“Save our blessings, Master, save,
From the blight of thankless eye.”

Lyra Innocentium.

There is not a more charming sight in the domestic world, than that of an elder girl in a large family, amusing what are called the little ones.

How could mamma have ventured upon that cosy nap in the arm-chair by the fire, if she had been harassed by wondering what the children were about? Whereas, as it was, she had overheard No. 8 begging the one they all called “Aunt Judy,” to come and tell them a story, and she had beheld Aunt Judy’s nod of consent; whereupon she had shut her eyes, and composed herself to sleep quite complacently, under the pleasant conviction that all things were sure to be in a state of peace and security, so long as the children were listening to one of those curious stories of Aunt Judy’s, in which, with so much drollery and amusement, there was sure to be mixed up some odd scraps of information, or bits of good advice.

So, mamma being asleep on one side of the fire, and papa reading the newspaper on the other, Aunt Judy and No. 8 noiselessly left the room, and repaired to the large red-curtained dining-room, where the former sat down to concoct her story, while the latter ran off to collect the little ones together.

In less than five minutes’ time there was a stream of noise along the passage—a bursting open of the door, and a crowding round the fire, by which Aunt Judy sat.

The “little ones” had arrived in full force and high expectation. We will not venture to state their number. An order from Aunt Judy, that they should take their seats quietly, was but imperfectly obeyed; and a certain amount of hustling and grumbling ensued, which betrayed a rather quarrelsome tendency.

At last, however, the large circle was formed, and the bright firelight danced over sunny curls and eager faces. Aunt Judy glanced her eye round the group; but whatever her opinion as an artist might have been of its general beauty, she was by no means satisfied with the result of her inspection.

“No. 6 and No. 7,” cried she, “you are not fit to listen to a story at present. You have come with dirty hands.”

No. 6 frowned, and No. 7 broke out at once into a howl; he had washed his hands ever so short a time ago, and had done nothing since but play at knuckle-bones on the floor! Surely people needn’t wash their hands every ten minutes! It was very hard!

Aunt Judy had rather a logical turn of mind, so she set about expounding to the “little ones” in general, and to Nos. 6 and 7 in particular, that the proper time for washing people’s hands was when their hands were dirty; no matter how lately the operation had been performed before. Such, at least, she said, was the custom in England, and everyone ought to be proud of belonging to so clean and respectable a country. She, therefore, insisted that Nos. 6 and 7 should retire up-stairs and perform the necessary ablution, or otherwise they would be turned out, and not allowed to listen to the story.

Nos. 6 and 7 were rather restive. The truth was, it had been one of those unlucky days which now and then will occur in families, in which everything seemed to be perverse and go askew. It was a dark, cold, rainy day in November, and going out had been impossible. The elder boys had worried, and the younger ones had cried. It was Saturday too, and the maids were scouring in all directions, waking every echo in the back-premises by the grating of sand-stone on the flags; and they had been a good deal discomposed by the family effort to play at “Wolf” in the passages. Mamma had been at accounts all the morning, trying to find out some magical corner in which expenses could be reduced between then and the arrival of Christmas bills; and, moreover, it was a half-holiday, and the children had, as they call it, nothing to do.

So Nos. 6 and 7, who had been vexed about several other little matters before, during the course of the day, broke out now on the subject of the washing of their hands.

Aunt Judy was inexorable however—inexorable though cool; and the rest got impatient at the delay which the debate occasioned: so, partly by coaxing, and partly by the threat of being shut out from hearing the story, Nos. 6 and 7 were at last prevailed upon to go up-stairs and wash their grim little paws into that delicate shell-like pink, which is the characteristic of juvenile fingers when clean.

As they went out, however, they murmured, in whimpered tones, that they were sure it was very hard!

After their departure, Aunt Judy requested the rest not to talk, and a complete silence ensued, during which one or two of the youngest evidently concluded that she was composing her story, for they stared at her with all their might, as if to discover how she did it.

