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ALWAYS TOO LATE.



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ALWAYS TOO LATE

And Other Stories.





LONDON:
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY:

56, PATERNOSTER Row; 65, St. Paut’s CHURCHYARD }
AND 164, PICCADILLY.
MANCHESTER; CORPORATION ST. BRIGHTON: WESTERN ROAD.

Ee





CONTENTS.

PAGE

ALWAYS TOO LATE:

1 {* PRESENTLY WILL DO” . 5 5

II, THE DANGER OF DELAY . . 20

THE NEW LODGE AND ITS TENANTS:

I, MR. GREEN’S NARRATIVE. 6 35)
Il, FAITHFUL SERVICE REWARD : 43
TEA IN THE SUMMER-HOUSE ‘ » ft

TRUTHFULNESS. . ‘ : 55



PLWAYS TOO LATE.

fh

CHAPTER I.
“PRESENTLY WILL DO.”

‘WILL take it in five minutes.”
“So you have said twice already.”
“TJ won't be late, indced, father.”
“T wish I could be sure of that.”
“T have but two pages to finish.”
“Finish them when you come
back.”

“Tt won't be worth while shutting the
book and opening it again for the sake of
two pages.”

“Well, Robert, you shall follow your own
plan. I shall not speak to you again. If the
letter does not go, you will be the loser,
not I.”

The letter was one asking for a holiday.
Robert was to have returned to school on the





PLWAYS TOO LATE.

fh

CHAPTER I.
“PRESENTLY WILL DO.”

‘WILL take it in five minutes.”
“So you have said twice already.”
“TJ won't be late, indced, father.”
“T wish I could be sure of that.”
“T have but two pages to finish.”
“Finish them when you come
back.”

“Tt won't be worth while shutting the
book and opening it again for the sake of
two pages.”

“Well, Robert, you shall follow your own
plan. I shall not speak to you again. If the
letter does not go, you will be the loser,
not I.”

The letter was one asking for a holiday.
Robert was to have returned to school on the





6 Always too Late.

twentieth of August; but his birthday being
on the twenty-first, his father wished him not
to leave home till the twenty-second; and a
picnic in Filbury Woods was arranged to
‘take place on his birthday. But the station
at which Robert would arrive was six miles
from the school, and Mr. Wandsford (the
master) had promised to drive in on the
Monday to meet him. Unless Mr. Wandsford,
therefore, received proper notice of the
change of day, the picnic pee must be
given up.

Robert finished his two pages, and went
off to post the letter. Mr. Wilton looked at
his watch as his son passed the window,
and saw that it wanted but five minutes to
the post hour, and Robert could scarcely
reach the office in time.

“He will run all the way, no doubt,” said
Mrs. Wilton.

“T suppose so,” said his father; “and, but
for the greatness of his disappointment if
the letter is late, I should half wish it to
be so. Robert will never give up those
habits of delay till he has had some good
lesson to make him take heed.”

About an hour afterwards Robert wallet 5



“Presently will Do,” z

into the dining-room, looking very heated
and disappointed, and took his seat at the
tea-table without speaking.

“Late, Robert ?” asked his father, after a
while.

“Yes. I am always unlucky,” he said, in
a tone of great vexation.

“What do you mean by luck, Robert ?”

“Luck ?—a sort of chance. Other people
are sure to be in time, though they don’t
hurry themselves, or take half the trouble
I do. I am sure I was only one minute
late.”

“Well, you see how much happiness may
depend on a minute. What hour was it by
the post-office clock when you reached it ?”

Robert coloured, and hesitated a moment,
and said, “When I said a minute late, I
meant a short time,—several minutes; for I
saw the mail driving from the door just as
I came up.”

“I cannot understand that. You might
have been in time. Did you run? You
ought to have reached the office before.”

“Yes, the whole way.”

“My watch is right, I am sure,—fast

_ even,”



8 Always too Late.

“T stayed at the garden-gate a moment
to give Wilson some directions about my
pony.”

“Ah, that explains all. You put off
again.”

“T was afraid I should forget if I didn’t tell
him then; and I might not have found
him when I came back,—he goes home so
early.”

“Would not to-morrow morning have been
time enough to give your orders?—or were
they of instant importance ?”

« Well, they could have waited.”

“You have made your own choice, Robert,
You knew that your birthday pleasure de-
pended on the posting of the letter, and yet
you chose to talk with Wilson about the pony
instead. You have made your choice, and
must abide by it.”

“Oh, father, Mr. Wandsford will get the
letter only twelve hours later. Iam sure it
need make no difference.”

“Twelve hours will make all the difference.
He would have had it in the evening,—now he
will not have it till eleven next morning; and he
will not have it then,—for he will leave home
at ten, so as to be in time for your train.”



“ Presently will Do.” 9

Robert’s face fell at his father’s words, taking,
as they did, his last hope of a pleasant day
away.

“T am the most unfortunate fellow in the
world !” he exclaimed.

“You are the sole author of your misfortune
in this case.”

“Tf any one else had been taking the letter,
the mail would have been late in starting (as
I have seen it scores of times), or something
would have happened; but nothing ever
happens to help me.”

“What right have you to trust to chances,
to count on other people’s mistakes? Be
right, and do right yourself, and you will
never have to blame yourself, as you must
do now. Nothing can prosper with a pro-
crastinator.”

“It is very hard. I wish you had sent
Wilson with the letter.”

“ Now you want to blame me. I had other
work for Wilson ; from which, it seems, you
must have delayed him at the gate. It was
fair, too, that you should take some little
_ trouble to secure your own pleasure. Be-
sides, my simple wish that you should go was
enough.”



19 Always too Late.

“Tam so sorry!” said Robert.

“We're so sorry !”

“Such a pity!”

“We shall have to tell tee and Willie, and
Charley, and all of them, that we are not to
have the party, after all,” said two or three
little voices from the tea-table.

“T am sorry for the children,” said Mrs.
Wilton. “You see, Robert, you have spoiled
their pleasure as well as your own, and that of
all your little friends, who knew they were to
have been asked.”

ss ee let them have the party all the
same,” said Robert, who was a generous,
kindly boy, and never gave pain on purpose.

“No, Robert. I consider their disappoint-
ment part of your lesson. I only hope it may
impress you, and that you may escape other
and severer ones of the same sort.”

Robert went back to school on the ap-
pointed day in good spirits, for he had got
over his vexation; and being fond of learn-
ing, and naturally given to the boyish sports
which make so much of the charm of school-
life, he did not dread the return to school as
some boys do,



“ Presently will Do.” 11

The half-year passed quickly, and Robert
would have stood very fairly in his master’s
good graces but for the scrapes that his pre-
vailing fault led him into. Robert could
write almost the best “theme” in his class ;
but his was usually begun when his com-
panions had finished theirs, and of course had
to be scribbled in such haste as to be barely
fit for the master’s eye. His Euclid was never
ready in time; for, having a great aptitude
for this study, and a very quick and easy com-
prehension of a problem, he often put off the
study of those required till the class was
going up to the master’s desk, trusting to a
hasty glance at the last moment, and hoping
that some other boy would be questioned first.

“Wilton is late for everything.”

“Wilton is always in a fuss.”

“Wilton is always running after his
work,” .

“And never catching it up.”

“He will never be good for anything, and
yet he is the quickest of us all”

So his schoolfellows would say.

“You are leading yourself a miserable life
Wilton,” his master would often tell him.
“You are never ready for me, never out of



12 Always too Late.

hot water, and I can seldom give you a word
of praise.”

“ Indeed, sir, I will try and do better,” the
answer would be.

“So you always say; but I see no
change.”

Mr. Wandsford had a high opinion of the
value of English composition, and was anxious
to encourage his boys to excel in it; so about
a month before the close of the half-year he
offered a prize for the best essay on a
subject which each boy was at liberty to
choose for himself. The essays were to be of
a certain length, perfectly original in mode of
expression, and were to be given in to him
one week before breaking-up day.

“Wilton will have the essay prize,” said one
of his schoolfellows.

“ Yes,—he writes well,” said another.

“ And that is the only prize he will win this
half. If he had stayed in the second class,
he would have taken the Greek prize cer-
tainly ; he could not have helped it.”

“And that for Latin verse.”

“Yes; but he is not quite up to the work
of the first class yet, so he has no chance of a
prize there.”



« Presently will Do.” 13

“He will have the English composition,”
said the first speaker, a favourite companion
of Robert; “and I am glad he will, for he
is a good fellow, though he does get into such
scrapes,”

“T suppose your essay is half written,
Wilton,” his master said to him on the
playground, a week after, the subjects had
been taken.

“No, sir. I don’t think I am quite
pleased with my subject, and I was going
to ask if you would dislike my changing ?”

“Certainly not; but why did you not speak
before ?”

“There is a whole fortnight before me,
sir, and I shall do it in a couple of
hours.”

“Take my advice, do it at once; and you
will do it leisurely, and well. Nothing is
likely to be done well in a hurry, and the
sooner you have it off your mind the
better.”

“T will begin at once.”

“Do so. I do not mind telling you,
Wilton, that I am anxious you should win
this prize; you have no chance of another
this half, and it is time that you distinguished



14 Always too Late.

yourself a little in the school, if it were but
for the sake of example to the others. You
leave me this half, and go to Rugby, so this
will be your last chance of taking a prize
heme to your father from this school—
In fact, I thought of you in offering this
prize.”

“You are very kind, sir; and indeed I will
do my best.”

But the week went by, and half of the
next, and Robert had not yet put pen to
paper.

“ Remember,” said Mr. Wandsford from his
desk, “in three days’ time I shall expect an
essay from every boy of the first and second
classes to be laid on my desk. Sign your
names in full, and make them up neatly.

Robert started as he heard the words “ three
days;’ the time had seemed to go so very
quickly; but he resolved he would set to
work that very afternoon. The afternoon
came, and he found it impossible to write
a line, for the first and second classes of the
school had arranged to play the last grand
cricket match of the half-year, and he could
not be spared; he did refuse at first, but no
one would hear his excuses.



“Presently will Do.” 15

“Nonsense, Wilton! we cannot do without
you,” cried many voices.

“Do you wish to spoil the whole match ?”

“We shall not have a chance to play it
again.”

“Your essay, is it? never mind now; you
will have plenty of time for it to-morrow.”

“We have all done ours ages ago. Come
on—here is your bat.”

“Well, if I must, I must. I suppose I shall
have time to-morrow. I can get up early in
the morning and write.”

“ Of course you can; come on.”

And so that day passed without his having
penned a line.

Next morning, instead of rising earlier, he
woke half-an-hour later than usual, for he was
tired with his exertions at cricket the day
before. In the evening he hoped to begin,
but he was again to be disappointed ; for Mr.
Wandsford called him into his own private
room, and talked to him in a very kind way
about the new life before him, and his regret
in losing a pupil of so many years’ standing.
He gave him messages for his father also, and
asked him some questions as to the disposi-
tion and talent of his second brother George,



16 Always too Late.

who was to come and take Robert’s place at
school, and so his evening was lost.

Robert sat listening and answering in a
state of despair. Next morning his essay was
to be given in, and his master was expecting
and hoping to give him the prize, little
guessing that he had not as yet put pen to
paper. Robert would have given anything for
some excuse to take him from the room, but
none came.

“You are looking tired, my boy,” Mr.
Wandsford said, at last. “Should you like
to go to bed at once ?”

“Yes, please, sir,” said Robert; and after
wishing “good night,” he hurried to his room,
eager to begin. Then he remembered that he
had none of the large ruled paper on which the
essays were to be written, so he had to go
down to the schoolroom to ask for some. He
dared not ask one of the ushers, for fear they
would question him; so he had to borrow a
sheet from one, two from another, and half a
sheet from a third of his companions, and this
borrowing took some more of his scanty time.
When at last he sat down to write, he found
himself with three or four bad spluttering
pens, and an ink-bottle nearly empty,—he



“ Presently will Do.” 17

had noticed the state of his writing materials
in the morning, and had intended to supply
himself with better, but as usual he had not
acted promptly.

He began at last to write, but his anxiety
and vexation and haste were against him ;
he could not collect his thoughts. A quarter
of an hour passed before he had written
two lines. He did write quickly at last ; but
_he knew he was not writing his best; he
read some lines over, and found that he was
repeating words, leaving them out, and ex-
pressing himself in anything but exercise
language.

Then rang the prayer bell. The sound
made him heart-sick for ten minutes more,
and the boys would be all coming up to bed,
and how could he write with ten boys un-
dressing in his room ?

Scratch, scratch, went his pen, and such
a@ pen as it was too, digging holes in the paper
here, making a great round blot there (and
Mr. Wandsford disliked blots so much); his
thoughts, too, were in such a confused state
that he was half inclined to throw down the
pen and give up the vain attempt. Clang
went the bed-bell, and now there came a noise

p 2%



18 Always too Late.

of many feet on the stairs and in the passages,
—no wonder that eighty boys made a noise
coming up to bed.

Not another line could he write that
evening.

“Whatever are you looking so miserable
for?” one of the boys asked him.

“T have not well begun my essay yet.”

“Well I never! You don’t mean to say you
are in earnest ?”

“Indeed I am, Saunders.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be you for something.”

“T never could get a spare minute.”

“ All the rest of us could.”

“You know, Saunders, you yourself would
make me play at cricket yesterday.”

“Come, don’t blame me. We could not
have the match spoilt because you had put
off your work, as you always do, you know,
Wilton. You must only get up at four
o’clock in the morning and write for your
life. You'll do it yet if you keep your head
up. Jump into bed, and sleep as fast as you
can,—it’s your last chance.”

“Silence in the room, young gentlemen,”
said a master, looking in; and there was
instant quiet.



