WHOLES INSTEAD OF TENTHS.

When Marty came home from the meeting the next Saturday evening, and entered the sitting-room in her usual whirlwind style, she found her father there having a romp with Freddie.

“Why, here is little sister! Well, missy, where have you been?” he asked.

“Why, papa!” exclaimed Marty reproachfully. “To the mission meeting, of course. I told you this morning I was going.”

“So you did; and you have told me every morning this week that this was the important day. I don't know how I came to forget it. Well, how did you like the meeting?”

“Oh, ever so much! I heard a great many sad things.”

“That's a new reason for liking a thing,” said her father.

“I mean,” replied Marty, “I liked it because it was so nice and interesting, but I did hear some sad things. Don't you think it's sad to hear of a little school in one of those big, bad Chinese cities, where the children were beginning to learn about Jesus, being broken up because the folks in this country don't send money enough to pay a teacher? And it would only take a little money, too.”

“That is certainly very sad.”

“Yes; and Miss Agnes told us of other schools that have to send the girls and boys away because there isn't possibly room for them, and there is no money to make the buildings larger. I asked her why the big society in this country—the one where the money from all the bands is sent, you know—didn't just take hold and build plenty of schools, so that all the heathen children might be taught; and she said that the Board—that's the big society—has no money to send but what the churches and Sunday-schools give them, and lately they haven't been giving enough to build all the schools that are wanted. Isn't it awful!”

“A very sad state of affairs,” said Mr. Ashford, but he could hardly help smiling a little at Marty's profound indignation.

“I should think the people in this country couldn't sit still and see things going on in such a way,” she said. “Why, do you know, Miss Agnes says there are places where the poor people are asking for missionaries, and there are none to send, because there's not money enough to support them. I should think that people would just go and take all their money out of the banks and send it to the Board. Then there would be so much money pouring in that the Board would have to sit up nights to count it.”

“No, no; that wouldn't do,” said her father. “Little girls don't understand these matters.”

“Well, but, papa,” she said, coming close to him, dragging her coat after her by one sleeve, “don't you think if everybody were to give as the Lord has prospered them, there would be nearly enough money to do the right thing by the heathen?”

“Yes, there's something in that,” answered Mr. Ashford, looking with a queer kind of a smile at his wife, over Marty's head. “But you can't compel every one to do what is right. All you can do is to attend to your own contributions.”

“Well,” said Marty, half crying in her earnestness, “I started out to give tenths; but as long as there are so many heathen, and so few missionaries, I'm going to give halves or wholes. I can't stand tenths.”

And she marched off and put every cent she had in the red box. When she got her weekly allowance, that also went in. Her mother suggested that she would better not give all her money away at once.

“I think,” she said, “it would be much better to do as you started to do, and not give in that impulsive way.”

But Marty was sure she should not regret it, and declared she was going to give every bit of money she ever should have to send missionaries to the heathen. She was very full of ardor for about two days, though on Monday something occurred that made her feel very bad. She was playing with Freddie in the morning, and when schooltime came he began to whimper, and holding her dress, pleaded,

“Don't go, Marty; play wis me.”

She was very fond of her little brother, and proud that he seemed to think more of her than he did of any one else, so she was usually quite gentle with him. She now petted him and coaxed him to let her go, saying when she came home she would bring him a pretty little sponge cake. She often brought these tasty little cakes to Freddie, and he considered them a great treat. The prospect of one quite satisfied him, and after many last kisses he let her go peaceably.

On the way home from school she stopped at the bakery, and it was not until the cake was selected and wrapped up that she remembered she had no money. It was all in her missionary box.

“Oh! I can't take it after all,” she said regretfully. “I forgot I have no money.”

“That makes no difference at all,” said the kindly German woman, who knew Marty, as Mrs. Ashford generally dealt at the shop: “you take it all the same, and bring the penny to-morrow—any day.”

“No, thank you, mamma wouldn't like me to do that,” answered Marty, hastening out to hide her tears. She was so sorry for Freddie's disappointment; and disappointed he was, for he had a good memory and immediately asked for his cake. Then there was a great crying scene, for Marty cried as heartily as he did, and their mamma had to comfort them both.

“I think, mamma,” said Marty, when Freddie had condescended to eat a piece of another kind of cake and quiet was restored, “I think, after all, I'll not put every cent of my money in the box, but will keep a little to buy things for dear little Freddie—and you,” giving her mother a squeeze.

“That will be best,” said Mrs. Ashford. “I know you enjoy bringing us things sometimes.”

This was quite true. Marty was very generous, and nothing pleased her more than to bring home some modest dainty, such as her small purse would buy, and share it with everybody in the house, not forgetting Katie in the kitchen.