Meantime the rain beat violently against the panes, and the red curtains swayed to and fro from the effect of the wind, which, in spite of tolerable woodwork, found its way through the divisions of the windows. There was something very dreary in the sound, and very odd in the varying shades of red which appeared upon the curtains as they swerved backwards and forwards in the firelight.

Several of the children observed it, but no one spoke until the footsteps of Nos. 6 and 7 were heard approaching the door, on which a little girl ventured to whisper, “I’m very glad I’m not out in the wind and rain;” and a boy made answer, “Why, who would be so silly as to think of going out in the wind and rain? Nobody, of course!”

At that moment Nos. 6 and 7 entered, and took their places on two little Derby chairs, having previously showed their pink hands in sombre silence to Aunt Judy, whereupon Aunt Judy turned herself so as to face the whole group, and then began her story as follows:—

“There were once upon a time eight little Victims, who were shut up in a large stone-building, where they were watched night and day by a set of huge grown-up keepers, who made them do whatever they chose.”

“Don’t make it too sad, Aunt Judy,” murmured No. 8, half in a tremble already.

“You needn’t be frightened, No. 8,” was the answer; “my stories always end well.”

“I’m so glad,” chuckled No. 8 with a grin, as he clapped one little fat hand down upon the other on his lap in complete satisfaction. “Go on, please.”

“Was the large stone-building a prison, Aunt Judy?” inquired No. 7.

“That depends upon your ideas of a prison,” answered Aunt Judy. “What do you suppose a prison is?”

“Oh, a great big place with walls all round, where people are locked up, and can’t go in and out as they choose.”

“Very well. Then I think you may be allowed to call the place in which the little Victims were kept a prison, for it certainly was a great big place with walls all round, and they were locked up at night, and not allowed to go in and out as they chose.”

“Poor things,” murmured No. 8; but he consoled himself by recollecting that the story was to end well.

“Aunt Judy, before you go on, do tell us what victims are? Are they fairies, or what? I don’t know.”

This was the request of No. 5, who was rather more thoughtful than the rest, and was apt now and then to delay a story by his inquiring turn of mind.

No. 6 was in a hurry to hear some more, and nudged No. 5 to make him be quiet; but Aunt Judy interposed; said she did not like to tell stories to people who didn’t care to know what they meant, and declared that No. 5 was quite right in asking what a victim was.

“A victim,” said she, “was the creature which the old heathens used to offer up as a sacrifice, after they had gained a victory in battle. You all remember I dare say,” continued she, “what a sacrifice is, and have heard about Abel’s sacrifice of the firstlings of his flock.”

The children nodded assent, and Aunt Judy went on:—

“No such sacrifices are ever offered up now by us Christians, and so there are no more real victims now. But we still use the word, and call any creature a victim who is ill-used, or hurt, or destroyed by somebody else.

“If you, any of you, were to worry or kill the cat, for instance, then the cat would be called the victim of your cruelty; and in the same manner the eight little Victims I am going to tell you about were the victims of the whims and cruel prejudices of those who had the charge of them.

“And now, before I proceed any further, I am going to establish a rule, that whenever I tell you anything very sad about the little Victims, you shall all of you groan aloud together. So groan here, if you please, now that you quite understand what a victim is.”

Aunt Judy glanced round the circle, and they all groaned together to order, led off by Nos. 3 and 4, who did not, it must be owned, look in a very mournful state while they performed the ceremony.

It was wonderful what good that groan did them all! It seemed to clear off half the troubles of the day, and at its conclusion a smile was visible on every face.

Aunt Judy then proceeded:—

“I do not want to make you cry too much, but I will tell you of the miseries the captive victims underwent in the course of one single day, and then you will be able to judge for yourselves what a life they led together.

“One of their heaviest miseries happened every evening. It was the misery of going to bed. Perhaps now you may think it sounds odd that going to bed should be called a misery. But you shall hear how it was.