“Presently will Do.” 19

“How am I to wake so early?” Robert
asked himself. “I never shall. Wake me,
any of you boys who wake first in the
morning, will you?” he said aloud.

“We will!” said a chorus of voices.

So he laid his head on his pillow, and tried
to be content and go to sleep; but sleep will
not always come when we desire it most, and
sleep fled from Robert’s eyes for two or three
hours, which seemed very long to him. When
at last he did sleep, his dreams were not of
the pleasantest.

Well would it have been for Robert had he
given heed to his father’s advice. For the
habit of delay is dangerous in many ways,
—it not only often causes inconvenience and
disappointment, but it affects the whole cha-
racter of those who suffer from it. It runs
through everything—the highest as well as
the commonest duties, and is as much a
hindrance to religious prosperity as to worldly
success. Those who delay in little things will
put off in the most important. They lose the
opportunities of this life, and are in danger of
putting off till too late their preparation for
heaven.



20

CHAPTER II.

THE DANGER OF DELAY.

[OBERT woke in the morning, feeling
EA unrefreshed; his eyes felt heavy, his
mouth hot and dry, and his head ached not
a little. As he woke he heard the getting-up
bell ring, and started up at once.

“Half-past six!” he exclaimed. “There’s
the bell. Why did none of you fellows
call me?”

“Why did not you call yourself?” was the
answer from one.

“Why should we be able to wake sooner
than you?” said another.

“TI would have called you, indeed, Wilton, if
I could. I wanted to wake, and I could not,
you see. I seldom can; but indeed I am
very sorry for you,” said Saunders.

Robert did not speak a word, but tried to
dress as quickly as possible, so as to secure
half an hour, if possible, before prayers at a
quarter-past seven. He did write for twenty





The Danger of Delay. 21

minutes, but his work was not done—no, not
a quarter of it, when the morning prayer
bell called him from it.

“It is all up with the essay, Saunders!”
he said, as he passed his friend on the stairs.

“You are in a regular scrape, then,” was
all the comfort he could give him.

At last the dreaded hour came. Mr. Wands-
ford took his place at the desk, and every
boy in the school was present.

“Are we all here? Yes. Then now, boys,
I am ready to receive your essays. Let the
first class come up in order. You, Adderley,
hand yours first; now, Beecher, yours—that’s
right, very neatly made up. I shall read
them in my room, and call you all together
after dinner, to hear my decision on their
merit. Yours, Johnstone. Now who stands
next?” There was a pause. Very well Ro-
bert knew that he stood fourth in the class.

“Your turn, Wilton—hand in yours.”

“T cannot, sir,” said Robert, under his breath.

“Cannot? what do you mean?” said the
master, lifting his brows.

“Tt is not ready, sir.”

“Bring me what you have written.”

“Tt is not half finished, sir.”



22 Always too Late.

“Bring me what you have written,’ re-
peated the master.

Robert left the schoolroom, and returned
with the blotted, half-filled manuscript in
his hand. Mr. Wandsford took it, and held
it up in sight of all the boys.

“Look at it, all of you,” he said. “Here
is writing; here are blots that would dis-
grace the youngest of you; and the essay
is but half finished—not half. Let this be
a warning to you all. Shun delay as your
greatest enemy. A man of the habit of
putting off cannot be counted on by others,
nor can he count on himself; he is not to
be trusted; he breaks his word a dozen
times a day without meaning it. He is the
sport of circumstances, and so are all who
depend on him. He does things badly,
-when he might have done them well, be-
cause he does nothing in its own time, and
seldom finds full time in which to do any-
thing. Remember the wise old proverb,
‘Time and tide wait for no man.’ Above
all, remember the holy words, ‘ Whatsoever
thine hand findeth to do, do it with thy
might; and, by the grace of God’s Spirit
helping you, you will be happy and useful



Lhe Danger of Delay. 23

men. Leave the schoolroom, Robert, and go
. Into my private room, and wait for me there.”

Robert was very glad to leave the room;
but his time passed sadly enough in the
master’s room while he waited. The dreaded
ordeal was over, but the thought of his kind
master’s disappointment—above all, the know-
ledge that all chance of taking a prize home
to his mother was over, and that he had. let
the prize slip through his very fingers, was
enough to trouble him. Three long weary
hours passed before his master came, and
when he did he opened the door saying, “I
see at a glance, Wilton, that your friend
Saunders will take the prize.” Robert did
not speak. “Come here—sit down by me.
You are not more grieved for yourself,”
Wilton, than I am for you. I know what
your feelings must be—how severely you must
blame yourself; and I do not know how to
find a word to cheer you. Of my own dis-
appointment I shall say nothing. You knew
how anxious I was for your success, for
several reasons; and yet neither my advice
nor encouragement has had the slightest
effect in leading you to resist your besetting
fault. I shall write plainly to your father,



24 Always too Late.

and tell him that I consider you to have lost
this prize wilfully.”

“Indeed, sir, I cannot excuse myself. I
can only say that I hope this will be a lesson
to me for my whole life,”

“T doubt it, Wilton. You have had many
lessons, and yet I see you making no attempt
to conquer the evil habit that is destroying
you.” And Mr, Wandsford sighed as he spoke.

Mr. Wilton was much grieved on Robert’s
return to read the letter he brought from Mr.
Wandsford, one line of which ran thus—
“Your son has ‘fine abilities, but all are
running waste, for want of the determination
to resist his unfortunate habit.”

“One word from Mr. Wandsford, to say
that he thought you improved in this par-
ticular, would have pleased me more than
any prize you could have brought,” his father
said, sadly, as he laid the letter down. “Read
for yourself, and see what he says.”

“Tt is true—every word is true,” he said, as
he returned it.

The holidays seemed scarcely such a happy
time as usual, for the remembrance of his
failure hung over him for many days; but



The Danger of Delay. 25

he kept his resolve for awhile, and strove
manfully against the habit which caused him
so much trouble.

His father observed this, and began to take
heart. “You are trying, Robert, I see, to get
the better of your failing.”

“Yes, father; but it is up-hill work.”

“Never mind; you will have your reward.”
So his father cheered him.

But some victories take a long time to win.
Robert was walking through the farm of a
friend of his father, only the day after his
father had encouraged him, and a heavy
shower of rain coming on, he took shelter in
a cottage where one of the labourers lived.
The woman of the house was nursing a sick
child in her arms, and two other little ones
were playing quietly by the fire.

“Ts it very ill?” he asked the mother, who
seemed in great distress.

“Very, sir. I don’t think it will live,
Master Robert.”

“Oh, what a pity! and it is such a pretty
little thing. Howvery pale itis! Is it asleep?”

“No, sir; that is weakness; its strength is
gone; he has been so since his father went
out to work this morning. I think he is



26 Always too Late.

dying, sir. My poor little Fred!” and the
mother’s tears dropped fast on the little one
as she spoke.

“Has the doctor seen him ?”

“He saw him a day or two ago, Master
Robert ; and the baby seemed so much better,
that he said he would not come again unless
I sent for him.”

“Why don’t you send now?”

“JT have no one to send, sir; the ‘children
are too young to find their way, and my
husband will not be home till one o’clock.
I will send him then.”

“T will go for the doctor, Mrs. Watts; the
rain is quite over, and I will run all the way,
so make your mind easy;” and he buttoned
up his coat, and put his hat on as he spoke.

“God bless you, sir; it’s the greatest help
you could give me!”

Robert left the cottage, and began to run
across the field. He was a very kind-hearted
boy, and the thought of the poor little sick
baby’s face haunted him, and urged him to
speed. He had to walk slowly after he had
run over a field or two, to recover breath, till
he reached the plantations which skirted his
father’s grounds. Crossing through these,



The Danger of Delay. 27

and over the lawn, he came to a number of
little boys who were attempting to fly a kite,
but without much success; it rose several
times a few yards into the air, after he came
in sight, then bobbed about from side to
side, and fell.

“What is wrong with it, Robert?” his
brother George asked, as he came up. He
was the owner.

“T cannot stay to tell you.”

“Oh yes, do,” pleaded George.

“The tail is too heavy.”

“How many pieces should I take off?”

“ Half—no, not quite. I have a message
into town, and I'll show you when I come
back.”

“Show us now, do,” pleaded George.

“Well, try it now,” said Robert, as he cut
a quarter of the long tail off; and then he
stood to watch the effect. “It wants a, little
more off yet;” and again he used his pen-
knife to curtail the long appendage. “Now
try it again.”

“The tail is too light, now,” shouted some
of the boys who stood looking up to watch its
uncertain flight in the air.

“Bring it down,”- said Robert, who now



28 Always too Late.

entered heart and soul into the proceedings;
“and I will tie on a piece more.”

“ You had better go into the town, Robert,”
said George, “and I will tie on the end of
the tail myself. I see quite what it wants.”

“I may as well finish, as I begun,” said
Robert; “here reach it to me. Now I think
that ought to do nicely. I will fly it myself
and try.”

“Come higher up on the lawn, then; the
trees are in the way here.” And the little
party went higher up; and soon the kite was
sailing steadily against the wind, to the delight
of all. Their pleasure was short, however, for
presently the tightly drawn line was snapped,
and away soared the kite, like a bird set free,
and all began to run in the direction in which
it went.

Now Robert’s conscience whispered him to
cease following, and go into town. “But the
kite is coming down even now, and I can
run all the way into town,” he thought; and
so he followed with the rest. The kite did
fall, and caught in the branches of a tall oak;
however, it was safe enough there, and Robert
need not have lingered as he did to see it
brought down.



-The Danger of Delay. -29

“JT thought you were going into the village,
Robert,” said George. _

“Yes, so I am, and as quickly as I can,
too!” and as he spoke he ran down towards
the gate, through it, and out on the road.

He knocked several times at the doctor’s
door before any answer came, and began to
grow impatient at the delay.

“Master’s out, sir,” said the boy who came
at last.

“Out? is he really? When will he be in?”

“Not till evening, sir.”

“When did he go?”

“ About five minutes ago, sir.”

“Only five minutes ?”

“Scarcely that, sir.”

“Which way did he go? I may overtake
him.”

“No, Master Robert, you cannot, He is
riding.”

“Have you any idea where he has gone?
I would ride after him,” asked Robert,
anxiously.

“Not a notion, sir. I hope no one is ill up
at the house, sir?”

Robert turned away without answering, he
was so heart-sick. He knew there was no



30 Always too Late.

other doctor in the place. He could do
nothing now to help the poor baby; and
its mother had trusted him so, and been
so thankful. He felt utterly miserable as
he turned from the doctor’s door, and walked
slowly back up the street.

“Only five minutes !—three minutes sooner,
and I should have seen him!” he said, bit-
terly ;.“and now, if the child dies, what shall
I do?” thought he.

He went to the cottage in the afternoon,
feeling restless, and anxious to know how
the child was. Dr. Taylor was just leaving
the door as he reached it; and he asked him
after the baby at once.

“Dead, poor little thing.”

“Tt looked so ill when I saw it this
morning.” as
“You saw it? Was it you, then, who

offered to run for me?”

“Yes—but you were out; I lingered on
the way,’ said Robert, shrinking terribly
under his own words.

“Well, Robert, I don’t say I could have
saved the child if I had been here before—I

‘don’t say so for a fact—but I think I could
have done.”



The Danger of Delay. 31

“Qh, Dr. Taylor, do not say so!”

“T think I could have saved it. The poor
mother might have saved it herself if she had
put it into a warm bath !”

“Oh, Dr. Taylor, you are making me
wretched !”

“T have no wish to do so, but I must tell
you the truth. I do not wonder at your
blaming yourself. I should do so if I were in
your case. Are you going in to the cottage?”

“Oh no.”

“I think you had better not. The poor
mother is greatly distressed, and is better
alone. Let us walk back over the fields
together. I just happened to go in when
the poor little infant was dying,—quite too
late to be of use. My horse had cast a shoe,
and I left it at the forge, meaning to go home
by the short cut over the fields, and chanced
to step into the cottage as I passed.”

“T feel as if I had killed the child,” said
Robert, as he walked by the doctor’s side.

“You should not; you did not mean to
injure the baby.”

“Tt was my fault, Dr. Taylor. If I had
brought you in time, you could have saved it.”

“I might not have been able. Humanly



32 Always too Late.

speaking, I think I could have done so; but
we must remember that life and death are
in God’s wise hands.”

“Tam miserable. I shall never, never for-
give myself!”—and very bitter tears fell
from Robert’s eyes as he spoke.

“Tt is a sad lesson indeed, Robert; but it
may be the best you have ever received; and
if so, God will have brought good out of evil,
You are a strong, healthy youth, and it seems
likely that you will live, and grow to be a
man. If you do, you will be a rich one; for
you will take your father’s place, and have
many people to depend on you. The happi-
ness of many will be in your hands, and it
will be all-important that you should be
prompt and regular.in your way of doing
things.”

“T never shall be prompt.”

“Have you tried?”

“T have, but now I give it up. I see my
trying is in vain.”

“Have you ee any help in this
matter ?”

“Help?”

“Yes,—God’s good help; or are you trying
to do better in your own strength ?”



The Danger of Delay. 33

“T never prayed about this, if that is what
you mean.”

“That is just what I mean. Ask God to
help you, and He will. He says He will.
Now take Him at His word: believe God, as
you would me if I made you a promise.”

“T never so thought of God’s promises.”

“Tf you would believe a weak human being
like me, why not the very God of truth?”

“Tam sure I don’t know.”

