HOW MISSIONS HELPED THE HOME FOLKS.

The mission work that Marty had entered upon was teaching her to pray.

She really wished to be a mission worker in her small way and she tried hard to be faithful, but owing to her forgetfulness or impatience or selfishness, things sometimes went wrong. Once or twice she forgot to learn a verse to say at the meeting, and was much mortified. Once she got very impatient with a piece of sewing and spoiled it, and then was angry because some of the girls laughed at her. And she still found it hard to give her money regularly; some weeks she wanted it so much for something else.

But all these little trials she carried to God and was helped. This led to the habit of bringing all her little troubles to him.

One day Miss Agnes remarked that we don't put enough thanks in our prayers. We ask that such and such things may be done, but we don't thank God half enough for what he has done and is constantly doing for us. We come to him with all the miseries of our lives, but don't tell him about the happy and joyous things. Afterward Marty put more thanks in her prayers, and she told Miss Agnes that it was astonishing how many thankful things there were to say.

Marty also used her Bible a great deal more after she joined the band than before.

Besides the verse they were expected to repeat at roll-call, Miss Agnes sometimes asked them to bring all the texts they could find bearing upon a certain subject. The golden text for Sunday-school might be learned from the lesson-paper, but it was necessary to search the Bible for these other verses. At first Marty did not know how to begin to find them and appealed to her mother for help. Mrs. Ashford gave all the assistance in her power, though saying with a half-sigh,

“I'm afraid I don't know much about these things, Marty.”

One day Mrs. Ashford had been out shopping and in the evening several parcels were sent home. These she opened in the sitting-room. As she unwrapped quite a large one Mr. Ashford inquired,

“What is that huge book?”

When his wife handed it to him he whistled and exclaimed,

“A concordance! What in the world do you want with this? Are you going to study theology?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Ashford, laughing, “but Marty comes to me with so many questions that I found I could not get on any longer without that.”

“What's a concordance, mamma?” asked Marty, “and has it anything to do with me?”

“It is a book to help us find all those verses in the Bible you have been asking me about. You see I'm not as good and wise as your friend Mrs. Howell, and don't know as much about the Bible as she does.”

“You're every bit as good,” declared Marty, who by this time had got both arms around her mother's waist as she stood on the rug, and was looking up in her face lovingly, “and you will be as wise when you are as old, for she is a great deal older than you.”

Her father and mother both laughed at Marty's earnestness, and Mr. Ashford said,

“That's right, Marty. Stand up for your mother.”

They found the concordance very useful, and from time to time spent many happy hours searching the Scriptures with its aid, comparing passages and talking them over. Not only did they find texts for the band, but other subjects were traced through the sacred pages. Occasionally Marty saw her mother busy with the concordance and Bible when she had not asked her assistance about verses.

It was while Marty was giving wholes instead of tenths and the red box was so well filled, that it met with an accident that disfigured it for life. Though the occurrence was a sad and humiliating one for Marty, it led to good results.

She had the box out one day and was counting the money, although she knew precisely how much there was. As a good deal of it was in pennies it made quite a noise, so that Freddie, attracted by the bright outside and noisy inside, thought he would like to have the box to play with. He asked Marty to give it to him, but she, busy with her counting, answered rather sharply,

“No, indeed; you can't have it. Go away, now. Don't touch!”

But Freddie was very quick in his movements, and before she could get it out of his reach he had seized it and shaken the contents all over the floor. Marty, very angry at having her beautiful box treated so roughly, and seeing the money rolling about in all directions, cried in loud tones,

“Let go, you naughty boy! You'll break it!”

Freddie, now angry also, and determined to have what he wanted, held on manfully, screaming, “Dive it to me! dive it to me!” and in the struggle a small piece was broken off the lid.

Mrs. Ashford, hearing the loud tones, hurried into the room, and arrived in time to see Marty strike Freddie with one hand while she held the box high above her head with the other. Freddie was pounding her with all his little strength and crying uproariously.

“Marty, Marty!” called Mrs. Ashford, “don't strike your little brother. What is the matter? Come here, Freddie.”

But Freddie stamped his foot and screamed, “Will have it! Will have pretty box!” and Marty wailed, “Oh! he's broken my lovely box and spilled all my money.”

It was some time before peace was fully restored, though Marty was soon very repentant for what she had done and Freddie's ill-temper never lasted very long. After standing a while with his face to the wall, as was his custom on such occasions, crying loudly, the little tempest was all over. He turned around, and putting up his hands to wipe his eyes said pitifully,

“My teeks are so wet, and I have no hamititch to dry them.”

“Come here and I'll dry them,” said his mother, taking him on her knee.

“My chin is all wet,” he said.

“So it is, but we'll dry all your face.”

“And my hands are all wet.”

“What a poor little wet boy!” said his mother tenderly, but cheerfully too.

After making him comfortable she said,

“Now are you sorry you were such a naughty boy?”

He nodded his head, and turning to Marty, who was crawling around gathering up her money, he said, “Sorry, Marty.”

Marty crept up to him, and kissing over and over the little arm she had struck, said with eyes full of tears,

“You dear little darling, you don't know how awfully sorry Marty is for being so bad to you!”

Then they rubbed their curly heads together until Freddie began to laugh, and in a few moments he was playing with his tin horse as merrily as if nothing had happened, while Marty gathered up and put away her treasures.

“Now, Marty,” said her mother, “you must keep that out of Freddie's sight. He is nothing but a baby, and doesn't know that it is any different from any other box. Let me see where it is broken. Perhaps I can mend it.”

“No, mamma,” said Marty, “I don't want it mended. I am going to let it be this way to remind me of how naughty I was to my dear little brother, and maybe it will keep me from getting so angry with him again. It does seem dreadful, too, to think that just when I'm trying to be good to children away over the sea, I should be partic'lerly bad to my own little brother, doesn't it?”

“I sha'n't say a word,” replied her mother, “for I see you can rebuke yourself.”

So the broken missionary box was a constant reminder to Marty that her work for those far away should make her all the more loving to the dear ones at home.

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