BETTER THINGS.

"Ah, if Miss Schomberg had asked me to wait on her, how gladly would I have done it, night after night, day after day, and should have thought myself well paid with a smile; but to sit up all night with a person, who cares no more for me, than I for her, and that is nothing! and then to have to get down to-morrow and attend to the shop, all the same as if I had slept well, is no joke. Oh, dear me! how sleepy I am, two o'clock! I was to change those rags at two; I really scarcely dare attempt it, she seems so irritable now." So soliloquized Lucy, who, kindhearted as she was, could not be expected to take quite so much delight in nursing her cross mistress, who never befriended her, as she would have done a kinder, gentler person; but Lucy read her Bible, and she had been trying, though not so long as Emilie, nor always so successfully it must be owned, to live as though she read it.

"Miss Webster, ma'am, the doctor said those rags were to be changed every two hours. May I do it for you? I can't do it as well as Miss Schomberg, but I will do my very best not to hurt you."

"I want sleep child," said Miss Webster, "I want sleep, leave me alone."

"You can't sleep in such pain, ma'am," said poor Lucy, quite at her wits ends.

"Don't you think, I must know that as well as you? There! there's that rush light gone out, and you never put any water in the tin; a pretty nurse you make, now I shall have that smell in my nose all night. You must have set it in a draught. What business has a rush light to go out in a couple of hours? I wonder."

Lucy put the obnoxious night shade out of the room, and went back to the bedside. For a long time she was unsuccessful, but at last Miss Webster consented to have her foot dressed, and even cheered her young nurse by the acknowledgment that she did it very well, considering; and thus the night wore away.

Quite early Emilie was at her post, and was grieved to see that Miss Webster still looked haggard and suffering, and as if she had not slept. In answer to her inquiries, Lucy said that she had no rest all night.

"Rest! and how can I rest, Miss Schomberg? I can't afford to lose my lodgers, and lose them I shall."

"Only try and keep quiet," said Emilie, "and I will see that they do not suffer from want of attendance. You cannot help them, do consent to leave all thought, all management, to those who can think and manage. May aunt Agnes come and nurse you, and attend to the housekeeping?"

"Yes," was reluctantly, and not very graciously uttered.

"Well then, Lucy will have time to attend to you. I would gladly nurse you myself, but you know I may not neglect Miss Parker; now take this draught, and try and sleep."

"Miss Schomberg," said the poor woman, "you won't lack friends to nurse you on a sick bed; I have none."

"Miss Webster, if I were to be laid on a sick bed, and were to lose aunt Agnes, I should be alone in a country that is not my own country, without money and without friends; but we may both of us have a friend who sticketh closer than a brother, think of him, ma'am, now, and ask him to make your bed in your sickness."

She took the feverish hand of the patient as she said this, who, bursting into a flood of tears, replied, "Ah, Miss Schomberg! I don't deserve it of you, and that is the truth; but keep my hand, it feels like a friend's, hold it, will you, and I think I shall sleep a little while;" and Emilie stood and held her hand, stood till she was faint and weary, and then withdrawing it as gently as ever mother unloosed an infant's hold, she withdrew, shaded the light from the sleeper's eyes, and stole out of the room, leaving the sufferer at ease, and in one of those heavy sleeps which exhaustion and illness often produce.

Her visit to the kitchen was most discouraging. Betsey was only just down, and the kettle did not boil, nor were any preparations made for the lodgers' breakfast, to which it only wanted an hour. Emilie could have found it in her heart to scold the lazy, selfish girl, who had enjoyed a sound sleep all night, whilst Lucy had gone unrefreshed to her daily duties, but she forebore. "Scolding never does answer," thought Emilie, "and I won't begin to-day, but I must try and reform this girl at all events, by some means, and that shall be done at once."

"Come, Betsey," said Emilie pleasantly, "now, we shall see what sort of a manager you will be; you must do all you can to make things tidy and comfortable for the lodgers. Is their room swept and dusted?"

"Oh, deary me, Miss, what time have I had for that, I should like to know?"

"Well now, get every thing ready for their breakfast, and pray don't bang doors or make a great clatter with the china, as you set the table. Every sound is heard in this small house, and your mistress has had no sleep all night."

"Well, she'll be doubly cross to day, then, I'll be bound. Howsoever, I shall only stay my month, and it don't much matter what I do, she never gives a servant a good character, and I don't expect it."

