_Mary_.--(To Lucy.)--"Do you not understand that it was poor Elizabeth, who came here with my knife, which she took off the table where I left it, and who, after having cut a piece of cheese with it, went to the fruit-room, no doubt to steal some apples also."

_John_.--(Angrily.)--"Papa, Elizabeth has acted deceitfully-- will you allow her to remain with you? One of the Psalms, the 101st, I think, says, 'He that worketh deceit shall not dwell within my house.'"

_The Father_.--(Gravely.) "It is said also in Holy Scriptures, my son, that 'mercy rejoiceth against judgment,' and perhaps, John, if any of us, had been brought up like poor Elizabeth, we might have done even worse than this."

"I am quite vexed," said Mary, "Oh! why did I not take more care of that wretched knife!"

_William._--"But, Mary, it was not your knife left upon the table, which tempted her to take two keys secretly out of the cupboard, and which made them the instruments of this theft. For Papa," continued he, "it _is_ a theft, and a shameful one too!

These stolen keys are no small matter!"

_The Father_.--(Calmly.)--"I know it my children, and it grieves my heart, that one of my servants, who daily hears the word of G.o.d read and explained, should so far have forgotten the fear of the Lord! This is what saddens me, and wounds me deeply."

_Lucy_.--"Elizabeth has not long been our cook, and probably she never heard the word of G.o.d before she came here. Poor girl I she is perhaps very unhappy now,--and I am sure, she will repent and turn to G.o.d."

_The Father_.-"That is right, my dear child, I rejoice to hear you plead the cause of the unhappy, and even of the guilty, for as I said before, 'mercy rejoiceth against judgment.'"

"I was therefore wrong," said John, "and I confess it ... for certainly I scarcely pitied her.... I did wrong I and now I think as Lucy does."

"And I also," said William, "'Clemency governs courage,' says a Grecian historian, and ..."

_The Father._--(Very seriously.)--"But, my dear William, what have the pagans of old and their morals to do here? My son, you know it is the word of G.o.d which rules our conduct, and which commands us to suffer and to forgive."

_Lucy._--"Papa, will you allow me to repeat a pa.s.sage, which I learnt by heart last Sunday?"

_The Father._--"Repeat it, Lucy, and may G.o.d bless it to us all!"

_Lucy._--"'Execute true judgment, and show mercy and compa.s.sion every man to his brother.' It is in the seventh chapter of Zechariah."

"I too, was wrong then," said William, "very wrong! for it is the wisdom of G.o.d alone, that enlightens us."

"True, my son," said his Father, "may G.o.d always remind you of this.

I am going to speak to Elizabeth," he added, "as for you, my children, do not say a word about it, and above all, bless the Lord, for having made known to you his grace and holy law. Pray to him together, that my words may have their due effect upon the mind of this poor guilty creature."

The Father went out to look for Elizabeth, and the children repaired to William's room, who, having knelt down with them, prayed to the Lord to take pity upon her, and to touch her heart, and he ended the prayer in the following words:--"In thy great wisdom, O Most Gracious G.o.d, and in thine infinite compa.s.sion, through Jesus Christ, grant unto each of us true repentance, and a sincere change of heart, and may this affliction be turned to the glory of our Saviour Jesus."

The children then returned to their several occupations, and not one of them ever thought of judging Elizabeth, or even speaking harshly of her.

We may add, that the exhortation of her charitable master, produced sincere penitence in Elizabeth, and that the poor girl was not sent out of the house; for "mercy pleaded against judgment."

It is thus that G.o.d deals with us! Oh! which of us can tell how often he has received pardon from the Lord!

III.

The Modern Dorcas

"The night cometh when no man can work."--JOHN, ix.

Oh! my sister! my sister! What a lesson may we learn from the death of our dear Amelia! She was but sixteen years old like myself, and only two years older than you are, but how much had she done for the Lord. I saw and heard her, when Jesus came to call her to himself; I was in the churchyard when they placed her body in the grave! Oh!

what a solemn warning! and now I feel humbled before G.o.d, and I pray Him to pour into my heart the same Spirit which He bestowed so abundantly upon our friend, as well as that lively faith, which although Amelia 'is dead, yet speaketh,' as it is said of Abel, and which shall speak through her for many years to come!

I wrote to you less than a fortnight ago, that Amelia was unwell; but how little I then thought it was her last illness! Oh! how uncertain our life is, dear Esther, and how much wiser we should be if we would only believe so!