“There can be no reason. Now do this:
ask God for the effectual grace of His Holy
Spirit, that you may give yourself to Him,
body and soul; then ask for grace that you
may be kept serving Him. Here is a short
prayer, some centuries old, but as fit for you
as for the saint who uttered it: ‘Lord, take
my heart, for I cannot give it to Thee; keep
it, for I cannot keep it for Thee.’ While
using every effort, and taking every means to
conquer your besetting sin, also pray humbly,
penitently, in true faith, and hoping for
Christ’s sake to receive help, and God will
hear and answer you, and your whole future
life will be a happy, useful, honoured one.
He says, ‘My grace is sufficient for thee, for
My strength is made perfect in weakness.’

Dp 29



34 Always too Late,

He will help you in whatever you do, that
you may ‘do it heartily, as to the Lord,—to
live ‘redeeming the time’ all your life long,
till at last you come to hear Him speak the
blessed words, ‘ Well done, good and faithful
servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”

Robert did act on Dr. Taylor’s advice, and
lived to prove that the greatest faults can be
cured, and the worst habits can be subdued,
by the grace of God.

Let his case serve as a lesson to all young
readers on the evil and danger of delay. If
in common life such unhappy results follow,
how much more in regard to the soul is it
needful to remember the solemn words, “ Be-
hold, Now is the accepted time; behold, Now
is the day of salvation!” Seek the Lord
while He is to be found; call upon Him while
He is near. The Lord Jesus Christ, with
open arms, invites you to flee to Him without
delay, and be saved. Come to Him now; if
you hesitate and postpone you will be lost.
May the good Spirit open your eyes that you
may see your danger; and may He give you
the aid of His grace that you may have power
to escape from the wrath to come, and find
salvation through faith in the name of Jesus.



Ahe Tew Wetodge and its
ARenants.

—io

CHAPTER I.

MR. GREEN’S NARRATIVE.




“{,. WONDER who Squire Burton is build-
vy 2" Charles Frankish to his father, as
é We they passed the entrance of Burton

1. Park.

‘Mr. Frankish could not satisfy his little
son’s curiosity ; but they both stopped to look
at the building which was rising so rapidly
under the busy hands of the workmen. They
could not help admiring the cottage, which
was just ready for roofing, and the beauty of
the situation chosen for it.

A few days afterwards the father and son
again walked past the park-gates, for Charles
was quite anxious to see how the workmen

were getting on with the cottage. Great



Ahe Tew Wetodge and its
ARenants.

—io

CHAPTER I.

MR. GREEN’S NARRATIVE.




“{,. WONDER who Squire Burton is build-
vy 2" Charles Frankish to his father, as
é We they passed the entrance of Burton

1. Park.

‘Mr. Frankish could not satisfy his little
son’s curiosity ; but they both stopped to look
at the building which was rising so rapidly
under the busy hands of the workmen. They
could not help admiring the cottage, which
was just ready for roofing, and the beauty of
the situation chosen for it.

A few days afterwards the father and son
again walked past the park-gates, for Charles
was quite anxious to see how the workmen

were getting on with the cottage. Great



36 The New Lodge and its Tenants,

progress had been made: the roof was on, the
windows were glazed, several little ornaments
added to the stone-work, and a pretty garden
waslaid out. Two months more passed away,
and the cottage had received its furniture
and tenants. The garden showed that skilful
hands had been at work, for many sweet
flowers were blooming in it, and there was a
prospect of still more to come.

But still Charles did not know for whom
this pretty place had been so carefully pre-
pared; and often he ran that way and lingered
about the park gates, in the hope of seeing
the tenant of the new lodge. For some time
he only caught glimpses of a face at one of
the pretty latticed windows: it was the face
of an elderly but very pleasant-looking woman ;
and Charles fancied that she must be waiting
on some one else, for he felt pretty sure there
was another person in the new lodge.

Mr. Frankish had not thought so much
about the lodge and its tenants; but when
his little son begged him to go that way
again for a walk he willingly agreed. Instead
of taking the usual road, though, Mr. Frankish
told Charles they would enter the park at one
side and come out of it at the gate, just within



Mr. Green’s Narrative. 37

which was the new cottage. This proposal
delighted Charles very much; for what child
does not better love to walk on the soft grass,
under beautiful trees, amongst which the deer
are bounding, than to tread the dusty road
or even the beaten field-path ?

On their way they passed, at a little dis-
tance, the great house in the park. It looked

“a very stately building, and yet it was un-
occupied, except by a servant or two, for
the owner was far away, and did not seem
to care much for his fine hall and wide park
at Burton.

Charles glanced upwards at the closed and
boarded windows, and said: “Father, is it not
very strange that Squire Burton does not live
in that beautiful house? I think I should
be proud and happy if I had such a one.”

“We often think we should be happier
if we had the gifts which God has bestowed
upon others, Charles; but Iam afraid we are
wrong. For you may be sure, my boy, that
the wise and good Being who placed you
where you are knew better than you for what
work you were best fitted.”

Charles was silent after this, until they
came within sight of the lodge. Then he



38 The New Lodge and its Tenants.

began to exclaim: “Oh, father! I see a man
in the garden. I have never seen one there
before, except the gardener from the hall.
I wonder if he is the master of the cottage.”

“7 can satisfy your curiosity now, Charles,”
replied his father. “It was for that man that
the cottage was built, and he has been ill for
some time; but I suppose he is much better
now, or he would not be out of doors.”

“Then you know him father, do you?”

“T have seen him a great many times;
indeed, I may say I have known him for
years, and I mean to call and ask how he is
to-day.”

“How odd that you should know him,
father ; and I have been wondering every time
I came this way why Squire Burton has built
this pretty house.”

“T dare say old Mr. Green will tell you
himself, Charles, if we ask, and then your
wondering will have an end.”

When they reached the lodge, Charles saw
that the man looked ill, and used a stick to
walk with. He seemed pleased to see them,
and to answer Mr. Frankish’s kind inquiries
after his health. Then his wife came out and
invited them to go into the cottage and rest



Mr. Green’s Narrative. 39

awhile before they returned home. This
pleased Charles, for he wished to know more
about old Mr. Green and his wife, and espe-
cially why such a handsome little house was
built on purpose for them.

His father guessed what was in the boy’s
mind; so, after a little talk, he said: “Mr.
Green, my son watched the building of your
house with a good deal of interest, and he
seems to wonder how it was that Squire
Burton thought of doing it. Do you mind
telling the reason ?”

Old Mr. Green smiled. “Oh, dear no!” he
answered; “but there is very little to tell.
You must know, Master Charles, that I went
to be servant to Squire Burton’s father when
I was quite alad. I only did little odd jobs
at first, sometimes helping in the garden by
weeding and picking up stones, sometimes in
the stables under the grooms, and now and
then I was sent with messages. I had no
regular work, though I was servant to so
many that I always found plenty to do. But
the squire first took me out of kindness, be-
cause my mother was a poor widow with more
children than she knew how to find food for,
and she was very thankful that one could earn



40 The New Lodge and its Tenants.

his living in ever such an humble way by
honest labour. When I first went to the hall
she said: ‘Jack, you must try to be a good
lad. Youll most likely be set to a many
different sorts of work, but never mind that;
whatever you have to do, do it well. You
shouldn’t work just when the master is look-
ing, for you know what the Bible says: ‘ Not
with eyeservice, as men-pleasers, but as the
servants of Christ, doing the will of God from
the heart: with good-will doing service as to
the Lord, and not to men. ‘You know, my
lad) said my mother, ‘the Lord is always
looking. He never slumbers nor sleeps ; and
whoever may be absent, He sees whatever you
do: so don’t forget that, and always work your
best, as unto the Lord.’

“You may guess that when I went, a boy,
amongst all those servants, I had enough to
do to follow my mother’s advice, for I often
saw them waste their master’s time because
they thought he was not looking, and I was
tempted to follow their example. Besides, I
do believe I was more weary when night
came than any servant in Burton Hall, for it
was ‘Jack’ here, and ‘Jack’ there, from
morning till evening. Everybody seemed to



Mr. Green's Narrative. 41

have a job for me, and the servants were often
impatient, two wanting to be attended to at
once, and each thinking I ought to leave what
the other wished, and do his work first. I
had trouble enough to please all who claimed
my help, as you may think, and for two years
I was indeed a ‘servant of servants. Some-
times I used to talk to my mother about it.
‘IT should not care so much about it, mother,’
said I, ‘if I had only one master to please,
who would see how I worked, and give me a
step upwards if he thought I deserved it. But
the servants think me fit for nothing but to
help in such things as they don’t like to do
themselves. As for the squire, he never
notices me at all.’

“««And you have one Master, my lad,’ said
my mother, ‘even Christ. Do you think He
never notices you, or that He will forget to
give you your step upward when He sees you
deserve it ?’

“So I went on from day to day, until more
than two years were gone; my mother always
encouraging me with Bible words and pro-
mises, when disposed to be dull or discon-
tented. And I do look back on that time
with great thankfulness, and bless the Lord



42 The New Lodge and its Tenants.

that I had strength given me to remember
that I was His servant even more than Squire
Burton’s.”

Here Mr. Frankish said : “I am afraid you
are tiring yourself too much, Mr. Green; and
your good wife here is beginning to look
anxious about her invalid. If you will allow
us, my little son and I will call to-morrow
afternoon, and hear the remainder of your
story.”

This was agreed to, for old Mr. Green was
weak, and not able to talk long together.

So Charles was obliged to wait until the
next day, though, as he was returning home,
he told his father he should have liked to
hear it all then.

“Yes, my boy,” replied Mr. Frankish; “but
we should be willing to control our impatience
whenever it may cause pain or even incon-
venience to another. I think you would be
sorry to tax that kind old man’s strength too
much merely to gratify your eagerness.”

“T forgot that, father,” replied Charles.



43

CHAPTER II.
FAITHFUL SERVICE REWARDED.

PM HARLES and his father did not fail to
ASZ]| return to the new lodge at the time
appointed. They found old Mr. Green better,
and quite ready to tell the rest of his story.
“T was mistaken,” said he, “when I thought
Mr. Burton had never noticed me, and that the
time I had spent in his service would perhaps
be counted for nothing. I was busy in the
garden one day, digging over a piece of ground
which the gardener had told me to do, when
all at once I was startled by a voice which
said, ‘Well, Jack, you are hard at work as
usual, I see. I turned round, and took off
my cap, for there stood Squire Burton. I
could not help feeling glad at his words, for
they seemed to say that he had often seen
me hard at work; but I scarcely know what
I answered, for I had no idea he was near me.
“*Should you like a holiday to go to Sum-
ningly Fair, Jack? I think you work hard





44 The New Lodge and tis Tenants,

enough to deserve one. He looked straight
at me, and I thanked him and said, ‘I would
rather go home, if I were allowed a holiday.’

“<«Then you may drop your spade, and go
at once, if you like; and I hope you will have
a pleasant day with your mother,

“JT thanked the squire again; but I thought
of the gardener and my work, for I knew the
plot of ground ought to be made ready, as it
was wanted for sowing on the next day. So
I made bold to say, ‘I should like a holiday
very much, sir, and mother would be pleased
too; but I am afraid I could not be very well
spared to-day. The gardener is very busy,
and just now even my work is of consequence
to him,

“«Why, you are getting quite a man of
business, Jack ; but you shall have your holi-
day: take it the day after to-morrow, and start
as early as you like in the morning’

“T was quite overjoyed at the squire’s kind
way of speaking, and was very eager to tell
my mother; but I did not let that interfere
with my work. I plodded on as usual, rather
later if anything, and left nothing undone
that was of consequence; so I started for
home at the appointed time in good spirits,



Faithful Service Rewarded. 45

“T had a little money to take, too, which
T had saved from my. wages, and a very joyful
meeting I had with my mother and the young
ones at home. She had just begun setting
out the tea-things in the afternoon, when the
latch was raised, and who should come in but
the squire.

“«Good day, Mrs. Green,’ said he ; ‘I wanted
to know if that boy were here,

“T started up directly, and said, ‘Am I
wanted, sir?’

“«Yes, my lad, was the reply, ‘I want you,
but only for a bit of a talk. And you can go
on with the tea-making; and, mind, make a
good cup out of that parcel, Mrs. Green ; and
he handed my mother a pound of tea. He
was a curious man, was the old squire; he did
things in a funny way, but he was wonder-
fully kind-hearted, and he feared God. ‘Now,
Jack,’ said the squire, ‘perhaps you think I
have not watched you during these long two
years, but I have.’

“*T am glad of it, sir, I said; and I held
my head up as I spoke, for I knew I had
tried to do my duty as a faithful servant,
though in a very humble station, and at very
homely work.



46 The New Lodge and its Tenants.

“‘Tt’s not every lad who could say that he
was glad his master’s eye had been upon him,
Jack,’ said the squire. ‘Many would change
colour sadly, and have tingling ears at the
very thought of such a witness. But I can-
not help fancying that you have remembered
that there is always one Eye which never
closes, even that of the most high God;’ and
the squire spoke slowly as he named that great
name.

“«My mother always taught me to remem-
ber that, sir,’ I answered; and I repeated the
texts she had so often said in my ears to
encourage me in my duty.

“«Mrs, Green, said my master, ‘you have
trained your son well, and I hope, by God’s
blessing, he will prove a comfort to you. I
have watched him narrowly when he knew not
that I was near, and the day before yesterday
I tried him in a little matter by offering
him a holiday, when I was well aware he was
needed at the hall. Not many would have
deferred pleasure for the sake of duty, or have
stayed away from a fair for the company of
a mother. Now I have a place for you, Jack ;
and if you fill it as well as you have done
the various sorts of work you have been set



Faithful Service Rewarded. 47

to already, I shall find a faithful servant, and
you, I trust, a considerate master.’

“Ah! Master Charles, I can hardly tell you
the happiness there was in our little cottage
that day ; but you may guess with what thank-
ful hearts mother and I blessed the Lord for
his goodness, though she had always told me
that I might be sure that ‘whatsoever good
thing any man doeth the same shall he receive
of the Lord, whether he be bond or free.’

