The new school had opened the previous week, and was now in successful operation. Zillah and Ada were pursuing their studies with redoubled zeal and interest, finding a constant spur in the desire to keep pace with, if not outstrip, the other members of their classes.

Mildred was often applied to for help in the home preparation of their lessons, and her assistance, always cheerfully and kindly given, received with due appreciation.

"With such good help at home," they would say, "we ought to do better than any of the other girls; for there isn't one of them who has a sister so capable of explaining whatever in their lessons they find difficult to understand, or so willing to do it."

"I am only returning to you what mother has done for me in past days," Mildred answered more than once; "and if I did not do it she would."

"Yes," was the rejoinder, "there isn't such another mother in the town, or anywhere else, for that matter."

The little boys, accustomed to passing most of the day in the open air, after conning their tasks on the porch or in the shade of the trees, found the confinement of the schoolroom very irksome.

Mother and Mildred were frequently appealed to for sympathy in their trial; and the demand was always sure to be met with bright, hopeful, cheery words of encouragement to patience and diligence. "They must be willing to bear with a little discomfort in the pursuit of the knowledge which was so important to their future success in life—must try to learn all they could, that they might grow up to be wise, useful men, capable of doing God service, and of helping themselves and others."

Hitherto the little fellows had been kept out of the streets and carefully shielded from the snares and temptations of association with the evil-disposed and wicked. The time for a trial of the strength of their principles had now come, and parents and elder sister looked on with deep anxiety for the result.

The perfect openness engendered in them by never-failing sympathy in all their little childish joys and sorrows, plans and purposes, now proved a wonderful safeguard. Why should they want to hide anything from those whose interest in and love for them was made so apparent? They did not; and so many a wrong step was avoided or speedily retrieved.

In that first week of school Cyril had got himself into disgrace with his teacher by a liberal distribution among his mates of gingerbread and candy, for which he had spent his whole store of pocket-money.

The good things were carried into the schoolroom, the master's attention drawn to them by the constant munching and crunching among the boys.

A search was promptly instituted, the remainder of the feast confiscated, and an explanation called for.

"Who brought these things here?" was the stern demand.

"I, sir; I brought them and gave them to the fellows, and so am more to blame than anybody else," Cyril said, rising in his seat and speaking out with manly courage and honesty, though his cheeks were in a blaze and his heart beat fast.

"Then, sir, you shall be punished with the loss of your recess and being kept in for an hour after school," was the stern rejoinder. "I will have no such doings here."

There was not a word of commendation of the boy's moral courage and readiness to confess his fault; and he had to endure not only the loss of his play-time, but also was severely lectured and threatened with a flogging if ever the offence should be repeated.

He went home very angry and indignant, and his mother being out, carried his grievance to Mildred. He poured out the whole story without reserve, finishing with "Wasn't it the greatest shame for him to punish me twice for the same thing? I'm sure the loss of my recess was quite enough, 'specially considering that I owned up the minute he asked about it. And then the idea of threatening to flog me! Why, I haven't had a whipping since I was a little bit of a fellow, and I'd think it an awful disgrace to get one now I'm so big; 'specially at school; and I say nobody but father or mother has a right to touch me. And nobody shall; I'll just knock old Peacock down if he dares to try it; that I will!"

"O Cyril, Cyril, you should not be so disrespectful toward the teacher father has set over you!" Mildred said, striving to speak quietly though between indignation at the severity and injustice of the treatment the child had received, and the mirth-provoking idea of his imagining himself able to cope with a man, she found it no easy matter. "I'm really sorry you have wasted your money and broken the rules."

"No, I didn't!" the boy burst out hotly; "he'd never made any rule about it; though he has now, and says I ought to have known and must have known that such things couldn't be allowed."

"Well, that seems rather unreasonable; but I suppose you might if you had stopped to think. You know, Cyril dear, how often father and mother have urged you to try to be more thoughtful."

"Yes, but it seems as if I can't, Milly. How's a fellow to help being thoughtless and careless when it comes so natural?"

"Our wicked natures are what we have to strive against, you know; and God will help us if we ask him," she answered, speaking that holy name in low, reverent tones.