On the seventh day of her illness, her mother said to me, "Anna, your friend is going to leave us; the danger of her disorder increases every hour, and we must give her up to G.o.d!"

I wept much and bitterly, and could not at first believe it; but when I was alone with Amelia, the next day, she said to me, with that calm peacefulness which never left her, "I am going away from this world, Anna; yes, dear Anna, I am going to depart; I feel it, and ...

I am preparing myself for it!"

I tried to turn away her thoughts from this subject; I told her that she was mistaken, and that G.o.d would certainly restore her; but she stopped me with firmness of manner, and said, "Do you envy my happiness, Anna? Do you wish to prevent me from going to my Heavenly home, to my Saviour, unto his light and glory?" The entrance of her father and the Doctor prevented my reply, and I left the room in tears.

"You must not cry," said her mother to me. "We must pray, and above all, seek profit from the occasion. The time is short! Her end is at hand! But," added this servant of Christ, "_that_ end is the beginning of a life which shall have no end!"

Three more days pa.s.sed away. On the fourth, we had some faint hope, but the following day, all had vanished, and towards evening, Amelia declared, that the Lord was about to take her.

"Yes, my dear parents, my excellent father and mother," she said, with a beam of heavenly joy on her countenance, "I am about to leave you; but I do not leave my G.o.d, for I am going to see Him, 'face to face.'"

"My dear parents," she continued, affectionately, "rejoice at my departure; I am going to Heaven a little before you, it is true, but it is _only before you_, and you know it; and the Apostle says, that, 'to be with Christ is far better.'"

I was present, Esther, and was crying.

"Why do you cry, Anna?" she said, "Are you sorry to see me go to my Father's house?"

"But, Amelia, _I_ lose you; we all lose you; and ..."

"I do not like to hear you say that, Anna; do not repeat it, and do not think of it. Our Saviour says that, 'He who believes on Him shall not see death;' and I am certain, that my soul is about to join those of His saints who have already departed this life, for His grace has also justified _me._"

"Ah!" said her aunt, who had not left her bedside for two days, "you have always done the will of G.o.d, dear Amelia; you are therefore sure of going to Him."

"Dear aunt," she replied, with sorrow on her countenance, "I a.s.sure you that you grieve me. I have been during the whole of my life, but a poor sinner, and have by no means done what you say; but.... G.o.d Himself has pardoned me, and it is only, my dear aunt, because the blood of Jesus has washed away my sins, that I shall see G.o.d."

It was thus, my sister, that Amelia spoke at intervals almost the whole night. Her voice at length became weaker; and towards morning, after a slight drowsiness, she said to her father, "Papa, embrace your child once more." She then turned to her mother, and said, "My dear mamma, embrace me also, and ... may Jesus comfort you all!"

A few minutes after, our darling friend fell gradually asleep, and her last breath died away like the expiring flame of a candle. She experienced nothing of the agony of death. Truly, dear Esther, Amelia knew not what death was!

But oh! how I have myself suffered! and how difficult it is to tear one's self thus forever here below, from such a friend as she was!

Nevertheless, my sister, G.o.d knows we have not dared to murmur. I wish you had heard the prayer that Amelia's father offered up, when his daughter had ceased to breathe! Oh! it was the spirit of consolation itself which spoke! And since that solemn hour, what piety, what strength and peace of mind, Amelia's mother his displayed! I am sure you would have said, that the Lord was present, and that He was telling us with His own voice: "Amelia triumphs--she is in _My_ glory!"

I wished to be in the churchyard when our friend, or rather, when her body of dust, was committed to the grave. There were many persons present, but especially poor people; some old men, and several children, came to take their last leave of her.

A grey-headed and feeble old man was standing near the grave, leaning with his two hands on a staff, and with his head depressed.

He wept aloud, when the clergyman mentioned Amelia's name, as he prayed, and gave thanks to G.o.d. He then stooped down, and taking a little earth in his hand, said, as he scattered it over the coffin: "Sleep, sweet messenger of consolation! Sleep, until He whom thy lips first proclaimed to me, calls thee to arise!" And with this, he burst into tears, as they filled the grave.

When all was finished, and the funeral procession had departed, the poor people who were present approached the grave, sobbing, and repeating, "Sweet messenger of goodness! Our kind friend, our _true_ mother!" And two or three of the children placed upon her grave nosegays of box and white flowers.