But her penniless condition brought her a harder time yet. The next day in school a sudden recollection flashed upon her that nearly took her breath away. She could hardly wait until school was dismissed to race home to her mother, to whom she managed to gasp,

“Oh, mamma! next Friday is Cousin Alice's birthday!”

“Is it?” said Mrs. Ashford calmly. “What then?”

“Why, you know that letter-rack of silver cardboard that I have been making for her birthday, and counted so on giving her, isn't finished.”

“It is all ready but the ribbon, isn't it? It wont take long to finish. I will make the bows for you.”

“But the ribbon isn't bought yet, and I haven't got a cent!” exclaimed Marty despairingly.

There were two very strict rules in connection with the money Marty received each week. One was she was never to ask for it in advance, and the other that she was not to borrow from any one, expecting to pay when she got her dime. If she spent all her money the first of the week, she had to do without things, no matter how badly she wanted them, till the next allowance came in. This was to teach her foresight and carefulness, her father said. Now she had no money and no expectation of any until Saturday, when the birthday would be over. Of course there was all the money in the red box, but she did not dream of touching that. It was just as much missionary money as if it was already in the hands of the Board that Miss Agnes talked about.

“If I had any ribbon that would suit,” said Mrs. Ashford, “I would give it to you; but I haven't. Besides, for a present it would be better to have new ribbon. How much would it cost?”

“Rosa Stevenson paid eight cents a yard for hers, and it takes a yard and a half—narrow ribbon, you know.”

“Then you will want twelve cents. I am sorry I cannot lend you the money, but it is against the rule, you know.”

“Yes, ma'am, I know,” Marty replied sorrowfully.

She was sadly disappointed, as she had been looking forward for several weeks to the time when she should have the pleasure of presenting the nicely-made letter-rack to her cousin. She did not grudge the money she had devoted to missions; she would like to have given much more if she could; but she began to see that Edith's way of giving according to system was the best. She was still very much interested in the heathen, but they seemed a little farther off than on Saturday, while Cousin Alice and the letter-rack now absorbed most of her thoughts. She stood dolefully gazing out the window, not paying any attention to Freddie's invitation to come and play cable cars.

“Well, cheer up!” said her mother. “We will find some way out of the difficulty. You try to think of some plan to get twelve cents, and so will I. Between us we ought to devise something.”

Marty brightened up instantly and looked eagerly at her mother, sure that relief was coming immediately. “What is your plan, mamma?” she asked.

“Oh! I didn't say I had one yet,” said Mrs. Ashford, laughing. “You must give me time to think; and you must think yourself.”

That was all she would say then, and Marty spent a very restless afternoon and evening trying to think of some way to earn or save that money, but could think of nothing that would bring it in time for Friday. At bedtime her mother inquired, “Have you got a plan yet?”

“No, indeed. I can't think of a thing,” answered Marty, nearly as doleful as ever.

“How do you like this plan?” said Mrs. Ashford. “I have some rags up in the storeroom that I want picked over, the white separated from the colored, and if you will do it to-morrow afternoon, I will give you fifteen cents.”

“Oh, I'll do it! I'll do it!” cried Marty in delight, kissing her mother. “You're the best mamma that ever was!”

“It is not pleasant work, and will probably take all your playtime,” cautioned her mother.

“Oh! I don't mind that,” said Marty.

So, although the next afternoon was remarkably pleasant, and it would have been delightful to be playing with her sled in the snow-heaped little park near by, where the other girls were, she very cheerfully spent it in the dull storeroom with an old calico wrapper over her dress, sorting rags. There were a good many to do—though she candidly said she didn't think there was more than fifteen cents' worth—and she got pretty tired. Katie offered to help, but Marty heroically refused, and earned her money fairly.

The letter-rack was completed in good time, and presented. Cousin Alice said it was the very prettiest of all her gifts, besides being extremely useful.

“Mamma,” said Marty that evening, “I believe after all I'll go back to Edith's plan of giving 'tenths' and 'offerings' to missions.”

“I think that would be the better way,” said her mother.

“Not that I'm tired of the heathen or the mission-band, or of giving, you know, but just because—”

“Yes, I understand,” said her mother, as she hesitated; “you are just as much interested in the matter as ever, but you now see that there are more ways than one of doing good with money, and that it is better to give systematically, as Mrs. Howell says. Then you know what you are doing, and I dare say, taking it all in all, you will give more that way than by giving a good deal one time and nothing at all another.”

“Oh! I'll never come to the time when I wont give anything,” Marty declared emphatically.

And she then truly believed she never should.

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