Don, who had waited about the school-house door for Cyril, and walked home by his side, was standing by listening to the talk. "O Milly! we don't like that school!" he said, with a look of weariness and disgust; "It's so hard to have to be shut up there, and obliged to sit still most all day long. Won't you ask father to let us stay at home and say lessons to you again?"

"Oh yes, Milly, do!" Cyril joined in. "Fan's ever so lonesome without us, and we'll be as good as we know how; study hard, and not give you a bit of trouble."

Mildred explained that the arrangements had been made for the summer, and could not now be altered.

"And surely," she concluded, with an encouraging smile, "my two little brothers are not such cowards as to be conquered by little difficulties and discomforts. Don't you know we have to meet such things all the way through life? and the best way is to meet them with a cheerful courage and determination to press on notwithstanding. 'The slothful man saith there is a lion in the way.' 'The way of the slothful man is as an hedge of thorns.' Don't be like him."

"Does that mean that folks are lazy when they give up because things are hard?"

"Yes, Don; and if we are so ready to do that, we are not likely to get to heaven; because that is no easy matter—with our sinful hearts, a wicked world, and Satan and all his hosts to fight against. We have to 'fight the good fight of faith'—to 'lay hold on eternal life'—to 'press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus'—to 'run with patience the race that is set before us.' Jesus said 'The kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and the violent take it by force.'"

"Milly, what does that mean?"

"That to get to heaven it is necessary to strive very, very earnestly and determinately."

"Milly, how can Don and I fight that fight?" asked Cyril. "Do tell us."

"Just as grown people must—by loving and trusting Jesus, and striving earnestly every day and hour to serve God in doing faithfully the duty that comes nearest to hand. And don't you see that the principal part of yours at present is to be good, faithful workers at school, and obedient to your teacher, because father has given him authority over you when you are at school?"

"Yes, I 'spose so," sighed Don. "But O Milly, I did want to run away this afternoon and take a nice walk, 'stead of going to school. It's so nice down by the river and in the woods 'mong the birds and flowers."

"Yes, I know it is, Don; but it would have been very wrong to go without leave; and I can't tell you how glad I am that you resisted the temptation."

Now that money was wanted for the missionary, Cyril was sorry for having spent his so foolishly.

"I was very bad to waste it in that way," he said regretfully; "it was all because I didn't think; but I mean to think after this, and try to make the best use of all the money I get."

The new school was nearly as great an affliction to Fan as to the little boys; she was so lonely without Cyril and Don—hitherto her inseparable companions and playmates; and now it depended upon her to run errands for her mother and sister when they were in too great haste to wait the boys' leisure; and Fan, being extremely timid and bashful, found this no small trial.

It was Monday morning; the scholars were trooping into the schoolhouse—the Keiths among the rest.

At home Mildred was in the parlor giving a music lesson; Fan in the sitting room waiting for mother to come and hear her read and spell.

Mrs. Keith came in and sat down at her writing desk.

"Fan, darling, mother wants you to do an errand for her," she said, taking up her pen.

"What, mother?" the child asked half plaintively.

"To carry a note for me to Mrs. Clark. I want you to take it there immediately, and tell her you will wait for an answer. And then, as you come back, call at Chetwood & Mocker's and ask for a yard of calico like the piece I shall give you, and also how they are selling eggs to-day by the dozen. Then I will buy your dozen of you, and you will have the money for the missionary."

"Oh mother," sighed the little girl, "I don't like to go to the store all alone, or to Mrs. Clark's either. I don't know her."

"I am sorry my dear little girl is so bashful, but that is something that must be overcome, and cannot be except by refusing to indulge it. You may take Annis with you, though, if you choose."

"Thank you, mother; but Annis is so little that I'll have to do all the talking just the same."

"Well, dear, you can talk quite prettily, if you only forget to think about yourself. Try to forget little Fan Keith, and think of the messages she has to deliver, the questions she must ask, and you will find there is no trouble at all."

"O mother! please let somebody else go."

Fan had put down her book, gone to her mother's side, and was standing there looking pleadingly into her face.

Mrs. Keith bent down as she folded her note and pressed a loving kiss on the white forehead.

"My little girl will go to please mother and the dear Lord Jesus. There is no one else to go now, and the errands cannot wait for the boys to come home from school."