“In the evening, when all the doors were safely locked and bolted, so that no one could get away, the little Victims were summoned down-stairs, and brought into a room where some of the keepers were sure to be sitting in the greatest luxury. There was generally a warm fire on the hearth, and a beautiful lamp on the table, which shed an agreeable light around, and made everything look so pretty and gay, the hearts of the poor innocent Victims always rose at the sight.

“Sometimes there would be a huge visitor or two present, who would now and then take the Victims on their knees, and say all manner of entertaining things to them. Or there would be nice games for them to play at. Or the keepers themselves would kiss them, and call them kind names, as if they really loved them. How nice all this sounds, does it not? And it would have been nice, if the keepers would but have let it last for ever. But that was just the one thing they never would do, and the consequence was, that, whatever pleasure they might have had, the wretched Victims always ended by being dissatisfied and sad.

“And how could it be otherwise? Just when they were at the height of enjoyment, just when everything was most delightful, a horrible knock was sure to be heard at the door, the meaning of which they all knew but too well. It was the knock which summoned them to bed; and at such a moment you cannot wonder that going to bed was felt to be a misfortune.

“Had there been a single one among them who was sleepy, or tired, or ready for bed, there would have been some excuse for the keepers; but as it was, there was none, for the little Victims never knew what it was to feel tired or weary on those occasions, and were always carried forcibly away before that feeling came on.

“Of course, when the knock was heard, they would begin to cry, and say that it was very hard, and that they didn’t want to go to bed, and one went so far once as to add that she wouldn’t go to bed.

“But it was all in vain. The little Victims might as well have attempted to melt a stone wall as those hard-hearted beings who had the charge of them.

“And now, my dears,” observed Aunt Judy, stopping in her account, “this is of all others the exact moment at which you ought to show your sympathy with the sufferers, and groan.”

The little ones groaned accordingly, but in a very feeble manner.

Aunt Judy shook her head.

“That groan is not half hearty enough for such a misery. Don’t you think, if you tried hard, you could groan a little louder?”

They did try, and succeeded a little better, but cast furtive glances at each other immediately after.

“Were the beds very uncomfortable ones, Aunt Judy?” inquired No. 8, in a subdued voice.

“You shall judge for yourself,” was the answer. “They were raised off the floor upon legs, so that no wind from under the door could get at them; and on the flat bottom called the bed-stock, there was placed a thick strong bag called a mattress, which was stuffed with some soft material which made it springy and pleasant to touch or lie down upon. The shape of it was a long square, or what may be called a rectangular parallelogram. I strongly advise you all to learn that word, for it is rather an amusing idea as one steps into bed, to think that one is going to sleep upon a parallelogram.”

Nos. 3 and 4 were here unable to contain themselves, but broke into a peal of laughter. The little ones stared.

“Well,” resumed Aunt Judy, “for my part, I think it’s a very nice thing to learn the ins and outs of one’s own life; to consider how one’s bed is made, and the why and wherefore of its shape and position. It is a great pity to get so accustomed to things as not to know their value till we lose them! But to proceed.

“On the top of this parallelogramatic mattress was laid a soft blanket. On the top of that blanket, two white sheets. On the top of the sheets, two or more warm blankets, and on the top of the blankets, a spotted cover called a counterpane.

“Now it was between the sheets that each little Victim was laid, and such were the receptacles to which they were unwillingly consigned, night after night of their lives!

“But I have not yet told you half the troubles of this dreadful ‘going to bed.’ A good fire with a large tub before it, and towels hung over the fender, was always the first sight which met the tearful eyes of the little Victims as they entered the nursery after being torn from the joys of the room down-stairs. And then, lo and behold! a new misery began, for, whether owing to the fatigue of getting up-stairs, or that their feelings had been so much hurt, they generally discovered at this moment that they were one and all so excessively tired, they didn’t know what to do;—of all things, did not choose to be washed—and insisted, each of them, on being put to bed first! But let them say what they would, and cry afresh as they pleased, and even snap and snarl at each other like so many small terriers, those cruel keepers of theirs never would grant their requests; never would put any of them to bed dirty, and always declared that it was impossible to put each of them to bed first!