"No, and you will not deserve it if you are inattentive and unfeeling now. It is not doing as you would be done by, either. Do now, Betsey, forget, for a few days, that Miss Webster ever scolded or found fault with you. If you want to love any one just do him a kindness, and you don't know how fast love springs up in the heart; you would be much happier, Betsey, I am sure. Come try, you are not a cross girl, and you don't mean to be unkind now. I shall expect to hear from Lucy, when I come again, how well you have managed together."

Fred went to Mr. Crosse's after breakfast, in the pony gig, for aunt Agnes, who, at a summons from Emilie, was quite willing to come and see after Miss Webster's household. She soon put mutters into a better train, both in kitchen and parlour, so that the pacified lodgers consented to remain. And though neither Lucy nor Betsey altogether liked aunt Agnes, they found her quite an improvement on Miss Webster.

It is not our object to follow Miss Webster through her domestic troubles nor through the tedious process of the convalescence of a scalt foot. We will rather follow Edith into her chamber, and see how she is trying to learn the arts of the Peacemaker there.

Edith's head is bent over a book, a torn book, and her countenance is flushed and heated. She is out of breath, too, and her hair is hanging disordered about her pretty face; not pretty now, however; it is an angry face—and an angry face is never pretty.

Has she been quarrelling with Fred again? yes, even so. Fred would not give up Hans Andersen's Tales, which Emilie had just given Edith, and which she was reading busily, when some one came to see her about a new bonnet, so she left the book on the table, and in the mean time Fred came in, snatched it up, and was soon deep in the feats of the "Flying Trunk." Then came the little lady back and demanded the book, not very pleasantly, if the truth must be told. Fred meant to give it up, but he meant to tease his sister first, and Edith, who had no patience to wait, snatched at the book. Fred of course resisted, and it was not until the book had been nearly parted from its cover, and some damage had ensued to the dress and hair of both parties that Edith regained possession; not peaceable possession, however, for both of the children's spirits were ruffled.

Edith flew to her room almost as fast as if she had been on the "Flying Trunk," in the Fairy Tale. When there, she could not read, and in displeasure with herself and with every one, dashed the little volume away and cried long and bitterly. Edith had not been an insensible spectator of the constantly and self-denying gentle conduct of Emilie. Her example, far more than her precepts, had affected her powerfully, but she had much to contend with, and it seemed to her as if at the very times she meant to be kind and gentle something occurred to put her out. "I will try, oh, I will try," said Edith again and again, "but it is such hard work."—Yes, Edith, hard enough, and work which even Emilie can scarcely help you in. You wrestle against a powerful and a cruel enemy, and you need great and powerful aid; but you have read your Bible Edith, and again and again has Emilie said to you, "of yourself you can do nothing."

Edith had had a long conversation on this very subject only that morning with her friend, as they were walking on the sea shore, and under the influence of the calm lovely summer's sky, and within the sound of Emilie's clear persuasive voice, it did not seem a hard matter to Edith to love and to be loving. She could love Fred, she could even bear a rough pull of the hair from him, she could stand a little teasing from John, who found fault with a new muslin frock she wore at dinner, and we all know it is not pleasant to have our dress found fault with; but this attack of Fred's about the book, was not to be borne, not by Edith, at least, and thus she sobbed and cried in her own room, thinking herself the most miserable of creatures, and very indignant that Emilie did not come to comfort her; "but she is gone out after that tiresome old woman, with her scalt foot, I dare say," said Edith, "and she would only tell me I was wrong if she were here—oh dear! oh dear me!" and here she sobbed again.

Solitude is a wonderfully calming, composing thing; Emilie knew that, and she did quite right to leave Edith alone. It was time she should listen seriously to a voice which seldom made itself heard, but conscience was resolute to-day, and did not spare Edith. It told her all the truth, (you may trust conscience for that,) it told her that the very reason why she failed in her efforts to do right was because she had a wrong motive; and that was, love of the approbation of her fellow creatures, and not real love to God. She would have quarrelled with any one else who dared to tell her this; but it was of no use quarrelling with conscience. Conscience had it all its own way to-day, and went on answering every objection so quietly, and to the point, that by degrees Edith grew quiet and subdued; and what do you think she did? She took up a little Bible that lay on her table, and began to read it. She could not pray as yet. She did not feel kind enough for that. Emilie had often said to her that she should be at peace with every one before she lifted up her heart to the "God of peace." She turned over the leaves and tried to find the chapter, which she knew very well, about the king who took account of his servants, and who forgave the man the great debt of ten thousand talents; and then when that man went out and found his servant who owed him but one hundred pence, he took him by the throat, and said, "Pay me that thou owest." In vain did the man beseech for patience, he that had only just been forgiven ten thousand talents could not have pity on the man who owed him but one hundred pence.