“Well, Master Charles, I need not tell you
every particular of my upward progress, for
I did not stop after having taken a single
step forward. The squire kept advancing me
from one thing to another, until at last I was
employed as a sort of house-steward, and had
the charge of the money for all home expenses.
He said to me, ‘You see, Green, I have fol-
lowed the rule of my Master and yours,
Having found you faithful in a few things, I
have made you ruler over many things,’

“«Begging your pardon, sir, said I, ‘I look
upon it that the favour you have been pleased
to show me comes to me through you, but
from the Lord, in whose sight I have always
laboured,’ :

“Right, Green,’ said my master; ‘we are



48 The New Lodge and iis Tenants.

all instruments in His hands, and our great
aim should be to do His will on earth, that we
may dwell and reign with Him in heaven,’

“When Squire Burton died, he left directions
that this cottage should be built and furnished
for me whenever I was inclined to retire from
service. ‘He gave me the best powers of his
best days’—those were the squire’s words—
‘and I must take care that his grey hairs have
a meet resting-place after I am gone,

“And now, Master Charles, you know why
this lodge was built; but I stayed with the
young squire for several years after his father’s
death. My wife was housekeeper at the hall
once, and we had no family. But my health
has not been good of late, so I was glad to
come to this sweet little place, and already I
am much better and stronger, though my
working days are nearly over, so far as this
world is concerned. I hope I shall often see
your curly head under my roof, and that. it
will please God you may learn some useful
lesson from the story of an old man’s life.”

Mr. Frankish thanked the kind old man
for the trouble he had taken; and after pro-
mising that Charles should soon visit him
again, they took their leave.



Faithful Service Rewarded. 49

“What do you think of old Mr. Green, my
boy?” asked Mr. Frankish. “Do you learn
anything from what you have heard ?”

“He has been a good and faithful servant,
father.”

“Yes, not only to an earthly but to a
heavenly Master; and I should like you to
imitate his example, for remember you serve
the same Lord as he did. In the first place,
you must begin in youth‘ Remember thy
Creator in the days of thy youth” In the
next place, you must not be discouraged, or
think that God has forgotten you, because
you do not receive signs of His presence and
favour just at the time and in the way you
expect. It is by patient continuance in well-
doing that we win the crown of life. You
know, my dear boy, that if Squire Burton had
asked John Green to go and be his servant,
and John had refused until his best days
were past, the services of a weak old man
would have been lightly valued. And can
we think that God ought to have anything
but the best powers of our best days, or that
we should grow old before we begin to think
of entering His service ?”

Charles looked very thoughtful, and his

B2



50 The New Lodge and its Tenants.

father bade him glance back at the pretty
lodge, peeping through the trees. “Does that
teach you anything, Charles? I mean, does
its connection with old Mr. Green furnish any
spiritual lesson ?”

The boy was silent, but gazed wistfully in
his father’s face, and Mr. Frankish continued :
“ Just as that faithful old man is rewarded by
the possession of a peaceful and lovely home,
so does our heavenly Master promise to reward
those who spend their lives in His service with
a home in ‘a house not made with hands,
eternal in the heavens.” And one word more.
You thought you should be very happy if you
possessed Burton Hall, and wondered that its
owner could stay away from it; yet you see
that you may, through God’s grace, dwell in
a far more glorious home than any earthly
palace. Only a few years of faithful service,
and it will be yours for ever and ever.
Dear Charley, will you not try to enter
there 2?”





51

Wea in the Summer- Te ouse.

—o——

T was the first time this
year, and very early in the
season too. The 10th of
May was Katie’s birth-
day; and though year
after year the possibility

of tea in the arbour was talked
over and hoped for, such a thing
had never really come about before. Year
after year the cold east wind or the dripping
rain, or something else that was not spring-
like, made Katie’s mamma say, “No, my dear,
it will not do; you must look forward to next
year.”

Next year; oh! what ages to come that
seems at eight years old! I am afraid there
were often some drops indoors, as well as out
of doors. But at last the sun did shine on
the 10th of May, and the wind was soft as





52 Tea im the Sunvmer-House.

a wind could be, and the whole spring-time
world looked as fresh and fair as if it were
decked out on purpose for a birthday.

Katie had got up very early to see what the
weather was, and finding it so fine she took her
little Bible, and ran down into the summer-
house. Her heart could not but rejoice in the
brightness of the morning, and she thought
how good it was of God to make the earth so
beautiful. From that she got a step farther,
and thought that better still was it that He
had given her the power to enjoy it. But
had she loved Him as she ought to have done?
had she served Him through those nine years
that were past? She would turn over a new
leaf, and try to do better. And ah! then
came the question, “How about the nine old
leaves?” she could not make them fresh; even
if she could do right for the time to come she
could not make amends for the time that
was past.

So at last it came to this, that Katie felt
there was nothing else for her to do but to
kneel down in the arbour, and ask the Lord
Jesus Christ to blot out all the sins of those
nine years, and help her to please Him for
the year that was before her. How happy



Tea in the Summer-House. 53

she felt after this! and how she enjoyed the
day! Ifyou could have seen Katie and her
sister Julia, and their three little cousins, at
their tea in the summer-house at five o’clock,
you could hardly have wished for a prettier
sight. Each had made a wreath of her
favourite flower—primrose or cowslip or blue-
bell—to put round her hair. They had been
allowed to have the little tea-things from the
china closet; and oh! what do you think the
tea was? it was cowslip tea, the concoction
which every child approves of, but which
all the grown-up folks denounce and call
“mawkish.”

There had been a special expedition in
the morning to a hillside where the cows-
lips grew tall and large, with the bees tumbling
-in and out of their deep cups, and the
cuckoo singing his mellowest note, and the
first swallows skimming over the fresh young
grass; it was treat enough to see and gather
and take in all there was to enjoy. After
they were brought home there were the flowers
to pick—it did seem rather ungrateful to nip
off those golden heads, and this was the worst
part of it; and then there was the tea-making.
You have no idea what an important perform-



54 Tea im the Summer-House.

ance this was; first, to make sure the water
boiled, next to pour it over the flowers, and
add a bit of soda to soften the water and draw
out the flavour; then to let it stand just the
proper time, till at last when it was poured
into the pretty spotted cups, and plenty of
sugar and milk added to the clear yellow
syrup, Katie and her guests pronounced, as I
am sure you would have done too if you had
been there, it was the very best cowslip tea
ever tasted.

It was indeed a happy tea-drinking; the
leaves of the virginia creeper, so green and
shiny, clustered round the children’s heads,
and the butterflies flitted in and out without
being invited. I suppose they liked the smell
of the cowslips, but they must have been
puzzled to think where they were; how could
they ever have guessed they were inside the
tea-pot ?

So the birthday party was a grand success,
and it left a bright little spot in Katie’s
memory for the rest of the year; and the
brightest spot of all was the bit of morning
converse in the summer-house which she had
with her own heart and with her God.



55

Aruth fulness,

—t1

®, NE morning, Walter, George, and
W\, I were in the school-room,
busily engaged with our sums,
yY when some one came to the
, door, and asked to speak to Miss
~ Lorimer. Of course our governess
was obliged to leave us for a
short time, and as she rose to go
out, she said, “Now, dear children, you must
not begin to play or neglect your duties while
I am away. It is only those whose heart is
not in their work that require watching. I
dare say I shall only be absent a few minutes.”
She closed the door, and for a little time
our heads were bent over our slates, and we
worked just as though Miss Lorimer were
present. Then the silence was broken by
George, who said, “My sum is finished, so
you may come as soon as you please, Miss
Lorimer,”







* 56 Truthfulness,

“Do be quiet, George,” said Walter. “Mine
is not nearly done, and I never can add if any
one talks,”

However, George did not heed Walter’s
request, but continued chattering to me,
though in a low voice; for we had both
finished our sums, and were only waiting
the return of our teacher.

It was very thoughtless of us, and we felt
that we had acted unkindly to our little
brother, who was always very slow at his
arithmetic, lesson, when, on happening to look
towards the place where Walter was sitting,
we saw that he was in tears.

“ What are you crying for, Watty?” said I.

“Because my sum is not half done; and
when Miss Lorimer comes she will think
I have been idle all the time.”

“Don’t cry, Watty,” said George. “I am
sorry we talked and hindered you. Let me
look at your sum.”

George took the slate from his reluctant
hand, and, before Walter knew what he was
about, he added up the figures, and put the
amount down at the bottom. Sums seemed
scarcely any trouble to George, though they
cost Watty so much !abour.



Truthfulness, 57

“Now,” said he, as he gave back the slate,
“Miss Lorimer cannot be displeased, for your
sum is done, Walter ; so dry your eyes.”

“But I did not do it,” said Walter, glancing
at the figures which completed the row at the
bottom so nicely.

“Never mind that. If Miss Lorimer asks
you, you can tell her I did it.”

At this moment our teacher entered. “I
have been detained longer than I expected,”
said she, “so we must be the more diligent
now, my dears. Let me have your sums.”

Walter hung back to the last, but at length
he presented his, too, and Miss Lorimer pro-
nounced them all right.

“T scarcely hoped to find Walter’s finished,”
she added; and as she spoke she looked
straight in Watty’s face. My little brother's
cheeks and forehead were like scarlet in
a moment, and he turned away, as though he
could not bear to meet her eye. But Miss
Lorimer said no more, and our school work
went on as usual all the day. Yet I do not
think any of us felt comfortable or happy, for
we were ashamed of having done even a
trifling thing to deceive our kind teacher. I
felt as guilty as the others, though I had



58 Truthfulness,

been merely a looker-on; for conscience said,
“You did nothing to prevent the fault, and
perhaps a word from you might have hindered
its committal. Why did you not speak and
tell Watty it would be acting a lie?”

When evening came, and with it the
hour we generally looked forward to with
so much pleasure, because it was spent in
happy talk with Miss Lorimer, we felt still
more uncomfortable. I believe any one of
us would have gladly confessed his or her
share in the deceit; but each thought of
the others, and did not like to tell that all
were partners. It did not make us feel
more at ease when Miss Lorimevr’s first words
fell on our ears: “Dear children,” said she,
“T want you to tell me what a lie is?”

My face turned hot, and I could see the
colour rise on the cheeks of my two brothers
also. We all hesitated a moment, and then
answered: “A lie is an untruth; a saying
something false; a bearing false witness
against our neighbour.”

“Your answers are so far right, my dears,”
replied Miss Lorimer ; “but you have not told
me enough yet. Can you not give me more
information about the nature of a lie than



Truthfulness. 59

that? There are many falsehoods in which
the lips bear no part at all.”

Ah! how that remark of hers came home
to the hearts of her three little hearers. The
boys did not speak, but looked at each other
as though they would say, “I wonder if Miss -
Lorimer overheard us talking about the sum.”
Then I remember I said, but in a low,
trembling voice: “It is a lie to do anything
with the intention of deceiving others, and
making them believe what is not true.”

« Yes, that is what I wished you to under-
stand. And now, do you know why I asked
the question ?”

Little Walter burst into tears, and sobbed
- out: “It was because I did something to
deceive you this morning. Dear Miss
Lorimer, I am so sorry to think I acted
a lie. I have been miserable all the day,
and I should have told you before, and
asked you to forgive me, but ”— Watty
stopped, and looked at George, for still he
could not bear the thought of betraying his
brother’s share in the fault.

“But what, Walter?” asked Miss Lorimer,

George did not give Watty time to speak
again, but himself answered the question:



60 Truthfulness.

“Indeed, Miss Lorimer, it was more my fault
than Watty’s, and I think that is the reason
he does not like to tell you. When you were
out of the room this morning Lucy and I
talked after we had finished our sums, and
that hindered him, and made him ery; for he
was afraid you would say he had been lazy if
his were not done, too. Then I was sorry to
see his tears, and I took his sum and did it;
and just then you came back, and you thought
Watty had been quick about his work, when
really it was more than half mine.”

Miss Lorimer looked very sorrowful, and
the tears stood in her eyes. “Oh, my dear
little pupils,” said she, “how very true does
your story prove the words of Scripture, ‘ Be
sure your sin will find you out.” I should
never have known or guessed a single word of
this if you had not told me. A little matter
having no concern with you made me think
more than common about the meaning of the
ninth commandment, and I was anxious you
should understand how many ways there are
of breaking it, though without speaking a lie.
Your own consciences did the rest; and I
am thankful that it pleased God to put it
in my heart to talk to you on this subject



Truthfulness. 61

to-night, since it has roused you to a sense
of your sin, Yet I had such faith in your
truth, dear children, that it has grieved me
very much to find there has been falsehood
among you.”

“Miss Lorimer, do forgive us!” cried Watty
and George together. “I do hope we shall
never deceive you again.”

“And me, too, Miss Lorimer,” said I, “ for
I was just as much to blame. I knew all
about it, but I never spoke or tried to
prevent it.”

“Dear children,” she replied, “I do forgive
you; but remember it was God’s holy com-
mandment you broke, not mine, and from
Him pardon must be sought.”

We were all much impressed with the
thought of our error, and our dear teacher
spent a long time in pointing out examples in
Seripture by which the impression might be
still further deepened. She showed us that
God desires not only truth of word, but of
deed. “Truth in the inward parts” is the
term used, proving that we ought to have our
hearts and thoughts free from all desire to
deceive, as well as our lips kept from lying.
We read over the promise of God, that he



62 Truthfulness,

who speaketh the truth in his heart shall
abide in the tabernacle of the Lord, and dwell
in His holy hill.

