MARGARET threw an old shawl over her head and went out the side door. This had been a hard day. Weston had been very cross, and insisted upon having her run a great many errands for him, some of them unnecessary.

This, too, was the first day of the fall term of school, and Margaret had so wanted to be early at school to secure her old seat; for she had heard that Helen Marcy was going to try to get it first. She had almost forgotten her new resolves in the morning when her step-mother had told her she would have to stay home to-day and help her.

As the tears came into Margaret’s eyes, Mrs. Moore had remarked: “Now’s a good time to show your religion. A girl that’s joined the church shouldn’t go around pouting all day because she’s asked to do a little work; especially when she’s been off doing nothing at the seashore.”

It was all true, Margaret knew it, but it seemed so hateful of her to say it. It had been so hard to bear.

After tea she walked down to the gate and stood staring out into the darkness.

It was a very hard life, all just as black and unlovely as that dark autumn evening.

She glanced back at the house. There was Johnnie bending over his books, the gaslight above him brought him out in clear relief against the dark room. Naughty Johnnie! How he had teased her every time he came near her that day! Nobody cared for her much. She gazed down the street. Here and there a light gleamed out. Across the way there was a bright fire in the fireplace, and the family seemed to be having a happy time, sitting around the table, sewing, reading, laughing and talking. The little girl was sitting in her father’s lap. How Margaret longed for such a pleasant evening in their home. She turned involuntarily back to the house. Her father and Mr. Wakefield, the minister, had gone out just after tea, and Mrs. Moore had gone to her own room directly after the dishes were washed. The house was all dark, save Johnnie’s one gas jet. It was just unbearable. No other girl in the world had such a hard lot. It couldn’t possibly be any worse.

Yes, she really thought so, this poor silly little girl.

But she did not altogether forget her Heavenly Father. She remembered presently, with a glad thrill of joy, that she belonged to the rich King of all the earth. He could help her. She would ask Him.

Down went her head on the gate-post, and she told her Father in Heaven all about it, and how she could not possibly stand it.

Then she raised her head with a confident feeling that now all would be well, and fell to planning different ways in which her prayer might be answered.

She didn’t exactly want her step-mother to die! She was rather shocked at the thought. That was a very wrong thought for a Christian girl to have.

Poor little Margaret! She thought she loved Jesus, and was trying with all her might to serve him, but she still had to learn the command: “Honor thy father and thy mother.”

Throwing that disagreeable thought aside, she went on. How could it all be changed? Perhaps some rich, unheard-of relative of her mother’s would die and leave a vast fortune to her as her mother’s only daughter. Then what would she do? She would give her father enough so that he wouldn’t have to work anymore. She would—yes, she would show a very Christian spirit toward Mrs. Moore. She would re-furnish the house, and hire several servants for her, and give her enough to buy beautiful dresses. The boys should be sent to college, and she,—she would go off to boarding-school and study as much as she liked, and never have to stay home and wash dishes. She would have plenty of money to give away. She would buy a great many flowers to give to poor sick people. Her room should be beautifully furnished, and she would invite all the poor girls in school there and give them nice times.

She was just treating those imaginary girls to chocolate creams and marshmallow drops, when she heard her father’s step coming swiftly down the street, and his voice say: “Margaret, you should not be out in this chilly night air.” Then she turned and followed him into the house. She had to give up her musings for a while and help Johnnie with his arithmetic lesson, but she promised herself more castle-building when she went to her own room, before she slept.

But presently her father called her. “Margaret,” he said, “I have a letter here from your Aunt Cornelia. She wishes you to come and spend the winter with her and attend school. Would you like to go?”

Margaret’s heart bounded with joy. Not alone with the pleasure of going to Aunt Cornelia, but with a sort of triumphant feeling that her prayer was answered, and that so soon. She resolved complacently that she should always pray for everything. Poor child! She thought her faith was very great.

It was quite dark in the room and Margaret could not see her father’s face as he said this, but his voice was very kind. The door into the hall was partly open, and the streak of light which came from it fell upon the sofa, and showed the dim outlines of Mrs. Moore lying there with her head bound up in a handkerchief. There was a faint odor of camphor and vinegar pervading the room and Margaret’s conscience smote her as she remembered her hard thoughts out by the gate. Perhaps Mrs. Moore had been suffering all day from a sick headache, and that was why she was so severe. The little girl’s heart softened and she resolved to pray that the headache be cured, which, however, she forgot to do. You must remember how full her heart was of excitement, and pity this poor young Christian.

