“I WISH that to-morrow were any day but Sunday!” exclaimed Lucius. “Just when one is setting about a long work, eager to measure and to make, to cut and to clip, it is vexatious to have to stop in the middle of business, to shove away knife, ruler, pencil, pasteboard, and all, into a drawer for the next twenty-four hours!”

“Perhaps it would be better not to begin the work at all until Monday,” mildly suggested his mother.

“O no, we’ve all the Saturday afternoon, let’s set to making our model at once!” exclaimed Lucius.

“Please, please, don’t make us put off!” cried Dora and Elsie.

Mrs. Temple was a very indulgent mother, and was inclined to be all the more so as every one of her children was either suffering from whooping-cough or just recovering from its effects. Their mother felt sorry at the necessity for shutting out her family from many of their usual occupations and pleasures, and even from the privilege of going to church. The lady did not, therefore, in the least press the subject of delay, but offered, as soon as early dinner should be over, to go and search in her drawers and boxes for such materials as she might think suitable for the model of the Tabernacle, which her children were so eager to make. The dinner-bell sounded while Mrs. Temple was speaking, and the family went together to the room in which they took all their meals, and gathered round the table which was spread with a plentiful, though plain repast.

While the young Temples are engaged with their dinner, let me introduce them a little more individually to my reader. There, at the bottom of the table, is Lucius, a sunburnt, pleasant-looking schoolboy, with a mass of brown, half-curly locks brushed back from his forehead. He has quick eyes and restless hands, which are seldom perfectly still, even if they have no better occupation than that of tying and untying a morsel of string; but they are now busily plying a large knife and fork, for Lucius is a skilful carver, and the joint of mutton is placed before him, from which to help all the party.

The pale girl seated on the right of Lucius, with eyes weak and reddened by the effect of her cough, is Agnes, the elder of the twins. Her brow is furrowed, perhaps from the same cause, perhaps because she is more irritable in temper than her brother and sisters. But Agnes is a conscientious girl, one who thinks much of duty: and we may hope that “prayer and pains,” which it has been well said can do anything, will give her the mastery over faults against which she is trying to struggle.

Opposite to Agnes sits Dora, who, though her twin, is not much like her, being a good deal taller, prettier, and more animated than she. Dora is a much greater favorite with Lucius and the younger girls than the elder twin, from being gay, obliging, and clever. Agnes is perfectly aware that such is the case, and has to pray and strive against the sin of jealousy, which is too ready to creep into her heart and poison all her enjoyments.

On either side of Mrs. Temple are her two younger daughters, Amy and Elsie. The former, with soft brown eyes and long flaxen hair tied with blue ribbons, is strikingly like her mother, who has, at least so think her children, the sweetest face in the world. Amy has never been known to quarrel or utter an angry word, and is always ready to give help to any one who needs it. It is no wonder that so gentle a girl is beloved. But Amy knows herself to be by no means faultless, and is much, on her guard against the silly vanity which a mother’s watchful eye has found out to be lurking in the mind of her dear little girl.

Elsie is a merry blue-eyed child, full of life and intelligence, forward—rather too forward for her age. She has for six years held the place of baby in the home of her widowed mother, and her family are rather disposed to indulge her as if she were a baby still. She enters with animation into the amusements of the elder children, and is by no means disposed to be seen and not heard, as Lucius often laughingly tells her that such little people should be.

The conversation during dinner was almost entirely on the subject of the model, and flowed on pleasantly enough, except when interrupted by coughing; but all the children were glad when meal-time was over, and their mother, with Amy and Elsie skipping before her, went off to hunt over her little stores for such materials as might be found useful. Lucius employed the time of their absence in exploring the lumber-room for tops of old boxes or other bits of wood that might, when fastened together, do for the ground-frame of the model, into which the gilded pillars might be fixed. Dora, with pencil and paper, busied herself in trying to make an embroidery pattern, introducing the figures of cherubim. Agnes, who was too weak for much exertion, and who took less keen interest in the work than did her sisters, lay on the sofa reading a book, until the return of Amy and Elsie, each of whom carried some little treasure in her hands.

“Look, Agnes, look at these shining reels of gold and silver thread!” exclaimed the youngest child with eager delight.

“Gold thread—ah! that’s just what I want!” cried Dora, throwing down her pencil.

“And here is mamma’s book of gold leaf; there is a little gold sheet between every one of the pages,” continued Elsie. “But oh! it is so thin, so very thin, one dare not breathe near, or the gold would all fly away!”

“I thought that gold was a very heavy metal,” observed Agnes, looking up from her book.

“But it is beaten out into such extreme fineness that a bit of gold no larger than a pea would gild all these,” said Lucius, who had just entered the room with his arms full of pieces of wood.

“See, Agnes, what we have brought for you!” cried Amy. “Here is a beautiful piece of blue merino for the outer curtains (the badgers’-skin cover, you know), and blue silk with which to sew it; and here is another piece of mohair for the goats’-skin cover, so you are supplied directly with everything that you need; is not that nice?”

