THERE are four of us young people at home: first I, who am sixteen, then there is a long gap, and next comes Katie, who is eight, and Bessie, who is six, and last of all baby Harry, who is not yet two. But we were all a year younger when what I mean to tell you of happened, for that was a year ago.

I spoke of Katie and Bessie and Harry and myself as the young people, because I think I am rather too old to be called a child, and I didn’t know how else to put it, but I don’t at all mean to call father and mother old. It is true father has a great many gray streaks in his hair, but I think that is more from care than from age.

It makes me sad, however, very sad, to see father’s hair changing color; but when I speak of it, he only laughs and says: “The whites are gaining the ascendency, and the aborigines becoming extinct.”

Father and mother have not looked like themselves since the summer mother was so ill. That was the most dreadful period of my life, I am sure. For a long time we thought she couldn’t recover. She was ill, of course, to begin with, and then the expense of having a doctor and nurse preyed on her mind and made against her. I really believe mother minded that more than the pain she suffered! At one time she got so nervous with thinking of it, that she said Dr. May’s visits did her more harm than good, and declared she wouldn’t see him again; but Dr. Armstrong, our minister, happened to come in just then, and he soon reasoned her out of all that and made her see things differently.

There couldn’t possibly be a nicer minister than Dr. Armstrong,—I can’t begin to say how much I love him; better, indeed, than anybody in the world, outside of home, except a dear friend, Miss Judith Hepburn. Miss Judith lives next door to us; she is old and very poor; she has, in fact, nothing in the world but the house she lives in, and so she occupies only one of the rooms on the first floor, and lives on the rent from the others. But Miss Judith is as happy as if she possessed all this world has to offer, and happier, too, for that matter, and this is because she is such a true Christian. “Whatever befalls us is good,” she says, “whether it comes in the shape of prosperity or of adversity, because everything is bestowed by a loving Hand.”

I forgot to say, all this while, that my name is Annie—Annie Gray—but Miss Judith never calls me anything but “Martha.” She commenced this when mother was ill, because I kept so busy, and perhaps, too, because I was “troubled about many things,” for indeed I was all during her illness, and for a long time after, too, for the debt we owed to the doctor and nurse hung like a black cloud over the household. It is different with some people, but debt has always seemed a very serious evil to us. I believe father has dreaded it almost more than anything else, and up to mother’s illness, he had always avoided it; but the demands which sickness makes are very great, and can’t be easily disregarded.

Ah! how often I have heard father say: “Owe no man anything,” after which he would always add, “whether this is a Divine command, or only loving counsel I cannot say, but, in either case, I shall not willingly disregard it.”

Well, it was right funny, but soon after mother’s illness, Dr. Armstrong commenced his Friday evening lectures to the congregation “On Secular Matters,” as he said in his notice. Father took me to the first one, and I couldn’t help giving his hand a squeeze when he gave out the subject, “Debts: How They are Made, and How They May be Paid.” I can’t remember the words he used, which is a pity, but Dr. Armstrong’s words, as well as his thoughts, are forcible, but I know the sense of it all was that debts are generally commenced in a small way, little by little, little by little, they are added one to the other, till presently an account is presented to us of such overwhelming proportions that we despair of ever wiping it out. “But I trust,” he added, “that none of my friends who find themselves in this unhappy situation will give way for a moment to a feeling of discouragement. Step by step have we been led into trouble; let us retrace our way in like manner, step by step. Begin from this moment a system of judicious retrenchment; lay aside sums, never mind how trifling, toward the liquidation of your debt, and little by little it will melt away, till, almost unconsciously to yourself, it has disappeared, and you, again a free man, ‘can look the whole world in the face.’”

“Ah, that was practical! That was what I needed!” said father, as we came out after the lecture was over, “and I, for one, shall not ‘approve the doctrine and immediately practice the contrary.’ No; from this very moment I shall begin to retrench and put by. Ah, Annie, ‘a word in season,’ how good it is! I was almost ready to despair till now.”

And that was the beginning of our saving. First, coffee was given up; mother always drank tea, and so no one was inconvenienced by that but father; then butter was dispensed with, and the cheapest meat and vegetables in the market were selected, and mother decided that so many things were unnecessary about our clothes, that Katie declared after a while mother would think we could do without buttons on our dresses. But my happy part of the day, during all this anxious time, was the twilight when there was no work for me to do and I could run in and sit by Miss Judith’s bright little fire and talk over things with her. It was on one of these evenings, after Miss Judith’s usual greeting of, “Well, Martha, how has the work come on to-day?” that I said, “Indeed, Miss Judith, I wish I were not such a ‘Martha,’ and that I might ‘choose the better part,’ like Mary. But then, what can I do? Wouldn’t it be wrong for me to throw things on mother when she isn’t strong, and don’t you think our Saviour would think so, too? Then, besides, mother would have to be a ‘Martha,’ for the work must be done. I am sure it is all very puzzling to me, anyway.”