It was all settled that evening that she should go in a week, and she went up to her room to write a letter overflowing with thanks to dear Aunt Cornelia, and then went to bed to dream of the new life.

How easy it would be to be a Christian, living with Aunt Cornelia, she thought, while she was dressing the next morning. God must have seen how utterly impossible it was for her to serve him truly here in her home, and so planned this for her. But her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at her door, and Johnnie called out:

“Say, Mag, she’s sick, an’ father’s gone for the doctor, an’ he said you must come an’ get some breakfast, an’ West’s cross, an’ it rains like sixty, an’ the wood’s all wet, an’ I can’t make the fire burn. Can’t you come quick?”

Had Margaret known all the trials that were to come to her that day, she would have stopped, in that little minute that stood between her bright hopes of the night before, and the unknown future, to ask her Heavenly Father for strength for what was to come. But she did not. Perhaps it was some shadow of coming trouble that made her reach out her hand and push the letter she had written into her upper bureau drawer. Then she hastened down-stairs. Desolation reigned there. Johnnie’s books and slate were scattered over the dining-room table, just as he had left them the night before. Weston had added to the confusion by spending his evening in cutting bits out of several newspapers for his scrap-book, and little white snips were scattered thick over the floor. Margaret remembered that the dining-room always before looked nice when she came down in the morning. It did make a difference to have a mother around, even if she was only a step-mother.

Out in the kitchen Johnnie was rattling the stove and the smoke was pouring out of every crevice.

It was late that morning before the new minister got his breakfast, and the steak was smoky and the coffee muddy-looking, but he smiled pleasantly at Margaret’s red face and told her that she had done well for the first time.

While they were at breakfast, Mr. Moore came in with the doctor.

They went directly up-stairs, but soon came down again, the doctor taking out his medicine-case and calling for glasses and water. Mr. Moore looked anxious and worried. Margaret tried to hear the doctor’s replies to her father’s troubled questions, but she only caught words now and then:

“Inflammatory rheumatism.” “System completely run down.” “Rest for several months.”

These were the bits of phrases that came to Margaret through the open kitchen door, as she stood by the faucet drawing water for the doctor. The rest of the sentences were drowned by the rush of the water, but Margaret could easily imagine it, and her heart stood still.

She knew that this meant many things that the doctor did not say.

It meant that she could not go to Aunt Cornelia’s; that she must spend the winter at home; that she must be the one who must constantly wait on the sick woman. She could even now hear the irritable words which she imagined her step-mother would use to her when she didn’t do everything just right.

Then a great rebellion arose in her heart.

“God hasn’t answered my prayer at all,” she said to herself, and the great disappointment made her hand shake as she set the water-pitcher down before the doctor.

Mr. Moore didn’t think his little girl had heard the doctor’s words, and he looked after her with a troubled sigh as she went back to the kitchen. How should he tell her? Would she storm and cry as she had been wont to do when her will was crossed? He decided that he would not tell her that day.

The breakfast dishes washed, Johnnie at school, and her father up-stairs, Margaret betook herself to the kitchen to wail out her sorrow and pity herself. She dared not go to her own room, lest she should be heard. Rebellion was in her soul, and the more she cried the more she pitied herself and cried again. Mr. Wakefield, coming to the kitchen to ask for some warm water, found Margaret with her arms on the table, and her head on her arms, sobbing great angry, disappointed sobs. He stopped in dismay.

“Why, Margaret, what is the matter? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, there isn’t! God hasn’t answered my prayer! You said he would! Now I’ve got to stay at home and wait on her! I don’t believe he heard me at all!”

Margaret fairly screamed this out. She had worked herself into such a state that she scarcely knew what she was saying. Was this the gentle, humble Christian he had received into the church but two days before? This thought passed through the minister’s mind, but he was too wise to express it to the excited little girl. He only asked quietly:

“Margaret, does your father always say ‘yes’ to you when you ask for something?”

