JOE'S CHRISTMAS.

Christmas was at hand; Christmas with its holidays, its greetings, its festive meetings, its gifts, its bells, and its rejoicings. That season when mothers prepare for the return of their children from school, and are wont to listen amidst storms of wind and snow for the carriage wheels; when little brothers and sisters strain their eyes to catch the first glimpse of the dear ones' approach along the snowy track; when the fire blazes within, and lamps are lit up to welcome them home; and hope and expectation and glad heart beatings are the lot of so many—of many, not of all. Christmas was come, but it brought no hope, no gladness, no mirth to poor White, either present or in prospect. The music and the bells of Christmas, the skating, the pony riding, the racing, the brisk walk, the home endearments were not for Joe—poor Joe. No mother longed for his return, no brother or little sister pressed to the hall door to get the first look or the first word; no father welcomed Joe back to the hearth-warmth of home sweet home. Poor orphan boy!

Joe's uncle and aunt wrote him a kind letter, quite agreed in Mr. Parker's opinion that a journey into Lincolnshire was, in the state of his back and general health, out of the question, were fully satisfied that he was under the best care, both medical and magisterial, (they had never seen either doctor or master, and had only known of Mr. Barton through an advertisement,) and sent him a handsome present of pocket money, with the information that they were going to the South of France for the winter. Joe bore the news of their departure very coolly, and carelessly pocketed the money, knowing as he did that he had a handsome property in his uncle's hands, and no one would have supposed from any exhibition of feeling that he manifested, that he had any feeling or any care about the matter. Once, indeed, when a fly came to the door to convey Harcourt to the railway, and he saw from the window of his room the happy school-boy jumping with glee into the vehicle, and heard him say to Mr. Barton, "Oh yes, Sir, I shall be met!" he turned to Fred who sate by him and said, "No one is expecting me, no one in the whole world is thinking of me now, Parker."

Fred told his mother of this speech, a speech so full of bitter truth that it made Mrs. Parker, kind creature as she was, shed tears, and she asked her husband if young White could not be removed to pass the Christmas holidays with them. The distance was not great, and they could borrow Mr. Darford's carriage, and perhaps it might do him good. Mr. Parker agreed, and the removal was effected.

For some days it seemed doubtful whether the change would be either for poor White's mental happiness or bodily improvement. The exertion, and the motion and excitement together, wrought powerfully on his nervous frame, and he was more distressed, and irritable than ever. He could not sleep, he ate scarcely any thing, he rarely spoke, and more than once Mrs. Parker regretted that the proposal had been made. In vain Edith brought him plants from the little greenhouse, fine camellias, pots of snow-drops, and lovely anemones. They seemed rather to awaken painful than pleasing remembrances and associations, and once even when he had lain long looking at a white camellia he burst into tears. It is a great trial of temper, a great test of the sincerity of our purpose, when the means we use to please and gratify seem to have just the contrary effect. In the sick room especially, where kind acts, and gentle words, and patient forbearance are so constantly demanded, it is difficult to refrain from expressions of disappointment when all our endeavours fail; when those we wish to please and comfort, obstinately refuse to be pleased and comforted. Often did Fred and Edith hold counsel as to what would give Joe pleasure, but he was as reserved and gloomy as ever, and his heart seemed inaccessible to kindness and affection. Besides, there were continual subjects of annoyance which they could scarcely prevent, with all the forethought and care in the world.

The boys were very thoughtful, for boys; Mrs. Parker had it is true warned them not to talk of their out-of-door pleasures and amusements to or before Joe, and they were generally careful; but sometimes they would, in the gladness of their young hearts, break out into praises of the fine walk they had just had on the cliff, or the glorious skating on the pond, of the beauty of the pony, and of undiscovered walks and rides in the neighbourhood. Once, in particular, Emilie, who was spending the afternoon with the Parkers, was struck with the expression of agony that arose to Joe's face from a very trifling circumstance. They were all talking with some young companion of what they would be when they grew up, and one of them appealing to Joe, he quickly said, "oh, a sailor—I care for nobody at home and nobody cares for me, so I shall go to sea."