Agnes did not look so much delighted as her sister expected that she would; perhaps because she was scarcely well enough to take much pleasure in sewing; perhaps because she had still a lingering feeling of mortification at not having been trusted with the embroidery part of the work.

“I hope that you have brought me the fine linen for the beautiful inner curtains, and the veil for the Holy of holies,” cried Dora.

“No, mamma cannot find any linen fine enough, unless she were to tear up her handkerchiefs, and that would be a pity,” said Amy. “But mamma has promised to buy some linen both for your curtains and for mine that are, you know, to hang all round the open court of the Tabernacle.”

“It is very tiresome to have to stop at the beginning for want of fine linen!” exclaimed Dora. “I hope that mamma will go out and buy us plenty at once.”

“Ah! Dora, you know that mamma owned this morning that she felt very tired,” said Amy, a little reproachfully; “and the shops are a good way off; it is not as if we lived in the town.”

“Besides, it is raining,” observed Elsie, who was looking out of the window.

“It is merely a little drizzle, that would not hurt a fly!” exclaimed Dora. “Mamma never minds a few tiny drops when she puts on her waterproof cloak.”

“Mamma never minds anything that has only to do with her own comfort,” observed Amy.

“So there is more need that we should mind for her,” said Agnes.

“I’m sure that I wish that I could go to the shops myself without troubling, any one!” exclaimed the impatient Dora. “If it were not for this stupid, tiresome infection, I’d get Lucius to go with me this minute, and would we not return laden with linen, pasteboard, and all sorts of things! But mamma’s fear of setting other people coughing and whooping makes her keep us shut up here in prison.”

“Mamma is quite right!” exclaimed Lucius. “I say so, though I hate more than you do being boxed up here in the house.”

“Mamma is quite right,” re-echoed poor Agnes, as soon as she recovered voice after another violent fit of coughing, which almost choked her. “I should not like to give any one else such a dreadful complaint as this.”

Mrs. Temple now entered the room, with several things in her hand. “I have found a nice bit of red Turkey cloth,” said she, “so my little Elsie will be able to set to work on her curtains at once.”

The child clapped her hands with pleasure, and then scampered off for her little Tunbridge-ware work-box.

“I hope that you have found the linen too, mamma,” cried Dora; “I am in a hurry for it, a very great hurry,” she added, regardless of an indignant look from Agnes, and a pleading one from Amy.

“I am sorry that I have no suitable linen,” replied the lady, “but I intend to go out and buy some.”

“Not to-day, not now, it is raining; you are tired,” cried several voices; that of Dora was, however, not heard amongst them.

“I have here some pasteboard, though not sufficient for our model, and a bottle of strong gum which will be most useful,” said the lady, placing on the table what she had brought; “but gilt paper will be needed as well as gold leaf, and of it I have none; I must procure that, and some more pasteboard for my dear boy.”

“And plenty of wire, cut into five-inch lengths for the pillars,” added Lucius.

“And linen for Amy and me,” joined in Dora.

“But please buy nothing till Monday,” said Agnes; “the work can wait quite well for a couple of days.”

“Yes, yes, do wait till Monday,” cried the other children; Dora again being the only exception.

Dora’s selfishness was marring her offering, as Agnes’s pride had blemished hers. How difficult it is even in the most innocent pleasure, even in the most holy occupation, to keep away every stain of sin! Ever since the sad time when evil entered the beautiful garden of Eden, and Adam and Eve ate of the fruit which God had forbidden them to taste, pride, selfishness, and unholiness have been natural to the human heart. Even when we most earnestly try to do what we think good works, how much we need to be on our guard lest sin creep in to spoil all!

Dora, though silent, showed so plainly by her looks her extreme impatience to be supplied at once with the materials for which she could have so easily waited that her gentle mother made up her mind to gratify the wish of her daughter. Mrs. Temple put on her waterproof cloak, and, tired as she was, went forth on a shopping expedition. It vexed the children to see that the clouds grew darker and the shower fell more heavily not long after their mother had quitted the house.

“If mamma catches cold or has pain in her face it is all Dora’s fault!” exclaimed Lucius.

“It was so selfish—so silly not to wait,” observed Agnes; “just see how the rain is pouring!”

“I love mamma as much as any of you do!” cried Dora, her heart swelling with vexation, so that she could hardly refrain from tears.

“You love yourself better, that’s all,” remarked Lucius; and his words were more true than polite.

Mrs. Temple returned home very much tired and rather wet, notwithstanding her umbrella and waterproof cloak. And Dora was, after all, disappointed of her wish to have the linen and begin her embroidery work directly. Mrs. Temple had found it difficult to carry home parcels when she had an umbrella to hold up on a windy day, and had also feared that goods might get damp if taken through driving rain. The wire, pasteboard, gold-paper, and linen were to be sent home in the evening, and the longed-for parcel did not appear until it was time for the twins to follow their younger sisters to bed.