WHY in the world doesn’t it light!” said Lucy, as she wasted match after match upon Ben’s candle.

Ben and Sally stood watching and waiting, and Gill sat with Jack upon his knee. He was pretending not to notice; but, by and by, Lucy got tired, and before Gill could know what she was about, she put the candle into his hand, and took the baby from him.

“Do light it, please, Gill,” she said. “I’ve tried and tried to no purpose. The wick must have been wet, I think.”

Gill had a comical expression upon his face. He did not expect the laugh to turn upon him.

“Ah, well,” he said, “it is not the first time a man has fallen into the pit that ha had digged for others. You may fetch another candle, Lucy, for the night would wear away without a glimmer from this.”

“What a perfect cheat it is!” said Lucy, as she smelled the parsnip to make sure that it was not tallow, after all.

Jack wanted it for a plaything; but his mother said it would be the very way to make him grasp at the real candle, and so come to mischief and harm. The better way was not to meddle with even the semblance of that which would bring him to evil, however innocent the thing might be in itself; so the fictitious candle was laid upon the kitchen shelf, and Ben went up to bed by the light of one of Lucy’s “dips,” as she called it. The good woman could not get out of her old housewifely ways, and she stored up and melted the mutton-tallow, and had a long stick with wick twisted over it, and, every little while, she dipped ten or a dozen short candles to save the wax-lights, which she thought too good for common use.

Sally was not able to rise from her bed the next morning. She had taken a serious cold, and one of her lungs was badly congested. Her fever was raging for several days, and the doctor pronounced her a very sick child; and mamma thought the time had come when her little daughter would be called to rest above, and she and papa would be left here below to listen for the sweet voice that would surely speak to their hearts through the dimness.

There were moments when Sally’s mind wandered; but it always dwelt upon the beautiful things of nature. She spoke of the pretty blossoms, and of the birds and butterflies, and of God’s goodness in making such a bright world for us to live in; and it taught her parents the value of a pure and healthful training which would never lose its hold on the mind and spirit, though one had no control over one’s brain. It was very sweet to listen to the child’s words, as she lay at twilight with her burning hand clasped in her mother’s cool, soft palm.

“Are you an angel?” she asked, as the face of love bent gently over her. “How white and beautiful your forehead is! and you have blue eyes like the sky! Can you sing that song which the shepherds heard when the child Jesus was born at Bethlehem? It begins:—

‘Glory be to God on high;’”

and then the little voice sang, tremblingly, the first faint strain. Mamma had to join, though she was almost choking with grief; for she thought, “Surely, my little daughter is going away from me to the world of light and joy!”

To the world of light and joy! and yet, sad, O mother, that seems so strange!

When some familiar tone made the little sick child say “mamma,” there was such a thrill of delight in Mrs. Reed’s heart! It was sweeter to be mamma than to be even an angel. Mothers will understand that well,—such mothers as feel the majesty and worth of the little immortal spirits that have been sent to them to nurture for God.

Thanks to the great Physician, and to the good doctor, and to mamma’s faithful nursing, little Sally was not long in bed; but was out very soon again with Ben and Gill, to learn something more in this lower world before she would be ready for the higher life and the higher teaching.

She seemed so happy to be able to breathe with free lungs, and to feel no pain. Every thing looked new and charming to her, and her feet were so light, that she almost flew over the meadow to greet Brindle and Flash. She carried her doll wherever she went, and shared with it every pleasure,—there had been such a long separation, almost a week, when she had taken no notice of her pet.

“Jennie has not forgotten me,” she said to Lucy, as she hugged her baby to her breast. “The little creature put out her arms at once when she saw me, though I had grown so thin and pale. It takes a great change to make babies forget their mothers, does it not, Lucy?”

“Yes, indeed,” replied the Scotchwoman, “my little man knew me when I had been a month out of his sight; but you haven’t lost much, lassie. The roses are blooming afresh on your cheeks, and your eyes are as bonny as ever.”

Dobbin heard the tones which he had missed, and whinnied for Sally to come to the barn and speak a word of greeting to him, and he ate from her hand, and moved his head up and down as if he would never tire of saying, “How d’ye do how d’ye do.” As for the dear old market-cart, Sally could have put her arms right around it, for joy, if it had been possible to hug and caress it; and many a word was spoken to the great wheels that had gone their way so often while she lay sick in the house, and had brought her such fresh oranges, and bananas, and figs, and other goodies.