“Why, no; of course not!” she said, in surprise.

“And suppose you should ask for something, and he should say No, would you come and tell me that your father would not answer you?”

She did not answer this time, and Mr. Wakefield went on:

“Suppose your father knows that what you ask would be very hurtful to you, would you think him cruel to refuse you?”

“But this isn’t hurtful! It’s best for me! God wants me to be a Christian, and I never can be one in this house!” she burst out.

“Margaret, which do you think knows best, you who know so little, or God who made you, and who sees all things that ever have happened or ever will happen in your life? My little friend, I am afraid you didn’t pray in the right spirit,”—

“O, yes, I did!” she interrupted eagerly. “I believed. I thought of course He would give it to me.”

“But believing is not the only thing. You forgot to put one little sentence in, ‘Thy will be done.’ If you had put it in words your prayer would sound something like this: ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Margaret Moore’s will be done,’”—

At this Margaret couldn’t help smiling through her tears.

“Your kind Heavenly Father didn’t give you just what you asked for, because he saw that it would not be best for you. Perhaps he saw that his servant must learn patiently to serve him at home, among trials, before she would ever make the right kind of servant out in the world. He will answer your prayer in some other way than the one you had planned, Margaret. He loves you a great deal better than you love yourself. Can’t you trust him?”

And then the minister went away without his hot water. Went back to his room to pray for the poor little troubled disciple down-stairs. And Margaret sat and thought. She saw now just how foolish and wicked she had been. She had a long struggle with her rebellious heart, kneeling on the bare floor with her head on the kitchen table, but she conquered at last, and the peace of God filled her heart. She was resolved now to give up her own way and try to do God’s way. “But, dear Jesus,” she prayed, “I’ll have to be helped a great deal, for I can’t do it alone, and I know I shall cry if they say much about Aunt Cornelia.”

Margaret had found the right way to do all she could herself and trust in Jesus for the rest, and to give up her life, her will, her whole self into his keeping.

But she remembered that she had other duties and that her father might be down-stairs at any moment, so she hastened to her room to wash away the traces of tears.

Half-way down the stairs she paused. “Would not it please Jesus if she were to knock at mother’s door and ask if there was anything she could do?”

She retraced her steps softly and gave a very gentle knock. Her father came from the darkened room, his face so careworn that it almost startled her. “Father, please don’t look so worried. Everything will be all right. I can keep house,” she said.

Her father regarded her with a tender, sorrowful look.

“Does my little girl know that she cannot go away this winter?”

“Yes, sir; I know it. Never mind that. It’s all right, father.”

Mr. Moore was so amazed and pleased at this new character exhibited by his daughter that he scarcely knew what to say.

“I am very sorry it is so, Margaret, but your mother is very sick. She has been under a great strain this summer. You will have to wait on her and be a general help. I would hire some one else to do it if I could afford it, but I cannot. Your mother’s sister, Amelia, who has been living in Brierly with her brother, will come, I think, and keep house, and then the minister need not go away, for we need all the money we can get now to pay the doctor’s bills.”

Margaret’s face fell.

“Must we have her? Isn’t there some one else we can have?” she said, lowering her voice.

“Not without paying for it,” said her father, sadly.

“Couldn’t I do the work?” she asked.

“No, Margaret; you will have all you can do to wait on your mother, and,” he added, “I am afraid you cannot even go to school here at home,—for a time, at least. I am sorry, but I don’t see any other way out just now.”

Margaret felt very much like bursting into tears again, but a glance at her father’s worn face changed her feelings.

“Never mind, father, I’ll do all I can, and be as good as I can.” And she wound her arms around her father’s neck and kissed him.

If she only could have known how much that kiss comforted her father. He went back into the darkened room with a lightened heart and a feeling that there must be something in religion, for it had changed Margaret wonderfully.

Margaret snatched the first hour that came to her to write a letter to Aunt Cornelia, telling her how impossible it was for her to come to her, and how very sorry she was, and soon there came a long, sympathetic, helpful answer, and with it a little book bound in green and silver. “To help you when you feel discouraged,” the good auntie wrote.

On the first page Margaret opened, her eyes met these words:

And they sang a little tune in her heart as she thought of all she must bear that long winter.