There was unusual silence in the little Sunday school when Ella Claremont, its gentle teacher, entered it for the first time in deep mourning. All had known of her sorrow; all had heard that her brave young brother had died of wounds received in battle in a far distant land. They thought of him whom they had seen some few months before so bright and happy, with a smile and a kind word for all, now lying cold in his bloody grave; and there was not a heart in the school-room which did not feel sorrow and sympathy.

Ella could not at first address her school; her words seemed choked; the tears gathered slowly in her eyes; but she found strength in silent prayer, and spoke at length to her pupils, but in a trembling voice.

“Dear children, I have had much sorrow since we last met and talked of the joys of heaven—a beloved brother has, I trust, through Christ’s merits, joined the bright hosts rejoicing there. But should not I meekly bear the cross which my heavenly Father sees good to send me? To every one passing through this life is given a cross—a trial to bear. To some it is so light that they scarcely feel it; with others so heavy that it bows them to the dust. Each of you knows, or will know, its weight. But let none be afraid nor cast down. The cross prepares for the crown. There is something from God’s Word inscribed on every cross; and if we have but faith to read it, it makes the heavy, light; and the bitter, sweet! ‘Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord’ (Rev. xiv. 13), is the inscription on mine.”

Every one passing through life has some cross to bear! Yes; amongst those young girls assembled in the school-room there were some whose trials were deep, who had much need to read the inscription to make them endure the burden.

Dear reader, are you in trial? Have you known what it was to weep when you had none to comfort you—to wish that the weary day were over, or the more weary night at an end—to wonder why God sent you such sorrows? For you I now write down what were the crosses of some of the children in Ella’s school; for you I write down what were the inscriptions upon them. Perhaps you may find amongst them the same trial as your own, and feel strengthened to bear your cross.

Mary Edwards was very poor—hers was a heavy cross. One of seven children, and her father blind; often and often had she come to school faint with hunger and sick at heart. But for the kindness of friends, the family would have been half-starved. Mary had never known what it was to have a blanket to cover her; very seldom had she been able to eat till she was satisfied; her clothes had been mended over and over again, to keep them from falling to pieces; ill did they protect her when the cold wind blew through the broken pane, or found its way through the crevices in her miserable hut. Yet Mary had comfort in the midst of her poverty; she remembered him “who, though he was rich, yet for our sakes he became poor.” She had read the inscription on her cross: “Hath not God chosen the poor of this world rich in faith, and heirs of the kingdom which he hath promised to them that love him?” (James ii. 5). And Mary would meekly repeat the hymn of good Bishop Heber:—

Amy Blackstone never spoke of her cross; she bore it in silence without complaining. Her father was a drunkard—her mother never entered the house of God. If she heard the name of the Holy One uttered in her home, it was but in an oath or a profane jest. She never complained, as I have said; for, while others would have been complaining, she was praying. Fervently did she pray for her unhappy parents—fervently for herself, that evil example might not draw her from God. Many a silent tear she shed over her cross; and this was the inscription upon it: “I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us” (Rom. viii. 18).

All pitied Ellen Payne, for her cross was sharp. A lingering, painful disease had taken the strength from her limbs, the colour from her cheek. She never rejoiced in one waking hour free from pain, and often the night passed without sleep. The doctors gave no hope, medicine no relief. She had nothing to look forward to but pain, increasing pain, till she should sink into an early grave. This was her cross; and this was the inscription upon it: “Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life” (Rev. ii. 10).

Jane White had been a deserted child; she had never known a parent’s care. She seemed one of the neglected, despised ones of earth, with none to love her, and none to love. She felt lonely and desolate. This was her cross; and this was the inscription upon it: “When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up” (Ps. xxvii. 10).

Ann Brown lived with her aunt. Few of the girls were better dressed, or seemed more comfortably provided for, than she. Had she, then, no cross to bear? Yes; for she dwelt with a worldly family, who laughed at her for being “righteous overmuch.” When she would not join in profaning the Sabbath—when she showed that she cared not for gay dressing or ill-natured gossip—she became the object of ridicule and scoffs, more painful to bear than blows. This was her cross; but sweet was the inscription upon it: “If ye suffer for righteousness’ sake, happy are ye: and be not afraid of their terror, neither be troubled” (1 Pet. iii. 14).

Mary Wade’s cross was in the depth of her own heart—the struggle to conquer a passionate, violent temper. She desired to obey God, she wished to live to his glory; but sin seemed too strong for her; she yielded to temptation again and again, until she was almost in despair. Her health had been bad when she was an infant; much of her peevishness and impatience were owing to the effects of this. But no one seemed to make allowance for natural infirmity; her companions did not like her; and, worst of all, she felt that she was sinning, and bringing discredit on the Christian name. Poor child! hers was an unpitied cross; but there was hope in the inscription upon it: “There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it” (1 Cor. x. 13).

Elizabeth Brown was a sad little girl, but none knew the cause of her sadness. She had once been the most thoughtless child in the school, full of mischief, full of gaiety, never thinking of God. Her heart had been on earth—her only wish had been to enjoy herself. Much trouble and sorrow had she given to her gentle teacher, much grief to her pious parents; for she had laughed at good advice, and cared little for punishment. But now the gay child had grown thoughtful: a text heard at church had struck her, and sunk deep into her heart: “Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. For he that soweth to his flesh, shall of the flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the Spirit, shall of the Spirit reap life everlasting” (Gal. vi. 7, 8). What had she been sowing for eternity? She thought of her neglected Bible, her broken Sabbaths, words of untruth and of unkindness, her mother disobeyed, her teacher disregarded! Could God forgive her after all that she had done? Would he ever admit her to heaven? She feared that her sins were too many to be pardoned. This fear was her cross. Oh! praised be God for the precious inscription upon it: “The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin” (1 John i. 7). Jesus said, “Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out” (John vi. 37).

Blessed are they who thus mourn for sin, for they shall be comforted. Blessed is the sorrow that worketh repentance! Blessed are they who so bear the cross that they shall inherit the crown!