But no one had seen her that day; and as her brother Edward was also absent, nothing could be ascertained till night.

When the teacher called, she found the family of Mrs. Munson greatly afflicted. Three of the children were in bed with fever, and the widow was scarcely able to drag herself about.

"I've had trouble on trouble," she said, sighing. "Month after month, for five long years, I've stood at the door where I could see the ocean, and watched for the ship that never came. I've laid one child beneath the sod, and now it's likely three more will follow. Still I can say,—'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee, because he trusteth in thee.'"

At school, both Edward and Sallie were greatly missed, the first question in the morning being: "Have you heard from Mrs. Munson's? Is Sallie better?"

Hatty went about her studies with a sad countenance. She was much afraid that her friend would die without having given her heart to the Saviour.

One day, when she was going home from school, she passed two boys who were quarrelling terribly about a book one of them had lost.

The young girl lingered near them for a few moments, wishing, yet scarcely daring to speak. At last she said,—

"Oh Ethel! how can you quarrel when one of your companions is so very sick? Think if you were to be taken down with the fever, how sorry you would be that you had called any one such hard names."

The boy hung his head, somewhat ashamed, but then said,—

"It's too bad to lose a new book. I'm sure Bill took it home with him."

"I didn't. I haven't seen it since Ethel showed it to me at recess. I don't see why he need to lay it to me."

"At recess?" murmured Ethel. "Oh dear! Bill, wait a minute."

He was off without a word, and in ten minutes more he came running at full speed, shouting,—

"I've found it. Here 'tis, all safe. I left it on the rock when we were playing ball."

"And now you're sorry you charged Bill with carrying it home," exclaimed Hatty, eagerly.

"Yes, I am. As soon as he spoke about recess I thought where I laid it."

"Don't you think it would be a good plan to ask him to forgive you?" inquired the little peace-maker, drawing him aside.

He made a wry face and hesitated.

"You know, you said some awful hard things," she urged. "I thought then he was pretty good-tempered not to take offense."

She looked in his face so eagerly that he laughed outright.

"Well," he said, "for your sake, I will. You always have everything your own way, you know."

"Look here, Bill," he exclaimed, walking back to the fence where his companion stood, and holding out his hand, "I was wrathy and called you names you didn't deserve. Hatty thinks I ought to ask your pardon."

"Oh, Ethel! don't tell him that. You owned you were sorry first."

"So I am; and if Bill will say quits, I'll do him as good a turn some other time."

"All right," said Bill, giving his hand.

"Here, Hatty," cried Ethel, "you must shake hands too. You're better than Squire Morse to settle up quarrels."

She laughed and blushed, giving her little hand first to one, and then to the other.

"Now promise me," she said, "that you'll never quarrel again."

"That's pretty steep. I wouldn't dare venture," cried Ethel, growing very red.

"Oh!" urged Hatty, "I always thought you two the bravest boys in school. Such good scholars ought to be brave."

"I promise to try to be peaceable," answered Bill.

"And I'll agree to think of you, Hatty Maynard, when I want to call hard names. I guess that will cool off the hot blood."

"You must think of somebody better than I am," she urged, growing very serious. "Don't you recollect what the minister said, about living in peace? And the Bible tells us, to 'follow peace with all men,' to 'follow after the things that make for peace.' Esther says that means, we must be kind and affectionate, one to another; we must show our companions that we love them; and if we ever do wrong, we must ask forgiveness as you did, Ethel. I think Bill was real generous to forgive so quick; but I knew he would, if you told him how sorry you were."

"Come on, Bill," exclaimed Ethel, laughing. "I guess we sha'n't be fighting again in a hurry, after all the compliments we've had to-day."

The next morning, when Hatty went down from her unfurnished attic to make a fire in the stove, she found a string of nice, fresh fish laid on the kitchen table. There was a small piece of soiled paper tied to the end of the string, on which was written in a school boy's hand,—

"For Hatty Maynard, peace-maker to the town of Shrewsbury; from Ethel and Bill."

"'Blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall be called the children of God,'" repeated Hatty, tears gushing to her eyes. "I do love to make peace; and I may call myself his child."

She was so full of joy that she ran up the steep stairs again to her low couch, and there kneeling down, she asked her heavenly Father to make her indeed his own child, and by and by to take her to dwell with him in heaven, where all was peace, and love, and joy, forever and ever.