady wood, to gather wild strawberries or fill her basket with flowers. The sick child was a source of continual interest to the little ladies of Oaklands, and scarcely a day passed without their paying a visit to Forest Lodge. They taught her by degrees and with much patience how to read and write, and sew and knit, that she might, as well as the stronger ones, enter into the life of busy occupation, and know how to work for others.

And whenever there was any special treat or pleasure, the crippled child was always remembered. So, although she never got quite well, Corrie's childhood grew brighter and brighter; and in her happy home, those earlier years in the dark street faded away into a dim and uncertain remembrance.

And when Robin's work was done, and he would sit beside her of an evening to tell the favourite stories, he often said, "Ah, Corrie, our happy days all began that winter when you had your first Christmas tree. Do you remember it?"

CHAPTER XII

CONCLUSION

THE setting sun shone through the windows of Forest Lodge, and rested lovingly upon Corrie Campbell lying on her couch. It was Sunday evening in early spring, and she had been quietly thinking as she watched the bright gleams dancing on the wall.

Some long years had passed since she quitted the dark street for her bright home in the country. That time was a new starting-point in her shaded and uneventful life; and though suffering had formed part of the daily training in the growth of years, much fruit had abounded to the glory of God. The doctor was right. She could never get well; yet her life was a constant lesson of quiet patience to her young friends at the big house, to whom she grew dearer each year, as in continual self-forgetfulness, they ministered to her wants and pleasures.

Old Jonathan was sitting by the fireside thinking too, and it was evident that time had not stood still with him either. His silver locks were few now upon his furrowed brow, and the wrinkled hand that grasped his stick shook visibly as he leant upon it. It seemed but the other day he had given his welcome to the new tenants; he often wondered now how he ever got on without them. Their coming wrought a marvellous change in his lonely life, and had been the cheer and comfort of his failing years.

His kind master saw the shadows of age and infirmity creeping over the faithful old servant, and made due provision for it. How tenderly was he nursed and cared for through long months of illness, which entirely robbed him of his strength! Gradually they coaxed him in to spend the greater part of his days by their cheerful fireside; and the plea that Corrie wanted him was always sufficient. He would come in and out to bring her woodland treasures, or to lay a freshly-gathered flower beside her. He always found out exactly what she was longing for, and if possible gratified the wish.

As Robin grew into manhood and became more competent for his work, so surely did he see his dear old friend and teacher decline in strength with the advancing years. No one liked to admit the fact; but at last it became evident to all that the aged gardener was quite past work, and could only walk about the garden paths leaning heavily on his knotted stick, while younger hands succeeded to his labour.

Yet both Jonathan and Corrie had work to do for the heavenly King, and their lives were a study to the thoughtful heart. They both laboured, but it was passive labour, for they had learned that:

"They also serve who only stand and wait."

"This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God, that the Son of God might be glorified thereby," was what Corrie's life said to all who watched it; and on that day when all things are manifested, it will be found that more true service has been wrought on sick-beds than on earth's battle-fields.

"The righteous shall flourish like the palm tree; he shall grow like a cedar in Lebanon. Those that be planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our God; they shall still bring forth fruit in old age; they shall be fat and flourishing; to show that the Lord is upright." That was Jonathan's work now, for he was old and well stricken in years.

On this Sunday night he had been talking to Carrie about heaven; and as he paused to take another look at the glowing sky and calm woods, light footsteps were heard approaching the cottage.

"We are come for our Sunday talk," cried Clarice and Milly. "Have you something nice for us this evening?"

"Yes, my dear young ladies; God's lessons are in everything we see upon His beautiful earth. I was thinking what the Bible tells us about a garden. It begins with the beautiful garden of Eden. Read it, dear Miss Clarice, will you?"

So Clarice read, "'And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there He put the man whom He had formed. And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil. And a river went out of Eden to water the garden.'"

"Ah! How fresh and beautiful it must have been then," murmured Jonathan, "before sin came in to spoil it all! And how glad we should be that God is going to make it all fair again some day! Turn now to the last book in the Bible, and see what the garden will be like when Jesus comes again and takes His people to live with him."

"Here it is!" said Milly. "Let me read it."

"'And He showed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb. In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. And there shall be no more curse: but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and His servants shall serve Him: and they shall see His face; and His name shall be in their foreheads. And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light; and they shall reign for ever and ever.'"

"'No more curse,'" said old Jonathan with emphasis. "Oh, how lovely that garden will be! I sometimes fancy I can see it all. The tree of life will be growing there again in everlasting beauty. That river will never run dry. How I long to be there! We may be very near it now. Our Master will perhaps call us soon into the upper garden of the King. Some people talk about the dark and gloomy grave; but the Saviour has not left us without comfort about that. He Himself lay down to sleep in a garden; a pleasant place, enclosed, and carefully watched and tended.

"The grave is a sweet fragrant place, since Jesus rested in it. If we belong to Him, whether waking or sleeping, we are still the plants of God's care; and each flower He knows by name. And when our Lord Jesus comes down into His garden to gather lilies, He takes one and another, to put them into the shelter of His pierced hand. It is not death to lie there, dears. Ah, no! It is the gate of glory leading into everlasting life.

"'My Beloved is mine, and I am His. He feedeth among the lilies, until the day break and the shadows flee away.'"

"I have brought you a branch from your favourite almond tree," whispered Clarice, putting the fragrant blossoms into the wrinkled hand. "Can you see it, dear old Jonathan?"

"Yes, my dear young lady, yes. How good of you! I have not been up to that corner of the garden for a long time. Ah!" said he, half to himself, yet aloud. "'The almond tree shall flourish, and the grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire shall fail; because man goeth to his long home.' Yes, it is a long home, because when once inside it, we shall stay there always, and go no more out.

"'Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,'—that is the promise for earth; 'and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever,'—that is the promise for heaven."

"Papa told us, Jonathan, that the word almond in Hebrew means 'to waken,' because it is the first tree to wake up out of its winter sleep."

A glad smile of surprise overspread the face of the aged man when he heard this; and, looking up, he said—

"The first to wake? Yes, that is it. 'I sleep, but my heart waketh; it is the voice of my Beloved.' 'The Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God, and the dead in Christ shall rise first. Blessed and holy is he that hath part in the first resurrection.'"

Was it the setting sun that cast such a bright light on the aged features as these words fell from his lips?

Clarice and Milly felt a strange awe as they watched him, and at last rose to wish him an affectionate good-night.

They never forgot that Sunday evening, for it was their last with him. On the page where lay the locks of hair and the rosemary, the silver spectacles were found. Old Jonathan did not need them more, for his eyes were no longer dim. He had gone to the land where—

"Everlasting spring abides,
And never-withering flowers."

The good old man was long and sincerely mourned by those who had proved his faithful friendship, and by the children who had loved to win his smile and blessing.

The family at Oaklands, with Mrs. Campbell and Robin, followed him to the quiet corner in God's garden where he was laid to sleep.

The little ones of the hamlet often strayed to the spot, and played with the daisies on his grave. He had loved them in his lifetime, so they naturally lingered near him now; and his white tombstone was a favourite primer, as they slowly spelt out the words underneath his honoured name:

"Blessed are they that do His commandments, that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city."

THE END

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Table of Contents

- CORRIE
- CHAPTER I
- CHAPTER II
- CHAPTER III
- CHAPTER IV
- CHAPTER V
- CHAPTER VI
- CHAPTER VII
- CHAPTER VIII
- CHAPTER IX
- CHAPTER X
- CHAPTER XI
- CHAPTER XII
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