"Will it please Jesus, mother?"

"Yes, dear, because he bids you honor and obey your mother, and also to deny yourself when duty calls. You know one part of the errand at the store is to help you to the money for the poor heathen."

"Mother, I'd rather do 'most anything else for them; but I'll go to please you and the Lord Jesus. And I want Annis to go too. Will you, Annis?"

"I guess I will! I'd like to," the little one answered joyously.

It was a busy morning with Mrs. Keith, and getting Annis ready for the walk involved some small loss of time; but she considered the pleasure she would thus give her little ones well worth the sacrifice.

"Now, Fan," she said, when the children were about to start, and she had put the note and sample of calico into the little girl's hands, with a repetition of her commissions, "remember that you are the errand girl and have all the responsibility, because Annis is too little; but you are mother's big, useful girl. I know you are glad to be a help and comfort to mother."

The tender, loving words infused courage into the timid little heart for the moment, and the two set off with bright faces; but Fan's clouded again, and her heart beat fast as she neared Mrs. Clark's door.

Had it not been open her timid little rap would hardly have been heard; and her message, delivered with the note, was given in tones so low that the lady had to ask her to repeat it, while she bent her ear to catch the words.

At the store it was even worse. Not yet recovered from the embarrassment of her call upon Mrs. Clark, Fan stumbled and stammered, said she wanted a dozen calicoes for her mother, and to know how they sold eggs by the yard.

Then catching the mirthful gleam in Will Chetwood's eyes and seeing the corners of his lips twitching, she hastily drew back as far as possible into the shelter of her sun-bonnet, quite overwhelmed with confusion by the sudden consciousness of having made a terrible blunder, her cheeks aflame and her eyes filling with tears.

"I think it is a yard of calico like that in your hand, that you want, and the price of eggs by the dozen, isn't it?" he asked pleasantly.

"Yes, sir; that's what mother said," Annis spoke up briskly.

Fan was quite beyond speaking, and kept her face hidden in her sun-bonnet, and hurried away the moment her little parcel was handed her.

Mildred was alone in the sitting-room as they came in.

"Where's mother?" asked Annis.

"In the parlor, talking to Mr. Lord. You got the calico, Fan? Here, give it to me." Then catching sight of the child's face as she drew near, "Why, what's the matter? what have you been crying about?" she asked in a tone of kindly concern.

"O Milly, I couldn't help it! I don't like to go errands!" cried Fan, bursting into tears again.

Mildred drew the little weeper to her side, wiped away the tears, kissed the wet cheek, and with kindly questioning drew the whole story from her.

"And Mr. Chetwood was laughing at me, I know he was! and I don't want ever to go there any more!" concluded the child, hiding her burning cheeks on Mildred's shoulder.

"Oh! you needn't mind that," Mildred said; "just join in the laugh. That's the way Aunt Wealthy does; and your mistake is very much like some of hers."

"Then I don't care so much, for nobody's nicer than Aunt Wealthy—unless it's mother and father and you."

"You needn't except me. I'm by no means equal to Aunt Wealthy," Mildred said, smiling, and stroking Fan's hair.

Annis had run into the parlor, and they were quite alone.

"Milly," said Fan, after a moment's silence, "I thought God heard our prayers?"

"So he does, Fan."

"Yes, but I mean I thought he would do what we asked."

"Not always, because we often ask for something that he sees would not be good for us. But what are you thinking about? have you prayed for something that you didn't get? Perhaps you expected the answer too soon. We often have to wait and pray again and again many times, and at last the answer comes. And sometimes it comes in a better way than we had thought of."

"I'll tell you, Milly," Fan said slowly and hesitatingly, "I prayed that Mrs. Clark mightn't be at home; but there she was."

Mildred could scarcely keep from smiling. "That wasn't a good or right prayer, little sister," she said, "because—don't you see?—it was selfish, and almost the same as disobeying mother; since if the prayer had been granted you would have been prevented from doing her errand."

"Milly, I didn't think of that," Fan answered penitently. "I won't pray that way any more."

"No, dear; a better prayer would be for help to overcome your foolish timidity. We will both ask our kind heavenly Father for that."