“Imagine now the feelings of those who had to wait round the fire while the others were attended to! Imagine the weariness, the disgust, before the whole party was finished, and put by for the night!”

Aunt Judy paused, but no one spoke.

“What!” cried she suddenly, “will nobody groan? Then I must groan myself!” which she did, and a most unearthly noise she made; so much so, that two or three of the little ones turned round to look at the swelling red curtains, just to make sure the howl did not proceed from thence.

After which Aunt Judy continued her tale:—

“So much for night and going to bed, about which there is nothing more to relate, as the little Victims were uncommonly good sleepers, and seldom awoke till long after daylight.

“Well now, what do you think? By the time they had had a good night, they felt so comfortable in their beds, that they were quite contented to remain there; and then, of course, their tormentors never rested till they had forced them to get up! Poor little things! Just think of their being made to go to bed at night, when they most disliked it, and then made to get up in the morning, when they wanted to stay in bed! It certainly was, as they always said, ‘very, very hard.’ This was, of course, a winter misery, when the air was so frosty and cold that it was very unpleasant to jump out into it from a warm nest. Terrible scenes took place on these occasions, I assure you, for sometimes the wretched Victims would sit shivering on the floor, crying over their socks and shoes instead of putting them on, (which they had no spirit for,) and then the savage creatures who managed them would insult them by irritating speeches.

“‘Come, Miss So-and-So,’ one would say, ‘don’t sit fretting there; there’s a warm fire, and a nice basin of bread-and-milk waiting for you, if you will only be quick and get ready.’

“Get ready! a nice order indeed! It meant that they must wash themselves and be dressed before they would be allowed to touch a morsel of food.

“But it is of no use dwelling on the unfeelingness of those keepers. One day one of them actually said:—

“‘If you knew what it was to have to get up without a fire to come to, and without a breakfast to eat, you would leave off grumbling at nothing.’

“Nothing! they called it nothing to have to get out of a warm bed into the fresh morning air, and dress before breakfast!

“Well, my dears,” pursued Aunt Judy, after waiting here a few seconds, to see if anybody would groan, “I shall take it for granted you feel for the getting-up misery as well as the going-to-bed one, although you have not groaned as I expected. I will just add, in conclusion, that the summer getting-up misery was just the reverse of this winter one. Then the poor little wretches were expected to wait till their nursery was dusted and swept; so there they had to lie, sometimes for half-an-hour, with the sun shining in upon them, not allowed to get up and come out into the dirt and dust!

“Of course, on those occasions they had nothing to do but squabble among themselves and teaze; and I assure you they had every now and then a very pleasant little revenge on their keepers, for they half worried them out of their lives by disturbances and complaints, and at any rate that was some comfort to them, although very often it hindered the nursery from being done half as soon as it would have been if they had been quiet.

“I shall not have time to tell of everything,” continued Aunt Judy, “so I must hurry over the breakfast, although the keepers contrived to make even that miserable, by doing all they could to prevent the little Victims from spilling their food on the table and floor, and also by insisting on the poor little things sitting tolerably upright on their seats—not lolling with both elbows on the table-cloth—not making a mess—not, in short, playing any of those innocent little pranks in which young creatures take delight.

“It was a pitiable spectacle, as you may suppose, to see reasonable beings constrained against their inclinations to sit quietly while they ate their hearty morning meal, which really, perhaps, they might have enjoyed, had they been allowed to amuse themselves in their own fashion at the same time.

“But I must go on now to that great misery of the day, which I shall call the lesson misery.

“Now you must know, the little Victims were all born, as young kids, lambs, kittens, and puppy-dogs are, with a decided liking for jumping about and playing all day long. Think, therefore, what their sufferings were when they were placed in chairs round a table, and obliged to sit and stare at queer looking characters in books until they had learned to know them what was called by heart. It was a very odd way of describing it, for I am sure they had often no heart in the matter, unless it was a hearty dislike.