Often had Edith read this chapter, and very just was her indignation against the hard-hearted servant, who, with his king's lesson of mercy and forgiveness fresh in his memory, could not practise the same to one who owed him infinitely less than he had done his master; and yet here was little Edith who could not forgive Fred his injuries, when, nevertheless, God was willing to forgive hers. Had Fred injured her as she had injured God? surely not; and yet she might now kneel down and receive at once the forgiveness of all her great sins. Nay, more: she had been receiving mercy and patience at the hands of her Heavenly Father many years. She had neglected Him, done many things contrary to his law, owed him, indeed, the ten thousand talents, and yet she was spared.

She had a great deal of revenge in her heart still, however; and she could not, reason as she would, try as she would, read as she would, get it out, so she sunk down on her knees, and lifted up her heart very sincerely, to ask God to take it away. She had often said her prayers, and had found no difficulty in that, but now it seemed quite different. She could find no words, she could only feel. Well, that was enough. He who saw in secret, saw her heart, and knew how it felt. She felt she needed forgiveness, and that she could only have it by asking it of Him who had power to forgive sins. She took her great debt to Jesus, and he cancelled it; she hoped she was forgiven, and now, oh! how ready she felt to forgive Fred. How small a sum seemed his hundred pence—his little acts of annoyances compared with her many sins against God. Now she felt and understood the meaning of the Saviour's lesson to Peter. She had entered the same school as Peter, and though a slow she was a sincere learner.

She is in the right way now to learn the true law of kindness. None but the Saviour, who was love itself, could teach her this. If any earthly teacher could have done so, surely Emilie would have succeeded.

She went down to tea softened and sad, for she felt very humble. The consideration of her great unlikeness to the character of Jesus, affected her. "When he was reviled he reviled not again; when he suffered he threatened not;" and this thought made her feel more than any sermon or lecture or reproof she ever had in her life, how she needed to be changed, her whole self changed; not her old bad nature patched up, but her whole heart made new. She did not say much at tea; she did not formally apologise to Fred for her conduct to him. He looked very cross, so perhaps it was wiser to act rather than to speak; but she handed him the bread and butter, and buttered him a piece of toast, and in many little quiet ways told him she wished to be friends with him. John began at her frock again. She could not laugh, (she was not in a laughing humour,) but she said she would not wear it any more, during his holidays, if he disliked it so very much. The greatest trial to her temper was the being told she looked cross. Emilie, who could see the sun of peace behind the cloud, was half angry herself at this speech, and said to Mr. Parker, "If she looks cross she is not cross, Sir, but I think she is not in very good spirits. Every one looks a little sad sometimes;" and Mr. Porker, happily, being called out to a patient at that moment, gave Edith opportunity to swallow her grief.

After tea the boys prepared to accompany their sister and her governess in the usual evening walk. Edith did not desire their company, but she did not say so; and they all went out very silent for them. On their road to the beach they met a man who had a cage of canaries to sell, the very things that Fred had desired so long, and to purchase which he had saved his money.

Edith had no taste for noisy canaries; few great talkers have, for they do interrupt conversation must undeniably, but Fred thought it would be most delightful to have them, and as he had a breeding cage which had belonged to one of his elder sisters years before, he asked the price and began to make his bargain. The birds were bought and the man dispatched to the house with them, with orders to call for payment at nine o'clock, before Fred remembered that he did not exactly know where he should keep them. In the sitting room it would be quite out of the question he knew, for the noise would distract his mother. Papa was not likely to admit canaries into his study for consultations; and Fred knew only of one likely or possible place, but the door to that was closed, unless he could find a door to Edith's heart, and he had just quarrelled with Edith; what a pity! To make it up with her, however, just to gain his point, he was too proud to do, and was therefore gloomy and uncivil.

"Where are you going to keep your canaries Fred?" asked his sister.

"In the cage," said Fred, shortly and tartly.

"Yes; but in what room?"

"In my bed-room," said Fred.

"Oh, I dare say! will you though?" said John, who as he shared his brother's apartment had some right to have a voice in the matter. "I am not going to be woke at daylight every morning by your canaries. And such an unwholesome plan; I am sure papa and mamma won't let you. What a pity you bought the birds! you can't keep them in our small house. Get off your bargain, I would if I were you. Besides, who will take care of them all the week? they will want feeding other days besides Saturdays, I suppose."