"To sea!" the boy repeated in wonder.

"And why not?" said Joe, petulantly, "where's the great wonder of that?"

There was a silence all through the little party; no one seemed willing to remind the poor lad of that which he, for a moment, seemed to forget—his helpless crippled state. It was only Emilie who noticed his look of hopelessness; she sat near him and heard his stifled sigh, and oh, how her heart ached for the poor lad!

This conversation and some remarks that the boy made, led Mr. and Mrs. Parker seriously to think that he entertained hopes of recovery, and they were of opinion that it would be kinder to undeceive him, than to allow him to hope for that which could never he. Mr. Parker began to talk to him about it one day, very kindly, after an examination of his back, when White said, abruptly, "I don't doubt you are very skilful. Sir, and all that, but I should like to see some other doctor. I have money enough to pay his fee, and uncle said I was to have no expense spared in getting me the best advice. Sir J. ---- comes here at Christmas, I know, to see his father, and I should like to see him and consult him, Sir, may I?" Mr. Parker of course could make no objection, and a day was fixed for the consultation. It was a very unsatisfactory one and at once crushed all Joe's hopes. The result was communicated to him as gently and kindly as possible.

Mrs. Parker was a mother, and her sympathy for poor Joe was more lasting than that of the younger branches of the family. She went to him on the Sunday evening following the physician's visit to tell him the whole truth, and she often said afterwards how she dreaded the task. Joe lay on the sofa before the dining room window, watching the blue sea sit a distance, and thinking with all the ardour of youthful longing of the time when his back should be well, and he should be a voyager in one of those beautiful ships. He should have no regrets, and no friends to regret him; then he groaned at the pain and inconvenience and privation of his present state, and panted for restoration. Mrs. Parker entered and eat down by him.

"Is Sir J. C---- gone, Ma'am?"

"Yes, he has been gone some minutes."

"What does he say?" asked the lad earnestly. "He said very little to me, nothing indeed, only all that fudge I am always hearing—'rest, patience,' and so on."

"He thinks it a very serious case, my dear; he says that the recumbent posture is very important."

"But for how long, Ma'am? I would lie twelve months patiently enough if I hoped then to be allowed to walk about, and to be able to do as other boys do."

"Sir J. C---- thinks, Joe, that you never will recover. I am grieved to tell you so, but it is the truth, and we think it best you should know it. Your spine is so injured that it is impossible you should ever recover; but you may have many enjoyments, though not able to be active like other boys. You must keep up your spirits; it is the will of God and you must submit."

Poor Mrs. Parker having disburdened her mind of a great load, and performed her dreaded task, left the room, telling her husband that the boy bore it very well, indeed, he did not seem to feel it much. The bell being already out for church, she called the young people to accompany her thither, leaving one maid-servant and the errand boy at home, and poor Joe to meditate on his newly-acquired information that he would be a cripple for life. Edith looked in and asked softly, "shall I stay?" but the "No" was so very decided, and so very stern that she did not repeat the question, so they all went off together, a cheerful family party.

The errand boy betook himself to a chair in the kitchen, where he was soon sound asleep, and the maid-servant to the back gate to gossip with a sailor; so Joe was left alone with a hand-bell on the table, plenty of books if he liked to read them, and as far as outward comforts went with nothing to complain of. "And here I am a cripple for life," ejaculated the poor fellow, when the sound of their voices died away and the bell ceased; "and, oh, may that life be a short one! I wish, oh, I wish, I were dead! who would care to hear this? no one—I wish from my heart I were dead;" and here the boy sobbed till his poor weak frame was convulsed with agony, and he felt as if his heart (for he had a heart) would break.