“And, oh! what a beautiful thing this
truth must be, dear children,’ said Miss
Lorimer; “for we find that word is used
even to signify the blessed Saviour, who says, _
‘I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life,’ Our
God is called a ‘Lord God of truth? a ‘God
who cannot lie,’ who must be worshipped ‘in
spirit and in truth.”

But there is so much about truth, and to
induce us to love it in the Bible, that I can
only put down a very little portion here. It
would be a pleasant exercise for my young
readers to search out the rest for themselves ;
and if they do so, I shall have cause to rejoice
that I have written an account of one of the
errors of my own childish days, because I
believe they cannot read the beautiful words
of Scripture in commendation of truth with-
out themselves learning to love it better.



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The Baldwin Library
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ALWAYS TOO LATE.
wy





ALWAYS TOO LATE

And Other Stories.





LONDON:
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY:

56, PATERNOSTER Row; 65, St. Paut’s CHURCHYARD }
AND 164, PICCADILLY.
MANCHESTER; CORPORATION ST. BRIGHTON: WESTERN ROAD.

Ee


CONTENTS.

PAGE

ALWAYS TOO LATE:

1 {* PRESENTLY WILL DO” . 5 5

II, THE DANGER OF DELAY . . 20

THE NEW LODGE AND ITS TENANTS:

I, MR. GREEN’S NARRATIVE. 6 35)
Il, FAITHFUL SERVICE REWARD : 43
TEA IN THE SUMMER-HOUSE ‘ » ft

TRUTHFULNESS. . ‘ : 55
PLWAYS TOO LATE.

fh

CHAPTER I.
“PRESENTLY WILL DO.”

‘WILL take it in five minutes.”
“So you have said twice already.”
“TJ won't be late, indced, father.”
“T wish I could be sure of that.”
“T have but two pages to finish.”
“Finish them when you come
back.”

“Tt won't be worth while shutting the
book and opening it again for the sake of
two pages.”

“Well, Robert, you shall follow your own
plan. I shall not speak to you again. If the
letter does not go, you will be the loser,
not I.”

The letter was one asking for a holiday.
Robert was to have returned to school on the


6 Always too Late.

twentieth of August; but his birthday being
on the twenty-first, his father wished him not
to leave home till the twenty-second; and a
picnic in Filbury Woods was arranged to
‘take place on his birthday. But the station
at which Robert would arrive was six miles
from the school, and Mr. Wandsford (the
master) had promised to drive in on the
Monday to meet him. Unless Mr. Wandsford,
therefore, received proper notice of the
change of day, the picnic pee must be
given up.

Robert finished his two pages, and went
off to post the letter. Mr. Wilton looked at
his watch as his son passed the window,
and saw that it wanted but five minutes to
the post hour, and Robert could scarcely
reach the office in time.

“He will run all the way, no doubt,” said
Mrs. Wilton.

“T suppose so,” said his father; “and, but
for the greatness of his disappointment if
the letter is late, I should half wish it to
be so. Robert will never give up those
habits of delay till he has had some good
lesson to make him take heed.”

About an hour afterwards Robert wallet 5
“Presently will Do,” z

into the dining-room, looking very heated
and disappointed, and took his seat at the
tea-table without speaking.

“Late, Robert ?” asked his father, after a
while.

“Yes. I am always unlucky,” he said, in
a tone of great vexation.

“What do you mean by luck, Robert ?”

“Luck ?—a sort of chance. Other people
are sure to be in time, though they don’t
hurry themselves, or take half the trouble
I do. I am sure I was only one minute
late.”

“Well, you see how much happiness may
depend on a minute. What hour was it by
the post-office clock when you reached it ?”

Robert coloured, and hesitated a moment,
and said, “When I said a minute late, I
meant a short time,—several minutes; for I
saw the mail driving from the door just as
I came up.”

“I cannot understand that. You might
have been in time. Did you run? You
ought to have reached the office before.”

“Yes, the whole way.”

“My watch is right, I am sure,—fast

_ even,”
8 Always too Late.

“T stayed at the garden-gate a moment
to give Wilson some directions about my
pony.”

“Ah, that explains all. You put off
again.”

“T was afraid I should forget if I didn’t tell
him then; and I might not have found
him when I came back,—he goes home so
early.”

“Would not to-morrow morning have been
time enough to give your orders?—or were
they of instant importance ?”

« Well, they could have waited.”

“You have made your own choice, Robert,
You knew that your birthday pleasure de-
pended on the posting of the letter, and yet
you chose to talk with Wilson about the pony
instead. You have made your choice, and
must abide by it.”

“Oh, father, Mr. Wandsford will get the
letter only twelve hours later. Iam sure it
need make no difference.”

“Twelve hours will make all the difference.
He would have had it in the evening,—now he
will not have it till eleven next morning; and he
will not have it then,—for he will leave home
at ten, so as to be in time for your train.”
“ Presently will Do.” 9

Robert’s face fell at his father’s words, taking,
as they did, his last hope of a pleasant day
away.

“T am the most unfortunate fellow in the
world !” he exclaimed.

“You are the sole author of your misfortune
in this case.”

“Tf any one else had been taking the letter,
the mail would have been late in starting (as
I have seen it scores of times), or something
would have happened; but nothing ever
happens to help me.”

“What right have you to trust to chances,
to count on other people’s mistakes? Be
right, and do right yourself, and you will
never have to blame yourself, as you must
do now. Nothing can prosper with a pro-
crastinator.”

“It is very hard. I wish you had sent
Wilson with the letter.”

“ Now you want to blame me. I had other
work for Wilson ; from which, it seems, you
must have delayed him at the gate. It was
fair, too, that you should take some little
_ trouble to secure your own pleasure. Be-
sides, my simple wish that you should go was
enough.”
19 Always too Late.

“Tam so sorry!” said Robert.

“We're so sorry !”

“Such a pity!”

“We shall have to tell tee and Willie, and
Charley, and all of them, that we are not to
have the party, after all,” said two or three
little voices from the tea-table.

“T am sorry for the children,” said Mrs.
Wilton. “You see, Robert, you have spoiled
their pleasure as well as your own, and that of
all your little friends, who knew they were to
have been asked.”

ss ee let them have the party all the
same,” said Robert, who was a generous,
kindly boy, and never gave pain on purpose.

“No, Robert. I consider their disappoint-
ment part of your lesson. I only hope it may
impress you, and that you may escape other
and severer ones of the same sort.”

Robert went back to school on the ap-
pointed day in good spirits, for he had got
over his vexation; and being fond of learn-
ing, and naturally given to the boyish sports
which make so much of the charm of school-
life, he did not dread the return to school as
some boys do,
“ Presently will Do.” 11

The half-year passed quickly, and Robert
would have stood very fairly in his master’s
good graces but for the scrapes that his pre-
vailing fault led him into. Robert could
write almost the best “theme” in his class ;
but his was usually begun when his com-
panions had finished theirs, and of course had
to be scribbled in such haste as to be barely
fit for the master’s eye. His Euclid was never
ready in time; for, having a great aptitude
for this study, and a very quick and easy com-
prehension of a problem, he often put off the
study of those required till the class was
going up to the master’s desk, trusting to a
hasty glance at the last moment, and hoping
that some other boy would be questioned first.

“Wilton is late for everything.”

“Wilton is always in a fuss.”

“Wilton is always running after his
work,” .

“And never catching it up.”

“He will never be good for anything, and
yet he is the quickest of us all”

So his schoolfellows would say.

“You are leading yourself a miserable life
Wilton,” his master would often tell him.
“You are never ready for me, never out of
12 Always too Late.

hot water, and I can seldom give you a word
of praise.”

“ Indeed, sir, I will try and do better,” the
answer would be.

“So you always say; but I see no
change.”

Mr. Wandsford had a high opinion of the
value of English composition, and was anxious
to encourage his boys to excel in it; so about
a month before the close of the half-year he
offered a prize for the best essay on a
subject which each boy was at liberty to
choose for himself. The essays were to be of
a certain length, perfectly original in mode of
expression, and were to be given in to him
one week before breaking-up day.

“Wilton will have the essay prize,” said one
of his schoolfellows.

“ Yes,—he writes well,” said another.

“ And that is the only prize he will win this
half. If he had stayed in the second class,
he would have taken the Greek prize cer-
tainly ; he could not have helped it.”

“And that for Latin verse.”

“Yes; but he is not quite up to the work
of the first class yet, so he has no chance of a
prize there.”
« Presently will Do.” 13

“He will have the English composition,”
said the first speaker, a favourite companion
of Robert; “and I am glad he will, for he
is a good fellow, though he does get into such
scrapes,”

“T suppose your essay is half written,
Wilton,” his master said to him on the
playground, a week after, the subjects had
been taken.

“No, sir. I don’t think I am quite
pleased with my subject, and I was going
to ask if you would dislike my changing ?”

“Certainly not; but why did you not speak
before ?”

“There is a whole fortnight before me,
sir, and I shall do it in a couple of
hours.”

“Take my advice, do it at once; and you
will do it leisurely, and well. Nothing is
likely to be done well in a hurry, and the
sooner you have it off your mind the
better.”

“T will begin at once.”

“Do so. I do not mind telling you,
Wilton, that I am anxious you should win
this prize; you have no chance of another
this half, and it is time that you distinguished
14 Always too Late.

yourself a little in the school, if it were but
for the sake of example to the others. You
leave me this half, and go to Rugby, so this
will be your last chance of taking a prize
heme to your father from this school—
In fact, I thought of you in offering this
prize.”

“You are very kind, sir; and indeed I will
do my best.”

But the week went by, and half of the
next, and Robert had not yet put pen to
paper.

“ Remember,” said Mr. Wandsford from his
desk, “in three days’ time I shall expect an
essay from every boy of the first and second
classes to be laid on my desk. Sign your
names in full, and make them up neatly.

Robert started as he heard the words “ three
days;’ the time had seemed to go so very
quickly; but he resolved he would set to
work that very afternoon. The afternoon
came, and he found it impossible to write
a line, for the first and second classes of the
school had arranged to play the last grand
cricket match of the half-year, and he could
not be spared; he did refuse at first, but no
one would hear his excuses.
“Presently will Do.” 15

“Nonsense, Wilton! we cannot do without
you,” cried many voices.

“Do you wish to spoil the whole match ?”

“We shall not have a chance to play it
again.”

“Your essay, is it? never mind now; you
will have plenty of time for it to-morrow.”

“We have all done ours ages ago. Come
on—here is your bat.”

“Well, if I must, I must. I suppose I shall
have time to-morrow. I can get up early in
the morning and write.”

“ Of course you can; come on.”

And so that day passed without his having
penned a line.

Next morning, instead of rising earlier, he
woke half-an-hour later than usual, for he was
tired with his exertions at cricket the day
before. In the evening he hoped to begin,
but he was again to be disappointed ; for Mr.
Wandsford called him into his own private
room, and talked to him in a very kind way
about the new life before him, and his regret
in losing a pupil of so many years’ standing.
He gave him messages for his father also, and
asked him some questions as to the disposi-
tion and talent of his second brother George,
16 Always too Late.

who was to come and take Robert’s place at
school, and so his evening was lost.

Robert sat listening and answering in a
state of despair. Next morning his essay was
to be given in, and his master was expecting
and hoping to give him the prize, little
guessing that he had not as yet put pen to
paper. Robert would have given anything for
some excuse to take him from the room, but
none came.

“You are looking tired, my boy,” Mr.
Wandsford said, at last. “Should you like
to go to bed at once ?”

“Yes, please, sir,” said Robert; and after
wishing “good night,” he hurried to his room,
eager to begin. Then he remembered that he
had none of the large ruled paper on which the
essays were to be written, so he had to go
down to the schoolroom to ask for some. He
dared not ask one of the ushers, for fear they
would question him; so he had to borrow a
sheet from one, two from another, and half a
sheet from a third of his companions, and this
borrowing took some more of his scanty time.
When at last he sat down to write, he found
himself with three or four bad spluttering
pens, and an ink-bottle nearly empty,—he
“ Presently will Do.” 17

had noticed the state of his writing materials
in the morning, and had intended to supply
himself with better, but as usual he had not
acted promptly.

He began at last to write, but his anxiety
and vexation and haste were against him ;
he could not collect his thoughts. A quarter
of an hour passed before he had written
two lines. He did write quickly at last ; but
_he knew he was not writing his best; he
read some lines over, and found that he was
repeating words, leaving them out, and ex-
pressing himself in anything but exercise
language.

Then rang the prayer bell. The sound
made him heart-sick for ten minutes more,
and the boys would be all coming up to bed,
and how could he write with ten boys un-
dressing in his room ?

Scratch, scratch, went his pen, and such
a@ pen as it was too, digging holes in the paper
here, making a great round blot there (and
Mr. Wandsford disliked blots so much); his
thoughts, too, were in such a confused state
that he was half inclined to throw down the
pen and give up the vain attempt. Clang
went the bed-bell, and now there came a noise

p 2%
18 Always too Late.

of many feet on the stairs and in the passages,
—no wonder that eighty boys made a noise
coming up to bed.

Not another line could he write that
evening.

“Whatever are you looking so miserable
for?” one of the boys asked him.

“T have not well begun my essay yet.”

“Well I never! You don’t mean to say you
are in earnest ?”

“Indeed I am, Saunders.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be you for something.”

“T never could get a spare minute.”

“ All the rest of us could.”

“You know, Saunders, you yourself would
make me play at cricket yesterday.”

“Come, don’t blame me. We could not
have the match spoilt because you had put
off your work, as you always do, you know,
Wilton. You must only get up at four
o’clock in the morning and write for your
life. You'll do it yet if you keep your head
up. Jump into bed, and sleep as fast as you
can,—it’s your last chance.”

