Once upon a time there was a little girl no bigger than Lolly here, sitting in the dirt by the roadside, crying.

Her frock was all ragged and soiled, and the tears had run over the dust upon her face, making it streaked, and disfiguring it sadly.

Altogether, she was a very miserable little object, when a lady, walking along the road, suddenly came upon her, and stopped to see what was the matter.

As the lady gazed upon the strange, ragged little creature, there came tears into her eyes, and she said softly, as if speaking to herself,—

“Who would think that this is the daughter of a great King?”

The child, seeing a beautiful lady before her, jumped from the ground, and, with shame, began to shake herself from the dirt that clung to her garments; but the stranger, taking no notice of her untidy condition, clasped the child’s fingers in her white hand, and told her to lead her to her home.

It was a brown cottage, very like mine, only that one was hung with cobwebs, and the dust was an inch thick upon the floor, and the window was so begrimmed that scarcely any light came through.

“Ugh!” said the lady, as she stood upon the threshold and looked in.

“Bring me a broom!” And she brushed away the hanging webs, and made the floor neat and clean, and taught the child to wash the window, until the bright sun came in and played about the floor and upon the walls; and then she made the little girl wash her face and hands, and put on a better frock, that she found in the chest.

“Now, my little princess,” said she, “come outside for a while, in the fresh air, and I will talk to you.”

“Why do you call me ‘little princess’?” asked the child, as they sat down upon the cottage-step, while the birds twittered about them and the sweet breath of summer touched their cheeks.

“Because you are the daughter of a great King,” said the lady, gently stroking her soft, brown hair, that she had found so tangled and shaggy, but had made so nice and smooth.

“My father was a poor man, and he lies in the graveyard,” said the little girl, as she looked wonderingly at her friend.

“Yes; but I mean your heavenly Father,” said the lady—“he whom we call God. Surely you have heard of him, my dear child!”

The little girl said that she had heard of him; but, from what she could learn, the lady knew that she looked upon him as one that is afar off; and she wished to teach her how very near he is continually, even round about her bed and about her path, and spying out all her ways.

“Do you live here all alone, dear child?” asked she kindly.

Her words were so sweet and gentle that they sounded like the murmur of the brook near the little child’s home.

“All day long alone, while mother is away at her work,” answered the child, with her eyes full of sad tears.

“And what do you do with the weary hours? Do they not seem very dull and dreary to you?” asked the lady.

“Ah, yes,” said the little one. “I have nobody to play with or talk to; and I’m glad when the night comes and I can creep into bed and shut my eyes and forget everything.”

“What if you had some kind friend ever near, to smile on you and bless you,—somebody to whom you could tell all your little sorrows as you are now doing to me?” said the lady. “Would that be pleasant?”

“Oh yes, indeed!” returned the child. “Will you stay?” for she had felt it very sweet to be sitting there with the kind lady’s words falling like music upon her ear, and her heart was lighter and happier than it had been in all her life.

“I cannot always be with you,” said the lady. “But there is One who ‘will never leave you.’ How beautiful he has made everything about you!” And she looked upon the green earth, with the peeping flowers, and upon the delicate shrubs that skirted the roadside, and the wild-roses and creeping plants along the hedges, and then she looked up into the blue heavens, with such an expression of love that the child gazed at her with rapture.

“Such a good God!” said the lady, still looking up with the bright light upon her face. “And such a wondrously beautiful world, where we may walk joyously, with his love in our hearts as well as all about our path; and yet we sit in the dust weeping, and forget that he is our Father, and that he is watching for us to turn towards him—poor, wandering, wayward children that we are!”

Though the lady spoke as if to herself, the child knew that she was thinking of her; for she had not quite put away the shame of her first appearance; and she touched her white hand timidly with her brown finger, and said, really in earnest, “I won’t sit in the dirt again.”

“That’s a dear child,” said her friend. “You must never again forget that, although you are poor, and must live in this world for a while, you are in truth a little exiled princess, and your glorious home is with the great King, your Father, in the skies; and it does not become the daughter of so great a King to put herself on a level with the beasts; but you must lift yourself up more and more towards heaven.”

The little girl looked at her, and straightened her figure to its greatest possible height.

“Not to carry yourself proudly, as the daughter of an earthly king might do,” continued the lady, “but be above doing a mean or low thing, and try to be heavenly and pure, like your blessed Lord and Father; and then he will lift you up to his beautiful, high throne.”

The child’s head drooped again, and she looked despondingly at her teacher, as if she did not really know what to do.

“I’m going now,” said the lady; “but I shall come once a week to see how you get on. I shall not expect the cobwebs to gather any more in the cottage, nor the dust to collect upon the floor, nor to shut out the sun from the window, nor the little princess’s face to be dirty and ugly; because that would offend the pure and holy God, who made this world fresh and clean and beautiful, and expects his children to keep it so. Do you think you will remember ‘Our Father’?”

“‘Who art in heaven,’” said the child, calling to mind the prayer taught her some time in her life, but long since almost forgotten.

“Not in heaven only, dear child,” said the lady. “I want you to think of him as close beside you always, wherever you go. Can you read?”

“A little.”

The lady opened a pocket-Bible, and drawing the little girl closer to her, said, “Now, say after me,—

“‘Whither shall I go from thy Spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there; if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me. Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.’

“You see, my dear child,” said she, as she reverently closed the book, “we cannot get away from God if we would, and surely we would not try to hide ourselves from so kind a Friend and Father if we could. Only when we are doing something that we are ashamed of do we shun the face of one who loves us; and if we try to flee from the eye of God we may be sure we are guilty of some wickedness. How much sweeter is it to do what we know will please him, and look freely up into his face, as a good child delights to meet his earthly parent’s smile!”

The lady rose to go, and the child looked wistfully at her and then at the little Bible.

“Ah yes; I will give you this. It will tell you what to do.” And she put the book into the child’s hands. “You will read a chapter every day till I come?”

The little girl gladly promised, but was sad at the parting; for never an hour passed so cheerily as the hour with the kind teacher.

“You may be sure I’ll come again, for He sends me,” said the lady. And she looked up once more with the heavenly face, and then stooped till her soft lips touched the child’s forehead; and, while the pressure of the gentle kiss thrilled through the very soul of the little girl, her friend was gone.