In his wretchedness he longed for affection, he longed for some one who would really care for him, "but no one cares for me," groaned the lad, "no one, and I wish I might die to night." Ah, Joe, may God change you very much before he grants that wish! After he had sobbed a while, he began to think more calmly, but his thoughts were thoughts of revenge and hatred. "John has been the cause of it all." Then he thought again, "they may well make all this fuss over me, when their son caused all my misery; let them do what they will they will never make it up to me, but they only tolerate me I can see, I know I am in the way; they don't ask me here because they care for me, not they, it's only out of pity;" and here, rolling his head from side to side, sobbed and cried afresh. "What would I give for some one to love me, for some one to wait on me because they loved me! but here I am to lie all my life, a helpless, hopeless, cripple; oh dear! oh dear! my heart will break. Those horrid bells! will they never have done?"

At the very moment when poor Joe was thinking that no one on earth cared for him, that not a heart was the sadder for his sorrow, a kind heart not far off was feeling very much for him. "I shall not go to church to-night, aunt Agnes," said Emilie Schomberg, "I shall go and hear what Sir J.C.'s opinion of poor Joe White is. I cannot get that poor fellow out of my mind."

"No, poor boy, it is a sad case," said aunt Agnes, "but why it should keep you from church, my dear, I don't see. I shall go."

So they trotted off, Emilie promising to leave aunt Agnes safe at the church door, where she met the Parkers just about to enter. "Oh Emilie," said little Edith, "poor Joe! we have had Sir J.C.'s opinion, and it is quite as had if not worse than papa's, there is so much disease and such great injury done. He is all alone, Emilie, do go and sit with him."

"It is just what I wish to do, dear, but do you think he will let me?"

"Yes, oh yes, try at least," said Edith, and they parted.

When Emilie rang at the bell Joe was in the midst of his sorrow, but thinking it might only be a summons for Mr. Parker, he did not take much notice of it until the door opened and the preaching German lady, as he called Emilie, entered the room. When she saw his swollen eyes and flushed face, she wished that she had not intruded, but she went frankly up to him, and began talking as indifferently as possible, to give him time to recover himself, said how very cold it was, stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze, and then relapsed into silence. The silence was broken at times by heavy sighs, however—they were from poor Joe. Emilie now went to the piano, and in her clear voice sang softly that beautiful anthem, "I will arise and go to my Father." It was not the first time that Joe had shown something like emotion at the sound of music; now it softened and composed him. "I should like to hear that again," he said, in a voice so unlike his own that Emilie was surprised.

She sang it and some others that she thought he would like, and then said, "I hope I have not tired you, but I am afraid you are in pain."

"I am," said Joe, in his old gruff uncivil voice, "in great pain."

"Can I do any thing for you?" asked Emilie, modestly.

"No nothing, nothing can be done! I shall have to lie on my back as long as I live, and never walk or stand or do any thing like other boys—but I hope I shan't live long, that's all."

Emilie did not attempt to persuade him that it would not be as bad as he thought—that he would adapt himself to his situation, and in time grow reconciled to it. She knew that his mind was in no state to receive such consolation, that it rather needed full and entire sympathy, and this she could and did most sincerely offer. "I am very sorry for you," she said quietly, "very sorry," and she approached a little nearer to his couch, and looked at him so compassionately that Joe believed her.

"Don't you think that fellow John ought to be ashamed of himself, and I don't believe he ever thinks of it," said Joe, recurring to his old feeling of revenge and hatred.

"Perhaps he thinks of it more than you imagine," said Emilie, "but don't fancy that no one cares about you, that is the way to be very unhappy."

"It is true," said Joe, sadly.

"God cares for you," however, replied Emily softly.

"Oh, if I could think that, it would be a comfort," Miss Schomberg, "and I do need comfort; I do, I do indeed, groaned the boy."