“Silence in the room, young gentlemen,”
said a master, looking in; and there was
instant quiet.
“Presently will Do.” 19

“How am I to wake so early?” Robert
asked himself. “I never shall. Wake me,
any of you boys who wake first in the
morning, will you?” he said aloud.

“We will!” said a chorus of voices.

So he laid his head on his pillow, and tried
to be content and go to sleep; but sleep will
not always come when we desire it most, and
sleep fled from Robert’s eyes for two or three
hours, which seemed very long to him. When
at last he did sleep, his dreams were not of
the pleasantest.

Well would it have been for Robert had he
given heed to his father’s advice. For the
habit of delay is dangerous in many ways,
—it not only often causes inconvenience and
disappointment, but it affects the whole cha-
racter of those who suffer from it. It runs
through everything—the highest as well as
the commonest duties, and is as much a
hindrance to religious prosperity as to worldly
success. Those who delay in little things will
put off in the most important. They lose the
opportunities of this life, and are in danger of
putting off till too late their preparation for
heaven.
20

CHAPTER II.

THE DANGER OF DELAY.

[OBERT woke in the morning, feeling
EA unrefreshed; his eyes felt heavy, his
mouth hot and dry, and his head ached not
a little. As he woke he heard the getting-up
bell ring, and started up at once.

“Half-past six!” he exclaimed. “There’s
the bell. Why did none of you fellows
call me?”

“Why did not you call yourself?” was the
answer from one.

“Why should we be able to wake sooner
than you?” said another.

“TI would have called you, indeed, Wilton, if
I could. I wanted to wake, and I could not,
you see. I seldom can; but indeed I am
very sorry for you,” said Saunders.

Robert did not speak a word, but tried to
dress as quickly as possible, so as to secure
half an hour, if possible, before prayers at a
quarter-past seven. He did write for twenty


The Danger of Delay. 21

minutes, but his work was not done—no, not
a quarter of it, when the morning prayer
bell called him from it.

“It is all up with the essay, Saunders!”
he said, as he passed his friend on the stairs.

“You are in a regular scrape, then,” was
all the comfort he could give him.

At last the dreaded hour came. Mr. Wands-
ford took his place at the desk, and every
boy in the school was present.

“Are we all here? Yes. Then now, boys,
I am ready to receive your essays. Let the
first class come up in order. You, Adderley,
hand yours first; now, Beecher, yours—that’s
right, very neatly made up. I shall read
them in my room, and call you all together
after dinner, to hear my decision on their
merit. Yours, Johnstone. Now who stands
next?” There was a pause. Very well Ro-
bert knew that he stood fourth in the class.

“Your turn, Wilton—hand in yours.”

“T cannot, sir,” said Robert, under his breath.

“Cannot? what do you mean?” said the
master, lifting his brows.

“Tt is not ready, sir.”

“Bring me what you have written.”

“Tt is not half finished, sir.”
22 Always too Late.

“Bring me what you have written,’ re-
peated the master.

Robert left the schoolroom, and returned
with the blotted, half-filled manuscript in
his hand. Mr. Wandsford took it, and held
it up in sight of all the boys.

“Look at it, all of you,” he said. “Here
is writing; here are blots that would dis-
grace the youngest of you; and the essay
is but half finished—not half. Let this be
a warning to you all. Shun delay as your
greatest enemy. A man of the habit of
putting off cannot be counted on by others,
nor can he count on himself; he is not to
be trusted; he breaks his word a dozen
times a day without meaning it. He is the
sport of circumstances, and so are all who
depend on him. He does things badly,
-when he might have done them well, be-
cause he does nothing in its own time, and
seldom finds full time in which to do any-
thing. Remember the wise old proverb,
‘Time and tide wait for no man.’ Above
all, remember the holy words, ‘ Whatsoever
thine hand findeth to do, do it with thy
might; and, by the grace of God’s Spirit
helping you, you will be happy and useful
Lhe Danger of Delay. 23

men. Leave the schoolroom, Robert, and go
. Into my private room, and wait for me there.”

Robert was very glad to leave the room;
but his time passed sadly enough in the
master’s room while he waited. The dreaded
ordeal was over, but the thought of his kind
master’s disappointment—above all, the know-
ledge that all chance of taking a prize home
to his mother was over, and that he had. let
the prize slip through his very fingers, was
enough to trouble him. Three long weary
hours passed before his master came, and
when he did he opened the door saying, “I
see at a glance, Wilton, that your friend
Saunders will take the prize.” Robert did
not speak. “Come here—sit down by me.
You are not more grieved for yourself,”
Wilton, than I am for you. I know what
your feelings must be—how severely you must
blame yourself; and I do not know how to
find a word to cheer you. Of my own dis-
appointment I shall say nothing. You knew
how anxious I was for your success, for
several reasons; and yet neither my advice
nor encouragement has had the slightest
effect in leading you to resist your besetting
fault. I shall write plainly to your father,
24 Always too Late.

and tell him that I consider you to have lost
this prize wilfully.”

“Indeed, sir, I cannot excuse myself. I
can only say that I hope this will be a lesson
to me for my whole life,”

“T doubt it, Wilton. You have had many
lessons, and yet I see you making no attempt
to conquer the evil habit that is destroying
you.” And Mr, Wandsford sighed as he spoke.

Mr. Wilton was much grieved on Robert’s
return to read the letter he brought from Mr.
Wandsford, one line of which ran thus—
“Your son has ‘fine abilities, but all are
running waste, for want of the determination
to resist his unfortunate habit.”

“One word from Mr. Wandsford, to say
that he thought you improved in this par-
ticular, would have pleased me more than
any prize you could have brought,” his father
said, sadly, as he laid the letter down. “Read
for yourself, and see what he says.”

“Tt is true—every word is true,” he said, as
he returned it.

The holidays seemed scarcely such a happy
time as usual, for the remembrance of his
failure hung over him for many days; but
The Danger of Delay. 25

he kept his resolve for awhile, and strove
manfully against the habit which caused him
so much trouble.

His father observed this, and began to take
heart. “You are trying, Robert, I see, to get
the better of your failing.”

“Yes, father; but it is up-hill work.”

“Never mind; you will have your reward.”
So his father cheered him.

But some victories take a long time to win.
Robert was walking through the farm of a
friend of his father, only the day after his
father had encouraged him, and a heavy
shower of rain coming on, he took shelter in
a cottage where one of the labourers lived.
The woman of the house was nursing a sick
child in her arms, and two other little ones
were playing quietly by the fire.

“Ts it very ill?” he asked the mother, who
seemed in great distress.

“Very, sir. I don’t think it will live,
Master Robert.”

“Oh, what a pity! and it is such a pretty
little thing. Howvery pale itis! Is it asleep?”

“No, sir; that is weakness; its strength is
gone; he has been so since his father went
out to work this morning. I think he is
26 Always too Late.

dying, sir. My poor little Fred!” and the
mother’s tears dropped fast on the little one
as she spoke.

“Has the doctor seen him ?”

“He saw him a day or two ago, Master
Robert ; and the baby seemed so much better,
that he said he would not come again unless
I sent for him.”

“Why don’t you send now?”

“JT have no one to send, sir; the ‘children
are too young to find their way, and my
husband will not be home till one o’clock.
I will send him then.”

“T will go for the doctor, Mrs. Watts; the
rain is quite over, and I will run all the way,
so make your mind easy;” and he buttoned
up his coat, and put his hat on as he spoke.

“God bless you, sir; it’s the greatest help
you could give me!”

Robert left the cottage, and began to run
across the field. He was a very kind-hearted
boy, and the thought of the poor little sick
baby’s face haunted him, and urged him to
speed. He had to walk slowly after he had
run over a field or two, to recover breath, till
he reached the plantations which skirted his
father’s grounds. Crossing through these,
The Danger of Delay. 27

and over the lawn, he came to a number of
little boys who were attempting to fly a kite,
but without much success; it rose several
times a few yards into the air, after he came
in sight, then bobbed about from side to
side, and fell.

“What is wrong with it, Robert?” his
brother George asked, as he came up. He
was the owner.

“T cannot stay to tell you.”

“Oh yes, do,” pleaded George.

“The tail is too heavy.”

“How many pieces should I take off?”

“ Half—no, not quite. I have a message
into town, and I'll show you when I come
back.”

“Show us now, do,” pleaded George.

“Well, try it now,” said Robert, as he cut
a quarter of the long tail off; and then he
stood to watch the effect. “It wants a, little
more off yet;” and again he used his pen-
knife to curtail the long appendage. “Now
try it again.”

“The tail is too light, now,” shouted some
of the boys who stood looking up to watch its
uncertain flight in the air.

“Bring it down,”- said Robert, who now
28 Always too Late.

entered heart and soul into the proceedings;
“and I will tie on a piece more.”

“ You had better go into the town, Robert,”
said George, “and I will tie on the end of
the tail myself. I see quite what it wants.”

“I may as well finish, as I begun,” said
Robert; “here reach it to me. Now I think
that ought to do nicely. I will fly it myself
and try.”

“Come higher up on the lawn, then; the
trees are in the way here.” And the little
party went higher up; and soon the kite was
sailing steadily against the wind, to the delight
of all. Their pleasure was short, however, for
presently the tightly drawn line was snapped,
and away soared the kite, like a bird set free,
and all began to run in the direction in which
it went.

Now Robert’s conscience whispered him to
cease following, and go into town. “But the
kite is coming down even now, and I can
run all the way into town,” he thought; and
so he followed with the rest. The kite did
fall, and caught in the branches of a tall oak;
however, it was safe enough there, and Robert
need not have lingered as he did to see it
brought down.
-The Danger of Delay. -29

“JT thought you were going into the village,
Robert,” said George. _

“Yes, so I am, and as quickly as I can,
too!” and as he spoke he ran down towards
the gate, through it, and out on the road.

He knocked several times at the doctor’s
door before any answer came, and began to
grow impatient at the delay.

“Master’s out, sir,” said the boy who came
at last.

“Out? is he really? When will he be in?”

“Not till evening, sir.”

“When did he go?”

“ About five minutes ago, sir.”

“Only five minutes ?”

“Scarcely that, sir.”

“Which way did he go? I may overtake
him.”

“No, Master Robert, you cannot, He is
riding.”

“Have you any idea where he has gone?
I would ride after him,” asked Robert,
anxiously.

“Not a notion, sir. I hope no one is ill up
at the house, sir?”

Robert turned away without answering, he
was so heart-sick. He knew there was no
30 Always too Late.

other doctor in the place. He could do
nothing now to help the poor baby; and
its mother had trusted him so, and been
so thankful. He felt utterly miserable as
he turned from the doctor’s door, and walked
slowly back up the street.

“Only five minutes !—three minutes sooner,
and I should have seen him!” he said, bit-
terly ;.“and now, if the child dies, what shall
I do?” thought he.

He went to the cottage in the afternoon,
feeling restless, and anxious to know how
the child was. Dr. Taylor was just leaving
the door as he reached it; and he asked him
after the baby at once.

“Dead, poor little thing.”

“Tt looked so ill when I saw it this
morning.” as
“You saw it? Was it you, then, who

offered to run for me?”

“Yes—but you were out; I lingered on
the way,’ said Robert, shrinking terribly
under his own words.

“Well, Robert, I don’t say I could have
saved the child if I had been here before—I

‘don’t say so for a fact—but I think I could
have done.”
The Danger of Delay. 31

“Qh, Dr. Taylor, do not say so!”

“T think I could have saved it. The poor
mother might have saved it herself if she had
put it into a warm bath !”

“Oh, Dr. Taylor, you are making me
wretched !”

“T have no wish to do so, but I must tell
you the truth. I do not wonder at your
blaming yourself. I should do so if I were in
your case. Are you going in to the cottage?”

“Oh no.”

“I think you had better not. The poor
mother is greatly distressed, and is better
alone. Let us walk back over the fields
together. I just happened to go in when
the poor little infant was dying,—quite too
late to be of use. My horse had cast a shoe,
and I left it at the forge, meaning to go home
by the short cut over the fields, and chanced
to step into the cottage as I passed.”

“T feel as if I had killed the child,” said
Robert, as he walked by the doctor’s side.

“You should not; you did not mean to
injure the baby.”

“Tt was my fault, Dr. Taylor. If I had
brought you in time, you could have saved it.”

“I might not have been able. Humanly
32 Always too Late.

speaking, I think I could have done so; but
we must remember that life and death are
in God’s wise hands.”

“Tam miserable. I shall never, never for-
give myself!”—and very bitter tears fell
from Robert’s eyes as he spoke.

“Tt is a sad lesson indeed, Robert; but it
may be the best you have ever received; and
if so, God will have brought good out of evil,
You are a strong, healthy youth, and it seems
likely that you will live, and grow to be a
man. If you do, you will be a rich one; for
you will take your father’s place, and have
many people to depend on you. The happi-
ness of many will be in your hands, and it
will be all-important that you should be
prompt and regular.in your way of doing
things.”

“T never shall be prompt.”

“Have you tried?”

“T have, but now I give it up. I see my
trying is in vain.”

“Have you ee any help in this
matter ?”

“Help?”

“Yes,—God’s good help; or are you trying
to do better in your own strength ?”
The Danger of Delay. 33

“T never prayed about this, if that is what
you mean.”

“That is just what I mean. Ask God to
help you, and He will. He says He will.
Now take Him at His word: believe God, as
you would me if I made you a promise.”

“T never so thought of God’s promises.”

“Tf you would believe a weak human being
like me, why not the very God of truth?”

“Tam sure I don’t know.”