“‘Tommy Brown in the village never learns any lessons,’ cried one of them once to the creature who was teaching him, ‘why should I? He is always playing at oyster-dishes in the gutter when I see him, and enjoying himself. I wish I might enjoy myself!’

“Poor Victim! He little thought what a tiresome lecture this clever remark of his would bring on his devoted head!

“Don’t ask me to repeat it. It amounted merely to this, that twenty years hence he would he very glad he had learnt something else besides making oyster-dishes in the streets. As if that signified to him now! As if it took away the nuisance of having to learn at the present moment, to be told it would be of use hereafter! What was the use of its being of use by-and-by?

“So thought the little Victim, young as he was; so, said he, in a muttering voice:—

“‘I don’t care about twenty years hence; I want to be happy now!’

“This was unanswerable, as you may suppose; so the puzzled teacher didn’t attempt to make a reply, but said:—

“‘Go on with your lessons, you foolish little boy!’

“See what it is to be obstinate,” pursued Aunt Judy. “See how it blinds people’s eyes, and prevents them from knowing right from wrong! Pray take warning, and never be obstinate yourselves; and meantime, let us have a good hearty groan for the lesson misery.”

The little ones obeyed, and breathed out a groan that seemed to come from the very depths of their hearts; but somehow or other, as the story proceeded, the faces looked rather less amused, and rather more anxious, than at first.

What could the little ones be thinking about to make them grave?

It was evidently quite a relief when Aunt Judy went on:—

“You will be very much surprised, I dare say,” said she, “to hear of the next misery I am going to tell you about. It may be called the dinner misery, and the little Victims underwent it every day.”

“Did they give them nasty things to eat, Aunt Judy?” murmured No. 8, very anxiously.

“More likely not half enough,” suggested No. 5.

“But you promised not to make the story too sad, remember!” observed No. 6.

“I did,” replied Aunt Judy, “and the dinner misery did not consist in nasty food, or there not being enough. They had plenty to eat, I assure you, and everything was good. But—”

Aunt Judy stopped short, and glanced at each of the little ones in succession.

“Make haste, Aunt Judy!” cried No. 8. “But what?”

“But,” resumed Aunt Judy, in her most impressive tone, “they had to wait between the courses.”

Again Aunt Judy paused, and there was a looking hither and thither among the little ones, and a shuffling about on the small Derby chairs, while one or two pairs of eyes were suddenly turned to the fire, as if watching it relieved a certain degree of embarrassment which their owners began to experience.

“It is not every little boy or girl,” was Aunt Judy’s next remark, “who knows what the courses of a dinner are.”

“I don’t,” interposed No. 8, in a distressed voice, as if he had been deeply injured.

“Oh, you think not? Well, not by name, perhaps,” answered Aunt Judy. “But I will explain. The courses of a dinner are the different sorts of food, which follow each other one after the other, till dinner is what people call ‘over.’ Thus, supposing a dinner was to begin with pea-soup, as you have sometimes seen it do, you would expect when it was taken away to see some meat put upon the table, should you not?”

The little ones nodded assent.

“And after the meat was gone, you would expect pie or pudding, eh?”

They nodded assent again, and with a smile.

“And if after the pudding was carried away, you saw some cheese and celery arrive, it would not startle you very much, would it?”

The little ones did nothing but laugh.

“Very well,” pursued Aunt Judy, “such a dinner as we have been talking about consists of four courses. The soup course, the meat course, the pudding course, and the cheese course. And it was while one course was being carried out, and another fetched in, that the little Victims had to wait; and that was the dinner misery I spoke about, and a very grievous affair it was. Sometimes they had actually to wait several minutes, with nothing to do but to fidget on their chairs, lean backwards till they toppled over, or forward till some accident occurred at the table. And then, poor little things, if they ventured to get out their knuckle-bones for a game, or took to a little boxing amusement among themselves, or to throwing the salt in each other’s mugs, or pelting each other with bits of bread, or anything nice and entertaining, down came those merciless keepers on their innocent mirth, and the old stupid order went round for sitting upright and quiet. Nothing that I can say about it would be half as expressive as what the little Victims used to say themselves. They said that it was ‘so very hard.’