Fred looked annoyed, and dropped behind the party. Edith whispered to Emilie, "Go you on with John, I want to talk to Fred."

"Fred, dear," said she, "will you keep your birds in my little room, where my old toys are? I will clear a place, and I shan't mind their singing, do Fred. I have often hindered your pleasures, now let me have the comfort of making it up a little to you, and I will feed them and clean them while you are at school in the week."

"You may change your mind Edith, and you know if my birds are in your room, I shall have to be there a good deal; and they will make a rare noise sometimes, and some one must take care of them all the week—I can only attend to them on Saturdays, you know."

"Yes, I have been thinking of all that, and I expect I shall sometimes wish to change my mind, but I shall not do it. I am very selfish I know, but I mean to try to be better, Fred. Take my little room, do."

Fred was a proud boy, and would rather have had to thank any one than Edith just then; but nevertheless he accepted her offer, and thanked his little sister, though not quite so kindly as he might have done, and that is the truth. There is a grace in accepting as well as in giving. Edith had given up what she had much prized, the independence of a little room, (it was but a little one,) a little room all to herself; but she did so because she felt love springing up in her heart. She acted in obedience to the dictates of the law of kindness, and she felt lighter and happier than she had done for a long time. Fred was by degrees quite cheered, and amused his companions by his droll talk for some way. Spying, however, one of his school-fellows on the rocks at a distance, he and John, joined him abruptly, and thus Emilie and Edith were left alone.

Sincerity is never loquacious, never egotistic. If you don't understand these words I will tell you what I mean. A person really in earnest; and sincere, does not talk much of earnestness and sincerity, still loss of himself. Edith could not tell Emilie of her new resolutions, of her mental conflict, but she was so loving and affectionate in her manner to her friend, that I think Emilie understood; at any rate, she saw that Edith was very pleasant, and very gentle that night, and loved her more than ever. She saw and felt there was a change come over her. They walked far, and on their return found the canaries arrived, and Fred very busy in putting them up in their new abode. He had rather unceremoniously moved Edith's bookcase and boxes, to make room for the bird cages. She did say, "I think you might have asked my leave," but she instantly recalled it. "Oh, never mind; what pretty little things, I shall like to have them with me."

It really was a trial to Edith to see all her neat arrangements upset, and to find how very coolly Fred did it, too. She sighed and thought, "Ah, I shall not be mistress here now I see!" but Fred was gone down stairs for some water and seed, and did not hear her laments. He was very full of his scheme for canary breeding at supper, and Emilie was quite as full of sympathy in his joy as Fred desired; she took a real interest in the matter. Her father, she said, had given much attention to canary breeding, for the Germans were noted for their management of canaries; she could help him, she thought, if he would accept her help. So they were very merry over the affair at supper time, and Mr. Parker, in his quiet way, enjoyed it too. Suddenly, however, the merriment received a check. Margaret, who had been to look at the birds, came in with the intelligence that Muff, the pet cat of Miss Edith, was sitting in the dusk, watching the canaries with no friendly eye, and that she had even made a dart at the cage; and she prophesied that the birds would not be safe long. A bird of ill omen was Margaret always; she thought the worst and feared the worst of every one, man or animal. "Why, it is easy to keep the door of the cage shut," John remarked, but to keep puss out of her old haunts was not possible.

Muff was not a kitten, but a venerable cat, who had belonged to Edith's elder sister, and was given to Edith, the day that sister married, as a very precious gift; and Edith loved that grey cat, loved her dearly. She always sat in the same place in that dear little room. Edith had only that day made her a new red leather collar, and Muff looked very smart in it. "Muff won't hurt the birds, Fred dear," said Edith, "she is not like a common cat." Whatever points of dissimilarity there might he between Muff and the cat race in general, in this particular she quite resembled them; she loved birds, and would not be very nice as to the manner of obtaining them. What was to be done? Fred had all manner of projects in his head for teaching the canaries to fly out and in the cage, to bathe, to perch on his finger, etc.; but if, whenever any one chanced to leave the door of the room open, Muff were to bounce in, why there was an end to all such schemes. In short, Muff would get the birds by fair means or foul, there was no doubt of that, and Fred was desperate. I cannot tell how many times Muff was called "a nasty cat," "a tiresome cat," "a vicious cat," and little Edith's heart was full, for she did not believe any evil of her favourite; and to hear her so maligned, seemed like a personal insult; but she bore it patiently. She asked Emilie at bed time what she should do about Muff; she had so long been accustomed to her seat by the sunny window in Edith's room, that to try and tempt her from it she knew would be vain.