“There can be no reason. Now do this:
ask God for the effectual grace of His Holy
Spirit, that you may give yourself to Him,
body and soul; then ask for grace that you
may be kept serving Him. Here is a short
prayer, some centuries old, but as fit for you
as for the saint who uttered it: ‘Lord, take
my heart, for I cannot give it to Thee; keep
it, for I cannot keep it for Thee.’ While
using every effort, and taking every means to
conquer your besetting sin, also pray humbly,
penitently, in true faith, and hoping for
Christ’s sake to receive help, and God will
hear and answer you, and your whole future
life will be a happy, useful, honoured one.
He says, ‘My grace is sufficient for thee, for
My strength is made perfect in weakness.’

Dp 29
34 Always too Late,

He will help you in whatever you do, that
you may ‘do it heartily, as to the Lord,—to
live ‘redeeming the time’ all your life long,
till at last you come to hear Him speak the
blessed words, ‘ Well done, good and faithful
servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”

Robert did act on Dr. Taylor’s advice, and
lived to prove that the greatest faults can be
cured, and the worst habits can be subdued,
by the grace of God.

Let his case serve as a lesson to all young
readers on the evil and danger of delay. If
in common life such unhappy results follow,
how much more in regard to the soul is it
needful to remember the solemn words, “ Be-
hold, Now is the accepted time; behold, Now
is the day of salvation!” Seek the Lord
while He is to be found; call upon Him while
He is near. The Lord Jesus Christ, with
open arms, invites you to flee to Him without
delay, and be saved. Come to Him now; if
you hesitate and postpone you will be lost.
May the good Spirit open your eyes that you
may see your danger; and may He give you
the aid of His grace that you may have power
to escape from the wrath to come, and find
salvation through faith in the name of Jesus.
Ahe Tew Wetodge and its
ARenants.

—io

CHAPTER I.

MR. GREEN’S NARRATIVE.




“{,. WONDER who Squire Burton is build-
vy 2" Charles Frankish to his father, as
é We they passed the entrance of Burton

1. Park.

‘Mr. Frankish could not satisfy his little
son’s curiosity ; but they both stopped to look
at the building which was rising so rapidly
under the busy hands of the workmen. They
could not help admiring the cottage, which
was just ready for roofing, and the beauty of
the situation chosen for it.

A few days afterwards the father and son
again walked past the park-gates, for Charles
was quite anxious to see how the workmen

were getting on with the cottage. Great
36 The New Lodge and its Tenants,

progress had been made: the roof was on, the
windows were glazed, several little ornaments
added to the stone-work, and a pretty garden
waslaid out. Two months more passed away,
and the cottage had received its furniture
and tenants. The garden showed that skilful
hands had been at work, for many sweet
flowers were blooming in it, and there was a
prospect of still more to come.

But still Charles did not know for whom
this pretty place had been so carefully pre-
pared; and often he ran that way and lingered
about the park gates, in the hope of seeing
the tenant of the new lodge. For some time
he only caught glimpses of a face at one of
the pretty latticed windows: it was the face
of an elderly but very pleasant-looking woman ;
and Charles fancied that she must be waiting
on some one else, for he felt pretty sure there
was another person in the new lodge.

Mr. Frankish had not thought so much
about the lodge and its tenants; but when
his little son begged him to go that way
again for a walk he willingly agreed. Instead
of taking the usual road, though, Mr. Frankish
told Charles they would enter the park at one
side and come out of it at the gate, just within
Mr. Green’s Narrative. 37

which was the new cottage. This proposal
delighted Charles very much; for what child
does not better love to walk on the soft grass,
under beautiful trees, amongst which the deer
are bounding, than to tread the dusty road
or even the beaten field-path ?

On their way they passed, at a little dis-
tance, the great house in the park. It looked

“a very stately building, and yet it was un-
occupied, except by a servant or two, for
the owner was far away, and did not seem
to care much for his fine hall and wide park
at Burton.

Charles glanced upwards at the closed and
boarded windows, and said: “Father, is it not
very strange that Squire Burton does not live
in that beautiful house? I think I should
be proud and happy if I had such a one.”

“We often think we should be happier
if we had the gifts which God has bestowed
upon others, Charles; but Iam afraid we are
wrong. For you may be sure, my boy, that
the wise and good Being who placed you
where you are knew better than you for what
work you were best fitted.”

Charles was silent after this, until they
came within sight of the lodge. Then he
38 The New Lodge and its Tenants.

began to exclaim: “Oh, father! I see a man
in the garden. I have never seen one there
before, except the gardener from the hall.
I wonder if he is the master of the cottage.”

“7 can satisfy your curiosity now, Charles,”
replied his father. “It was for that man that
the cottage was built, and he has been ill for
some time; but I suppose he is much better
now, or he would not be out of doors.”

“Then you know him father, do you?”

“T have seen him a great many times;
indeed, I may say I have known him for
years, and I mean to call and ask how he is
to-day.”

“How odd that you should know him,
father ; and I have been wondering every time
I came this way why Squire Burton has built
this pretty house.”

“T dare say old Mr. Green will tell you
himself, Charles, if we ask, and then your
wondering will have an end.”

When they reached the lodge, Charles saw
that the man looked ill, and used a stick to
walk with. He seemed pleased to see them,
and to answer Mr. Frankish’s kind inquiries
after his health. Then his wife came out and
invited them to go into the cottage and rest
Mr. Green’s Narrative. 39

awhile before they returned home. This
pleased Charles, for he wished to know more
about old Mr. Green and his wife, and espe-
cially why such a handsome little house was
built on purpose for them.

His father guessed what was in the boy’s
mind; so, after a little talk, he said: “Mr.
Green, my son watched the building of your
house with a good deal of interest, and he
seems to wonder how it was that Squire
Burton thought of doing it. Do you mind
telling the reason ?”

Old Mr. Green smiled. “Oh, dear no!” he
answered; “but there is very little to tell.
You must know, Master Charles, that I went
to be servant to Squire Burton’s father when
I was quite alad. I only did little odd jobs
at first, sometimes helping in the garden by
weeding and picking up stones, sometimes in
the stables under the grooms, and now and
then I was sent with messages. I had no
regular work, though I was servant to so
many that I always found plenty to do. But
the squire first took me out of kindness, be-
cause my mother was a poor widow with more
children than she knew how to find food for,
and she was very thankful that one could earn
40 The New Lodge and its Tenants.

his living in ever such an humble way by
honest labour. When I first went to the hall
she said: ‘Jack, you must try to be a good
lad. Youll most likely be set to a many
different sorts of work, but never mind that;
whatever you have to do, do it well. You
shouldn’t work just when the master is look-
ing, for you know what the Bible says: ‘ Not
with eyeservice, as men-pleasers, but as the
servants of Christ, doing the will of God from
the heart: with good-will doing service as to
the Lord, and not to men. ‘You know, my
lad) said my mother, ‘the Lord is always
looking. He never slumbers nor sleeps ; and
whoever may be absent, He sees whatever you
do: so don’t forget that, and always work your
best, as unto the Lord.’

“You may guess that when I went, a boy,
amongst all those servants, I had enough to
do to follow my mother’s advice, for I often
saw them waste their master’s time because
they thought he was not looking, and I was
tempted to follow their example. Besides, I
do believe I was more weary when night
came than any servant in Burton Hall, for it
was ‘Jack’ here, and ‘Jack’ there, from
morning till evening. Everybody seemed to
Mr. Green's Narrative. 41

have a job for me, and the servants were often
impatient, two wanting to be attended to at
once, and each thinking I ought to leave what
the other wished, and do his work first. I
had trouble enough to please all who claimed
my help, as you may think, and for two years
I was indeed a ‘servant of servants. Some-
times I used to talk to my mother about it.
‘IT should not care so much about it, mother,’
said I, ‘if I had only one master to please,
who would see how I worked, and give me a
step upwards if he thought I deserved it. But
the servants think me fit for nothing but to
help in such things as they don’t like to do
themselves. As for the squire, he never
notices me at all.’

“««And you have one Master, my lad,’ said
my mother, ‘even Christ. Do you think He
never notices you, or that He will forget to
give you your step upward when He sees you
deserve it ?’

“So I went on from day to day, until more
than two years were gone; my mother always
encouraging me with Bible words and pro-
mises, when disposed to be dull or discon-
tented. And I do look back on that time
with great thankfulness, and bless the Lord
42 The New Lodge and its Tenants.

that I had strength given me to remember
that I was His servant even more than Squire
Burton’s.”

Here Mr. Frankish said : “I am afraid you
are tiring yourself too much, Mr. Green; and
your good wife here is beginning to look
anxious about her invalid. If you will allow
us, my little son and I will call to-morrow
afternoon, and hear the remainder of your
story.”

This was agreed to, for old Mr. Green was
weak, and not able to talk long together.

So Charles was obliged to wait until the
next day, though, as he was returning home,
he told his father he should have liked to
hear it all then.

“Yes, my boy,” replied Mr. Frankish; “but
we should be willing to control our impatience
whenever it may cause pain or even incon-
venience to another. I think you would be
sorry to tax that kind old man’s strength too
much merely to gratify your eagerness.”

“T forgot that, father,” replied Charles.
43

CHAPTER II.
FAITHFUL SERVICE REWARDED.

PM HARLES and his father did not fail to
ASZ]| return to the new lodge at the time
appointed. They found old Mr. Green better,
and quite ready to tell the rest of his story.
“T was mistaken,” said he, “when I thought
Mr. Burton had never noticed me, and that the
time I had spent in his service would perhaps
be counted for nothing. I was busy in the
garden one day, digging over a piece of ground
which the gardener had told me to do, when
all at once I was startled by a voice which
said, ‘Well, Jack, you are hard at work as
usual, I see. I turned round, and took off
my cap, for there stood Squire Burton. I
could not help feeling glad at his words, for
they seemed to say that he had often seen
me hard at work; but I scarcely know what
I answered, for I had no idea he was near me.
“*Should you like a holiday to go to Sum-
ningly Fair, Jack? I think you work hard


44 The New Lodge and tis Tenants,

enough to deserve one. He looked straight
at me, and I thanked him and said, ‘I would
rather go home, if I were allowed a holiday.’

“<«Then you may drop your spade, and go
at once, if you like; and I hope you will have
a pleasant day with your mother,

“JT thanked the squire again; but I thought
of the gardener and my work, for I knew the
plot of ground ought to be made ready, as it
was wanted for sowing on the next day. So
I made bold to say, ‘I should like a holiday
very much, sir, and mother would be pleased
too; but I am afraid I could not be very well
spared to-day. The gardener is very busy,
and just now even my work is of consequence
to him,

“«Why, you are getting quite a man of
business, Jack ; but you shall have your holi-
day: take it the day after to-morrow, and start
as early as you like in the morning’

“T was quite overjoyed at the squire’s kind
way of speaking, and was very eager to tell
my mother; but I did not let that interfere
with my work. I plodded on as usual, rather
later if anything, and left nothing undone
that was of consequence; so I started for
home at the appointed time in good spirits,
Faithful Service Rewarded. 45

“T had a little money to take, too, which
T had saved from my. wages, and a very joyful
meeting I had with my mother and the young
ones at home. She had just begun setting
out the tea-things in the afternoon, when the
latch was raised, and who should come in but
the squire.

“«Good day, Mrs. Green,’ said he ; ‘I wanted
to know if that boy were here,

“T started up directly, and said, ‘Am I
wanted, sir?’

“«Yes, my lad, was the reply, ‘I want you,
but only for a bit of a talk. And you can go
on with the tea-making; and, mind, make a
good cup out of that parcel, Mrs. Green ; and
he handed my mother a pound of tea. He
was a curious man, was the old squire; he did
things in a funny way, but he was wonder-
fully kind-hearted, and he feared God. ‘Now,
Jack,’ said the squire, ‘perhaps you think I
have not watched you during these long two
years, but I have.’

“*T am glad of it, sir, I said; and I held
my head up as I spoke, for I knew I had
tried to do my duty as a faithful servant,
though in a very humble station, and at very
homely work.
46 The New Lodge and its Tenants.

“‘Tt’s not every lad who could say that he
was glad his master’s eye had been upon him,
Jack,’ said the squire. ‘Many would change
colour sadly, and have tingling ears at the
very thought of such a witness. But I can-
not help fancying that you have remembered
that there is always one Eye which never
closes, even that of the most high God;’ and
the squire spoke slowly as he named that great
name.

“«My mother always taught me to remem-
ber that, sir,’ I answered; and I repeated the
texts she had so often said in my ears to
encourage me in my duty.

“«Mrs, Green, said my master, ‘you have
trained your son well, and I hope, by God’s
blessing, he will prove a comfort to you. I
have watched him narrowly when he knew not
that I was near, and the day before yesterday
I tried him in a little matter by offering
him a holiday, when I was well aware he was
needed at the hall. Not many would have
deferred pleasure for the sake of duty, or have
stayed away from a fair for the company of
a mother. Now I have a place for you, Jack ;
and if you fill it as well as you have done
the various sorts of work you have been set
Faithful Service Rewarded. 47

to already, I shall find a faithful servant, and
you, I trust, a considerate master.’

“Ah! Master Charles, I can hardly tell you
the happiness there was in our little cottage
that day ; but you may guess with what thank-
ful hearts mother and I blessed the Lord for
his goodness, though she had always told me
that I might be sure that ‘whatsoever good
thing any man doeth the same shall he receive
of the Lord, whether he be bond or free.’