“Now, then, a good groan for the dinner misery,” exclaimed Aunt Judy in conclusion.

The order was obeyed, but somewhat reluctantly, and then Aunt Judy proceeded with her tale.

“On one occasion of the dinner misery,” resumed she, “there happened to be a stranger lady present, who seemed to be very much shocked by what the Victims had to undergo, and to pity them very much; so she said she would set them a nice little puzzle to amuse them till the second course arrived. But now, what do you think the puzzle was? It was a question, and this was it. ‘Which is the harder thing to bear—to have to wait for your dinner, or to have no dinner to wait for?’

“I do not think the little Victims would have quite known what the stranger lady meant, if she had not explained herself; for you see they had never gone without dinner in their lives, so they had not an idea what sort of a feeling it was to have no dinner to wait for. But she went on to tell them what it was like as well as she could. She described to them little Tommy Brown, (whom they envied so much for having no lessons to do,) eating his potatoe soaked in the dripping begged at the squire’s back-door, without anything else to wait—or hope for. She told them that he was never teazed as to how he sat, or even whether he sat or stood, and then she asked them if they did not think he was a very happy little boy? He had no trouble or bother, but just ate his rough morsel in any way he pleased, and then was off, hungry or not hungry, into the streets again.

“To tell you the truth,” pursued Aunt Judy, “the Victims did not know what to say to the lady’s account of little Tommy Brown’s happiness; but as the roast meat came in just as it concluded, perhaps that diverted their attention. However, after they had all been helped, it was suddenly observed that one of them would not begin to eat. He sat with his head bent over his plate, and his cheeks growing redder and redder, till at last some one asked what was amiss, and why he would not go on with his dinner, on which he sobbed out that he had ‘much rather it was taken to little Tommy Brown!’”

“That was a very good little Victim, wasn’t he?” asked No. 8.

“But what did the keepers say?” inquired No. 5, rather anxiously.

“Oh,” replied Aunt Judy, “it was soon settled that Tommy Brown was to have the dinner, which made the little Victim so happy, he actually jumped for joy. On which the stranger lady told them she hoped they would henceforth always ask themselves her curious question whenever they sat down to a good meal again. ‘For,’ said she, ‘my dears, it will teach you to be thankful; and you may take my word for it, it is always the ungrateful people who are the most miserable ones.’”

“Oh, Aunt Judy!” here interposed No. 6, somewhat vehemently, “you need not tell any more! I know you mean us by the little Victims! But you don’t think we really mean to be ungrateful about the beds, or the dinners, or anything, do you?”

There was a melancholy earnestness in the tone of the inquiry, which rather grieved Aunt Judy, for she knew it was not well to magnify childish faults into too great importance: so she took No. 6 on her knee, and assured her she never imagined such a thing as their being really ungrateful, for a moment. If she had, she added, she should not have turned their little ways into fun, as she had done in the story.

No. 6 was comforted somewhat on hearing this, but still leant her head on Aunt Judy’s shoulder in a rather pensive state.

“I wonder what makes one so tiresome,” mused the meditative No. 5, trying to view the matter quite abstractedly, as if he himself was in no way concerned in it.

“Thoughtlessness only,” replied Aunt Judy, smiling. “I have often heard mamma say it is not ingratitude in children when they don’t think about the comforts they enjoy every day; because the comforts seem to them to come, like air and sunshine, as a mere matter of course.”

“Really?” exclaimed No. 6, in a quite hopeful tone. “Does mamma really say that?”

“Yes; but then you know,” continued Aunt Judy, “everybody has to be taught to think by degrees, and then they get to know that no comforts ever do really come to anybody as a matter of course. No, not even air and sunshine; but every one of them as blessings permitted by God, and which, therefore, we have to be thankful for. So you see we have to learn to be thankful as we have to learn everything else, and mamma says it is a lesson that never ends, even for grown-up people.