Emilie's tears fell fast. No words of sympathy however touching, no advice however wise and good, no act however kind could have melted Joe as the tears of that true-hearted girl. He felt confidence in their sincerity, but that any one should feel for him, should shed tears for him, was so new, so softening an idea, that he was subdued. Not another word passed on the subject. Emilie returned to the piano, and soon had the joy of seeing Joe in a tranquil sleep; she shaded the lamp that it might not awake him, covered his poor cold feet with her warm tartan, and with a soft touch lifted the thick hair from his burning forehead, and stood looking at him with such intense interest, suck earnest prayerful benevolence, that it might have been an angel visit to that poor sufferer's pillow, so soothing was it in its influence. He half opened his eyes, saw that look, felt that touch, and tears stole down his cheeks; tears not of anger, nor discontent, but of something like gratitude that after all one person in the world cared for him. His sleep was short, and when he awoke, he said abruptly to Emilie, "I want to feel less angry against John," Miss Schomberg, "but I don't know how. It was such a cruel trick, such a cowardly trick, and I cannot forgive him."

"I don't want to preach," said Emily, smiling, "but perhaps if you would read a little in this book you would find help in the very difficult duty of forgiving men their trespasses."

"Ah, the Bible, but I find that dull reading; it always makes me low spirited, I always associate it with lectures from uncle and Mr. Barton. When I did wrong I was plied up with texts."

Emilie did not know what answer to make to this speech. At last she said, "Do you remember the account of the Saviour's crucifixion, how, when in agony worse than yours, he said, 'Father forgive them.' May I read it to you?"

He did not object, and Emilie read that history which has softened many hearts as hard as Joe's. He made but little remark as Emilie closed the book, nor did she add to that which she had been reading by any comment, but; bidding him a kind good night, went to meet Aunt Agnes at the church door, and conduct her safely home.

There is a turning point in most persons' lives, either for good or evil. Joe White was able long afterwards to recall that miserable Sunday evening, with its storm of agitation and revenge, and then its lull of peace and love. He who said, "Peace, be still," to the tempestuous ocean, spoke those words to Joe's troubled spirit, and the boy was willing to listen and to learn. Would a long lecture on the sinfulness and impropriety of his revengeful and hardened state have had the same effect on Joe, as Emilie's hopeful, gentle, almost silent sympathy? We think not. "I would try and make him lovable," so said and so acted Emilie Schomberg, and for that effort had the orphan cause to thank her through time and eternity.

Joe was not of an open communicative turn, he was accustomed to keep his feelings and thoughts very much to himself, and he therefore did not tell either Fred or Edith of his conversation with Emilie, but when they came to bid him good night, he spoke softly to them, and when John came to his couch he did not offer one finger and turn away his face, as he had been in the habit of doing, but said, "Good night," freely, almost kindly.

The work went on slowly but surely, still he held back forgiveness to John, and while he did this, he could not be happy, he could not himself feel that he was forgiven. "I do forgive him, at least I wish him no ill, Miss Schomberg," he said in one of his conversations with Emilie. "I don't suppose I need be very fond of him. Am I required to be that?"

"What does the Bible say, Joe? 'If thine enemy hunger feed him, if he thirst give him drink.' 'I say unto you,' Christ says, 'Love your enemies.' He does not say don't hate them, he means Love them. Do you think you have more to forgive John than Jesus had to forgive those who hung him on the cross?"

"It seems to me, Miss Schomberg, so different that example is far above me. I cannot be like Him you know."

"Yet Joe there have been instances of persons who have followed his example in their way and degree, and who have been taught by Him, and helped by Him to forgive their fellow-creatures."

"But it is not in human nature to do it, I know, at least is not in mine."

"But try and settle it in your mind, Joe, that John did not mean to injure you, that had he had the least idea that you would fall he would never have tempted you to climb. If you look upon it as accidental on your part, and thoughtlessness on his, it will feel easier to forgive him perhaps, and I am sure you may. You are quite wrong in supposing that John does not think of it. He told Edith only yesterday that he never could forgive himself for tempting you to climb, and that he did not wonder at your cold and distant way to him. Poor fellow! it would make him much happier if you would treat him as though you forgave him, which you cannot do unless you from your heart forgive him."