May was an only, a much-petted, and some people said, a spoiled child. However, this last was a mistake. What might have been, had not her Heavenly Father interfered, we cannot tell. A friend of Mr. Vinton who was spending a few days with the family was interested in the management of a theatre, and this gentleman had been studying this fair young daughter of his host and had discovered what others among her friends already knew, that she was a girl of unusual talent, and he fancied that if she were educated for the stage she would, as he expressed it, "create a sensation." He had proposed to Mr. Vinton to take May home with him and educate her for his favorite profession. He had pictured to the young girl the pleasures of such a life, dwelling upon the sweetness of the world's praises which she was sure to win. It would have been no wonder if May's head had been turned by all the flattery and promises of a brilliant future. Mr. Vinton had given his consent to the proposal of his friend, but May hesitated.

May Vinton was the only Christian in that household; while at boarding-school she had been led to give her heart to the Saviour, and now that she was at home again she had found it not quite easy to keep herself unspotted from the world. Mr. Vinton had not openly opposed her in what he termed her "fanaticism," but now that her religion was in the way of what was becoming his ambition for her, there was likely to be trouble. And the perplexity into which May was thrown showed itself in her face that morning. There was just a slight shadow in her brown eyes as she waited for her pony phaeton to come around to the steps. She had come from her room with this prayer on her lips: "Dear Father, help me to decide rightly. I am so ignorant and so foolish that I cannot tell what is right. Canst thou not settle this question for me? Shut up every path but the right one, I pray thee."

How speedily God sometimes answers our prayers!

It was the common story of a runaway horse, a carriage thrown over a steep embankment. And May Vinton, helpless and limp, was carried home, not dead, but to hear the verdict of the physicians who were hastily summoned, "She may live for years, but she will never walk again."

The father groaned when he heard it, but to May even in that first hour of the terrible knowledge there came a swift flashing thought "The question is settled!"

This was twenty years ago. During those first months of suffering, May Vinton's faith sometimes grew faint and she prayed that she might die; her life seemed useless; all its joy and brightness gone out. Her faith looked forward to the mansion prepared for her, but it did not light up the present, at least not for a long time. There came at length out of the suffering a sweet peace that almost glorified the face, which was a little thinner and paler than of old, but now clothed with a new beauty. There came too a tender patience that won and held the hearts of all with a firmer grasp than ever before.

Gradually the hearts of her father and mother were won from the world and centred upon Christ, and as one and another of those who came in daily contact with the patient invalid were led into a knowledge of the truth, May began to realize that her life need not be a useless one, and she began to interest herself in matters outside her own home. I cannot tell you of all the schemes for work which she has on foot. The Mission Band meet in her room once a month. I ought to tell you about that room. When it became evident that she would spend the greater part of her life in a reclining chair, only varying the monotony by being lifted from chair to couch or bed, Mr. Vinton fitted up what had been the front parlor with a smaller room once used as a library, for her use. "We can use a back room for a parlor," he said, "but May must have as good an outlook as we can give her." Excepting the invalid herself in her chair there is no sign of invalidism in that large room, but as a young girl said the other day, "It is just as pretty as it can be!" There are long mirrors on every side, there is a piano, softest of carpets and easiest of chairs—a few; in that little storeroom at one side are dozens of folding chairs which can be brought out when the visitors are many, and this is very frequently. Once a month the Mission Band, every week the Children's meeting, every Sabbath afternoon a class of young men. Then there is a young ladies' meeting—I think I must take another time to tell you of some of these gatherings. Sometimes Miss Vinton is too ill to meet with the young people, but the room is always ready for them and a bright young girl who is her companion takes the place of hostess.

"It must be very hard for you to be shut in so much with an invalid," said an acquaintance to this girl.

"O, I am not shut in! Miss Vinton has so many errands to be attended to that I go out a great deal."

"Yes; but after all, an invalid is poor company for a young girl."

"Not such an invalid as ours! Why, Miss Vinton is the cheeriest person in the house. She keeps us all in good spirits and she has company almost constantly. I assure you we are not moping at our house."

Once when some one spoke of her wrecked life May said, "O, no, my life is not wrecked! I came near making a failure of it, but my Father in heaven reached out and held me back."