“And now you understand, No. 6, that you—oh! I beg pardon, I mean the little Victims—were not really ungrateful, but only thoughtless; and the wonderful stranger lady did something to cure them of that, and, in fact, proved a sort of Aunt Judy to them; for she explained things in such a very entertaining manner, that they actually began to think the matter over; and then they left off being stupid and unthankful.

“But this reminds me,” added Aunt Judy, “that you—tiresome No. 6—have spoilt my story after all! I had not half got to the end of the miseries. For instance, there was the taking-care misery, in consequence of which the little Victims were sent out to play on a fine day, and kept in when it was stormy and wet, all because those stupid keepers were more anxious to keep them well in health than to please them at the moment.

“And then there was—above all—” here Aunt Judy became very impressive, “the washing misery, which consisted in their being obliged to make themselves clean and comfortable with soap and water whenever they happened to be dirty, whether with playing at knuckle-bones on the floor, or anything else, and which was considered so hard that—”

But here a small hand was laid on Aunt Judy’s mouth, and a gentle voice said, “Stop, Aunt Judy, now!” on which the rest shouted, “Stop! stop! we won’t hear any more,” in chorus, until all at once, in the midst of the din, there sounded outside the door the ominous knocking, which announced the hour of repose to the juvenile branches of the family.

It was a well-known summons, but on this occasion produced rather an unusual effect. First, there was a sudden profound silence, and pause of several seconds; then an interchange of glances among the little ones; then a breaking out of involuntary smiles upon several young faces; and at last a universal “Good-night, Aunt Judy!” very quietly and demurely spoken.

“If the little Victims were only here to see how you behave over the going-to-bed misery, what a lesson it would be!” suggested Aunt Judy, with a mischievous smile.

“Ah, yes, yes, we know, we know!” was the only reply, and it came from No. 8, who took advantage of being the youngest to be more saucy than the rest.

Aunt Judy now led the little party into the drawing-room to bid their father and mother good-night too. And certainly when the door was opened, and they saw how bright and cosy everything looked, in the light of the fire and the lamps, with mamma at the table, wide awake and smiling, they underwent a fearful twinge of the going-to-bed misery. But they checked all expression of their feelings. Of course, mamma asked what Aunt Judy’s story had been about, and heard; and heard, too, No. 6’s little trouble lest she should have been guilty of the sin of real ingratitude; and, of course, mamma applauded Aunt Judy’s explanation about the want of thought, very much indeed.

“But, mamma,” said No. 6 to her mother, “Aunt Judy said something about grown-up people having to learn to be thankful. Surely you and papa never cry for nonsense, and things you can’t have?”

“Ah, my darling No. 6,” cried mamma earnestly, “grown-up people may not cry for what they want exactly, but they are just as apt to wish for what they cannot have, as you little ones are. For instance, grown-up people would constantly like to have life made easier and more agreeable to them, than God chooses it to be. They would like to have a little more wealth, perhaps, or a little more health, or a little more rest, or that their children should always be good and clever, and well and happy. And while they are thinking and fretting about the things they want, they forget to be thankful for those they have. I am often tempted in this way myself, dear No. 6; so you see Aunt Judy is right, and the lesson of learning to be thankful never ends, even for grown-up people.

“One other word before you go. I dare say you little ones think we grown-up people are quite independent, and can do just as we like. But it is not so. We have to learn to submit to the will of the great Keeper of Heaven and earth, without understanding it, just as Aunt Judy’s little Victims had to submit to their keepers without knowing why. So thank Aunt Judy for her story, and let us all do our best to be obedient and contented.”

“When I am old enough, mother,” remarked No. 7, in his peculiarly mild and deliberate way of speaking, and smiling all the time, “I think I shall put Aunt Judy into a story. Don’t you think she would make a capital Ogre’s wife, like the one in ‘Jack and the Bean-Stalk,’ who told Jack how to behave, and gave him good advice?”

It was a difficult question to say “No” to, so mamma kissed No. 7, instead of answering him, and No. 7 smiled himself away, with his head full of the bright idea.