Emilie agreed with her, but hoped Muff would practise self-denial. Before Edith lay down to rest that night, she again thought over all that she had done through the day; again knelt down and asked for help to overcome that which was sinful within her, and then lay down to sleep. Edith was but a child, and she could not forget Muff; she thought, and very truly, that there was a general wish to displace her Muff. Not one in the house would be sorry to see Muff sent away she know, and Margaret at supper time seemed so pleased to report of Muff's designs. This thought made her love Muff all the more, but then there were Fred's birds. It would be very sad if any of them should be lost through her cat; what should she do? She wished to win Fred to love and gentleness. Should she part with Muff? Miss Schomberg (aunt Agnes that is) had expressed a wish for a nice quiet cat, and this, her beauty, would just suit her. "Shall I take Muff to High-Street to-morrow? I will," were her last thoughts, but the resolution cost her something, and Edith's pillow was wet with tears. When she arose the next morning she felt as we are all apt to feel after the excitement of new and sudden resolves, rather flat; and the sight of Muff sitting near a laurel bush in the garden, enjoying the morning sun, quite unnerved her. "Part with Muff! No, I cannot; and I don't believe any one would do such a thing for such a boy as Fred. I cannot part with Muff, that's certain. Fred had better give up his birds, and so I shall tell him."

All this is very natural, but what is very natural is often very wrong, and Edith did not fuel that calm happiness which she had done the night before. When she received Emilie's morning kiss, she said, "Well, Miss Schomberg, I thought last night I had made up my mind to part with Muff, but I really cannot! I do love her so!"

"It would be a great trial to you, I should think," said Emilie, "and one that no one could ask of you, but if she had a good master, do you think you should mind it so very much? You would only have your own sorrow to think of, and really it would be a kindness if those poor birds are to be kept. The cat terrifies them by springing at the wires, and if they were sitting they would certainly be frightened off their nests."

Edith looked perplexed; "What shall I do Emilie? I do wish to please Fred, I do wish to do as I would be done by; I really want to get rid of my selfish nature, and yet it will keep coming back."

"Watch as well as pray, dear," said Emilie affectionately, "and you will conquer at last." They went down to breakfast together. "Watch and pray." That word "watch," was R word in season to Edith, she had prayed but had well nigh forgotten to watch.

She could not eat her meal, however, her heart was full with the greatness of the sacrifice before her. Do not laugh at the word great sacrifice. It was very great to Edith; she loved with all her heart; and to part with what we love, be it a dog, a cat, a bird, or any inanimate possession, is a great pang. After breakfast she went into the little room where Muff usually eat, and taking hold of the favourite, hugged and kissed her lovingly, then carrying her down stairs to the kitchen, asked cook for a large basket, and with a little help from Margaret, tied her down and safely confined her; then giving the precious load to her father's errand boy, trotted into the town, and stopped not till she reached Miss Webster's door. Her early visit rather astonished aunt Agnes, who was at that moment busily engaged in dressing Miss Webster's foot, and at the announcement of Betsey—"Please Ma'am little Miss Parker is called and has brought you a cat," she jumped so that she spilled Miss Webster's lotion.

"A cat! a cat!" echoed the ladies. "I will have no cats here Miss Schomberg, if you please," said the irritable Mistress. "I always did hate cats, there is no end to the mischief they do. I never did keep one, and never mean to do."

Miss Schomberg went down stairs into Miss Webster's little parlour, and there saw Edith untying her beloved Muff. "Well aday! my child, what brings you here? all alone too. Surely Emilie isn't ill, oh dear me something must be amiss."

"Oh no, Miss Schomberg, no, only I heard you say you would like a cat, and Fred has got some new birds and I mayn't keep Muff, and so will you take her and be kind to her?"

"My dear child," said aunt Agnes in a bewilderment, "I would take her gladly but Miss Webster has a bird you know, and is so awfully neat and particular, oh, it won't do; you must not bring her here, and I must go back and finish Miss Webster's foot. She is very poorly to-day. Oh how glad I shall be when my Emilie comes back! Good bye, take the cat, dear, away, pray do;" and, so saying, aunt Agnes bustled off, leaving poor Edith more troubled and perplexed with Muff than ever.