“Well, Master Charles, I need not tell you
every particular of my upward progress, for
I did not stop after having taken a single
step forward. The squire kept advancing me
from one thing to another, until at last I was
employed as a sort of house-steward, and had
the charge of the money for all home expenses.
He said to me, ‘You see, Green, I have fol-
lowed the rule of my Master and yours,
Having found you faithful in a few things, I
have made you ruler over many things,’

“«Begging your pardon, sir, said I, ‘I look
upon it that the favour you have been pleased
to show me comes to me through you, but
from the Lord, in whose sight I have always
laboured,’ :

“Right, Green,’ said my master; ‘we are
48 The New Lodge and iis Tenants.

all instruments in His hands, and our great
aim should be to do His will on earth, that we
may dwell and reign with Him in heaven,’

“When Squire Burton died, he left directions
that this cottage should be built and furnished
for me whenever I was inclined to retire from
service. ‘He gave me the best powers of his
best days’—those were the squire’s words—
‘and I must take care that his grey hairs have
a meet resting-place after I am gone,

“And now, Master Charles, you know why
this lodge was built; but I stayed with the
young squire for several years after his father’s
death. My wife was housekeeper at the hall
once, and we had no family. But my health
has not been good of late, so I was glad to
come to this sweet little place, and already I
am much better and stronger, though my
working days are nearly over, so far as this
world is concerned. I hope I shall often see
your curly head under my roof, and that. it
will please God you may learn some useful
lesson from the story of an old man’s life.”

Mr. Frankish thanked the kind old man
for the trouble he had taken; and after pro-
mising that Charles should soon visit him
again, they took their leave.
Faithful Service Rewarded. 49

“What do you think of old Mr. Green, my
boy?” asked Mr. Frankish. “Do you learn
anything from what you have heard ?”

“He has been a good and faithful servant,
father.”

“Yes, not only to an earthly but to a
heavenly Master; and I should like you to
imitate his example, for remember you serve
the same Lord as he did. In the first place,
you must begin in youth‘ Remember thy
Creator in the days of thy youth” In the
next place, you must not be discouraged, or
think that God has forgotten you, because
you do not receive signs of His presence and
favour just at the time and in the way you
expect. It is by patient continuance in well-
doing that we win the crown of life. You
know, my dear boy, that if Squire Burton had
asked John Green to go and be his servant,
and John had refused until his best days
were past, the services of a weak old man
would have been lightly valued. And can
we think that God ought to have anything
but the best powers of our best days, or that
we should grow old before we begin to think
of entering His service ?”

Charles looked very thoughtful, and his

B2
50 The New Lodge and its Tenants.

father bade him glance back at the pretty
lodge, peeping through the trees. “Does that
teach you anything, Charles? I mean, does
its connection with old Mr. Green furnish any
spiritual lesson ?”

The boy was silent, but gazed wistfully in
his father’s face, and Mr. Frankish continued :
“ Just as that faithful old man is rewarded by
the possession of a peaceful and lovely home,
so does our heavenly Master promise to reward
those who spend their lives in His service with
a home in ‘a house not made with hands,
eternal in the heavens.” And one word more.
You thought you should be very happy if you
possessed Burton Hall, and wondered that its
owner could stay away from it; yet you see
that you may, through God’s grace, dwell in
a far more glorious home than any earthly
palace. Only a few years of faithful service,
and it will be yours for ever and ever.
Dear Charley, will you not try to enter
there 2?”


51

Wea in the Summer- Te ouse.

—o——

T was the first time this
year, and very early in the
season too. The 10th of
May was Katie’s birth-
day; and though year
after year the possibility

of tea in the arbour was talked
over and hoped for, such a thing
had never really come about before. Year
after year the cold east wind or the dripping
rain, or something else that was not spring-
like, made Katie’s mamma say, “No, my dear,
it will not do; you must look forward to next
year.”

Next year; oh! what ages to come that
seems at eight years old! I am afraid there
were often some drops indoors, as well as out
of doors. But at last the sun did shine on
the 10th of May, and the wind was soft as


52 Tea im the Sunvmer-House.

a wind could be, and the whole spring-time
world looked as fresh and fair as if it were
decked out on purpose for a birthday.

Katie had got up very early to see what the
weather was, and finding it so fine she took her
little Bible, and ran down into the summer-
house. Her heart could not but rejoice in the
brightness of the morning, and she thought
how good it was of God to make the earth so
beautiful. From that she got a step farther,
and thought that better still was it that He
had given her the power to enjoy it. But
had she loved Him as she ought to have done?
had she served Him through those nine years
that were past? She would turn over a new
leaf, and try to do better. And ah! then
came the question, “How about the nine old
leaves?” she could not make them fresh; even
if she could do right for the time to come she
could not make amends for the time that
was past.

So at last it came to this, that Katie felt
there was nothing else for her to do but to
kneel down in the arbour, and ask the Lord
Jesus Christ to blot out all the sins of those
nine years, and help her to please Him for
the year that was before her. How happy
Tea in the Summer-House. 53

she felt after this! and how she enjoyed the
day! Ifyou could have seen Katie and her
sister Julia, and their three little cousins, at
their tea in the summer-house at five o’clock,
you could hardly have wished for a prettier
sight. Each had made a wreath of her
favourite flower—primrose or cowslip or blue-
bell—to put round her hair. They had been
allowed to have the little tea-things from the
china closet; and oh! what do you think the
tea was? it was cowslip tea, the concoction
which every child approves of, but which
all the grown-up folks denounce and call
“mawkish.”

There had been a special expedition in
the morning to a hillside where the cows-
lips grew tall and large, with the bees tumbling
-in and out of their deep cups, and the
cuckoo singing his mellowest note, and the
first swallows skimming over the fresh young
grass; it was treat enough to see and gather
and take in all there was to enjoy. After
they were brought home there were the flowers
to pick—it did seem rather ungrateful to nip
off those golden heads, and this was the worst
part of it; and then there was the tea-making.
You have no idea what an important perform-
54 Tea im the Summer-House.

ance this was; first, to make sure the water
boiled, next to pour it over the flowers, and
add a bit of soda to soften the water and draw
out the flavour; then to let it stand just the
proper time, till at last when it was poured
into the pretty spotted cups, and plenty of
sugar and milk added to the clear yellow
syrup, Katie and her guests pronounced, as I
am sure you would have done too if you had
been there, it was the very best cowslip tea
ever tasted.

It was indeed a happy tea-drinking; the
leaves of the virginia creeper, so green and
shiny, clustered round the children’s heads,
and the butterflies flitted in and out without
being invited. I suppose they liked the smell
of the cowslips, but they must have been
puzzled to think where they were; how could
they ever have guessed they were inside the
tea-pot ?

So the birthday party was a grand success,
and it left a bright little spot in Katie’s
memory for the rest of the year; and the
brightest spot of all was the bit of morning
converse in the summer-house which she had
with her own heart and with her God.
55

Aruth fulness,

—t1

®, NE morning, Walter, George, and
W\, I were in the school-room,
busily engaged with our sums,
yY when some one came to the
, door, and asked to speak to Miss
~ Lorimer. Of course our governess
was obliged to leave us for a
short time, and as she rose to go
out, she said, “Now, dear children, you must
not begin to play or neglect your duties while
I am away. It is only those whose heart is
not in their work that require watching. I
dare say I shall only be absent a few minutes.”
She closed the door, and for a little time
our heads were bent over our slates, and we
worked just as though Miss Lorimer were
present. Then the silence was broken by
George, who said, “My sum is finished, so
you may come as soon as you please, Miss
Lorimer,”




* 56 Truthfulness,

“Do be quiet, George,” said Walter. “Mine
is not nearly done, and I never can add if any
one talks,”

However, George did not heed Walter’s
request, but continued chattering to me,
though in a low voice; for we had both
finished our sums, and were only waiting
the return of our teacher.

It was very thoughtless of us, and we felt
that we had acted unkindly to our little
brother, who was always very slow at his
arithmetic, lesson, when, on happening to look
towards the place where Walter was sitting,
we saw that he was in tears.

“ What are you crying for, Watty?” said I.

“Because my sum is not half done; and
when Miss Lorimer comes she will think
I have been idle all the time.”

“Don’t cry, Watty,” said George. “I am
sorry we talked and hindered you. Let me
look at your sum.”

George took the slate from his reluctant
hand, and, before Walter knew what he was
about, he added up the figures, and put the
amount down at the bottom. Sums seemed
scarcely any trouble to George, though they
cost Watty so much !abour.
Truthfulness, 57

“Now,” said he, as he gave back the slate,
“Miss Lorimer cannot be displeased, for your
sum is done, Walter ; so dry your eyes.”

“But I did not do it,” said Walter, glancing
at the figures which completed the row at the
bottom so nicely.

“Never mind that. If Miss Lorimer asks
you, you can tell her I did it.”

At this moment our teacher entered. “I
have been detained longer than I expected,”
said she, “so we must be the more diligent
now, my dears. Let me have your sums.”

Walter hung back to the last, but at length
he presented his, too, and Miss Lorimer pro-
nounced them all right.

“T scarcely hoped to find Walter’s finished,”
she added; and as she spoke she looked
straight in Watty’s face. My little brother's
cheeks and forehead were like scarlet in
a moment, and he turned away, as though he
could not bear to meet her eye. But Miss
Lorimer said no more, and our school work
went on as usual all the day. Yet I do not
think any of us felt comfortable or happy, for
we were ashamed of having done even a
trifling thing to deceive our kind teacher. I
felt as guilty as the others, though I had
58 Truthfulness,

been merely a looker-on; for conscience said,
“You did nothing to prevent the fault, and
perhaps a word from you might have hindered
its committal. Why did you not speak and
tell Watty it would be acting a lie?”

When evening came, and with it the
hour we generally looked forward to with
so much pleasure, because it was spent in
happy talk with Miss Lorimer, we felt still
more uncomfortable. I believe any one of
us would have gladly confessed his or her
share in the deceit; but each thought of
the others, and did not like to tell that all
were partners. It did not make us feel
more at ease when Miss Lorimevr’s first words
fell on our ears: “Dear children,” said she,
“T want you to tell me what a lie is?”

My face turned hot, and I could see the
colour rise on the cheeks of my two brothers
also. We all hesitated a moment, and then
answered: “A lie is an untruth; a saying
something false; a bearing false witness
against our neighbour.”

“Your answers are so far right, my dears,”
replied Miss Lorimer ; “but you have not told
me enough yet. Can you not give me more
information about the nature of a lie than
Truthfulness. 59

that? There are many falsehoods in which
the lips bear no part at all.”

Ah! how that remark of hers came home
to the hearts of her three little hearers. The
boys did not speak, but looked at each other
as though they would say, “I wonder if Miss -
Lorimer overheard us talking about the sum.”
Then I remember I said, but in a low,
trembling voice: “It is a lie to do anything
with the intention of deceiving others, and
making them believe what is not true.”

« Yes, that is what I wished you to under-
stand. And now, do you know why I asked
the question ?”

Little Walter burst into tears, and sobbed
- out: “It was because I did something to
deceive you this morning. Dear Miss
Lorimer, I am so sorry to think I acted
a lie. I have been miserable all the day,
and I should have told you before, and
asked you to forgive me, but ”— Watty
stopped, and looked at George, for still he
could not bear the thought of betraying his
brother’s share in the fault.

“But what, Walter?” asked Miss Lorimer,

George did not give Watty time to speak
again, but himself answered the question:
60 Truthfulness.

“Indeed, Miss Lorimer, it was more my fault
than Watty’s, and I think that is the reason
he does not like to tell you. When you were
out of the room this morning Lucy and I
talked after we had finished our sums, and
that hindered him, and made him ery; for he
was afraid you would say he had been lazy if
his were not done, too. Then I was sorry to
see his tears, and I took his sum and did it;
and just then you came back, and you thought
Watty had been quick about his work, when
really it was more than half mine.”

Miss Lorimer looked very sorrowful, and
the tears stood in her eyes. “Oh, my dear
little pupils,” said she, “how very true does
your story prove the words of Scripture, ‘ Be
sure your sin will find you out.” I should
never have known or guessed a single word of
this if you had not told me. A little matter
having no concern with you made me think
more than common about the meaning of the
ninth commandment, and I was anxious you
should understand how many ways there are
of breaking it, though without speaking a lie.
Your own consciences did the rest; and I
am thankful that it pleased God to put it
in my heart to talk to you on this subject
Truthfulness. 61

to-night, since it has roused you to a sense
of your sin, Yet I had such faith in your
truth, dear children, that it has grieved me
very much to find there has been falsehood
among you.”

“Miss Lorimer, do forgive us!” cried Watty
and George together. “I do hope we shall
never deceive you again.”

“And me, too, Miss Lorimer,” said I, “ for
I was just as much to blame. I knew all
about it, but I never spoke or tried to
prevent it.”

“Dear children,” she replied, “I do forgive
you; but remember it was God’s holy com-
mandment you broke, not mine, and from
Him pardon must be sought.”

We were all much impressed with the
thought of our error, and our dear teacher
spent a long time in pointing out examples in
Seripture by which the impression might be
still further deepened. She showed us that
God desires not only truth of word, but of
deed. “Truth in the inward parts” is the
term used, proving that we ought to have our
hearts and thoughts free from all desire to
deceive, as well as our lips kept from lying.
We read over the promise of God, that he
62 Truthfulness,

who speaketh the truth in his heart shall
abide in the tabernacle of the Lord, and dwell
in His holy hill.

“And, oh! what a beautiful thing this
truth must be, dear children,’ said Miss
Lorimer; “for we find that word is used
even to signify the blessed Saviour, who says, _
‘I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life,’ Our
God is called a ‘Lord God of truth? a ‘God
who cannot lie,’ who must be worshipped ‘in
spirit and in truth.”

But there is so much about truth, and to
induce us to love it in the Bible, that I can
only put down a very little portion here. It
would be a pleasant exercise for my young
readers to search out the rest for themselves ;
and if they do so, I shall have cause to rejoice
that I have written an account of one of the
errors of my own childish days, because I
believe they cannot read the beautiful words
of Scripture in commendation of truth with-
out themselves learning to love it better.



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