“I do not wonder that you say so, dear,” said Miss Judith, “for older heads than yours have puzzled over the same question, and certain it is that were it not for the ‘Marthas’ in the world the whole system of society would come to a stand-still. But, then, Annie, we are told that Martha was ‘cumbered with serving’; she allowed her work, it would seem, to absorb her faculties to the exclusion of other and more important things; we need not do that, need we? Has not each one of us, even the busiest among us, leisure sufficient to consecrate his work to God in prayer, and ask His blessing upon it, and His help in it? Then, my child,” she continued, “observe the words of our Saviour, ‘Mary has chosen the better part’; that is better than Martha, but perhaps there is a ‘better part,’ still, or the best part, in which labor and worship are united, in which, while ‘not slothful in business,’ we are still ‘fervent in spirit serving the Lord.’ This would seem to me the best part, and surely the best example is that of the blessed Saviour Himself, who ‘came not to be ministered to, but to minister,’ who ‘went about doing good,’ and ‘followed up days of toil with nights of prayer.’ Yes, my dear, the necessity of serving is evidently laid upon you, and you have not the choice of your part in life, but the manner in which you act your part is within your power. Don’t forget, dear child, that you ‘serve the Lord Christ,’ and ‘whatsoever you do, do it heartily as unto Him.’ He has taken a journey into a far country now, but he will come again to inspect your work; be faithful, dear Annie, and watch and pray.”

That little talk with Miss Judith did me real good. My little talks with her always do, and mother says that she is the greatest possible comfort to her, for she shows her how useful one may be, even where one has only sympathy and counsel to bestow; and father says that there is a healing and strengthening power in her words, which is far better than a gift of silver and gold, for it enables you to “rise up and walk” under the burden of life.

The children certainly did bear the privations we underwent well, but Katie said to me privately one night, “I never did want something good to eat as badly in my life. I am real glad Thanksgiving Day is so near.” But when the day before Thanksgiving came, and mother asked if I should get anything different for dinner next day, father shook his head with such a decided “no” that there was nothing more to be said, but it was undoubtedly a change; we had never known what it was not to have turkey and pudding then. I was most grieved, however, at the thought of not having my usual present for Miss Judith. I had always, on that day, carried her in her dinner, and on the waiter a five dollar bill; but as I went up stairs at night, father slipped five dollars into my hand, saying, “This is for Miss Judith, Annie. We must not forget, in our efforts to retrench, the debt we owe our Heavenly Father.”

That was enough to put me in a proper frame for the next day, even if I had not already had sufficient to be thankful for. I had quite made up my mind that mother was to go to church, and let me mind Harry, but there was a great deal of persuading necessary to get her up to the point. However, I succeeded at last, and after they were all gone and I had washed up the breakfast things, Master Harry began to show symptoms of sleepiness, so I tucked him in his little cradle, and began rocking him to and fro, singing all the while one of Miss Judith’s favorite hymns:—

Over and over I sang it, till at last the white lids closed, and I was getting up softly to slip away, when ting-a-ling! went the door-bell, with such a sound through the house that Harry stirred, then opened his blue eyes to their fullest extent, and I was obliged to get him quiet again before answering the bell. When at last I did go down, lo! not a creature was to be seen: only a hamper-basket covered with a white cloth with a paper pinned on top, on which was written: “For Mr. Gray; from a friend.”

It was just as much as I could do to get the basket into the kitchen, and then, oh! the good things that met my eyes. First of all, a turkey ready dressed, then a roll of golden butter, then several jars of sausage-meat and jelly, then a bunch of celery, and last a great iced cake. This completed the contents, but no; as I lifted out the lower cloth there lay a sealed envelope directed, as the basket had been, to father. This I laid aside till his return, but what to do about the other things was puzzling. They are clearly intended for father’s Thanksgiving dinner, I thought, but unless the turkey is put to roast right away it won’t be done in time. Shall I, or shall I not? I said to myself. Then I remembered how feeble dear mother looked when she set out; how she feared the services would be too much for her strength. Yes, I said decidedly, by way of answering my doubts, a warm nourishing dinner will be just what she needs, and so, without more ado, I set to work. The baby (bless his little heart!) was real good, and let me, get well “under way” before he waked up. There was no keeping the secret of the dinner, however, when the front door was once entered, for the savory odor of the roasting turkey told the tale at once, and the whole party hurried into the kitchen to find out what it meant.

“O, father!” I said, when the exclamations over the first part of my recital had sufficiently subsided to admit of my getting in a word, “there was a letter for you in the basket, too.”

“This will give us the name of the donor,” said he, as he opened it. But, no indeed, there was no name inside, only some notes neatly folded. “Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five dollars,” said father, counting them out on the table. “God be praised for all His mercies, and God bless the giver!” said he, fervently, while mother turned away to get Miss Judith’s dinner ready, and hide her tears, for poor mother was actually crying.

“Take this, too, Annie,” said father, putting another five on the one already lying on the waiter, when at last it was ready for me to take in. Of course I had to stop and tell Miss Judith the wonderful news about the basket, and when I got back again mother was putting the last dish on the table; then, going to our places, we stood with bowed heads while father said the grace I had always been accustomed to hear, but which seemed to have gained new meaning and beauty,—

“Supply the wants of others, O Lord, and give us grateful hearts, for Christ’s sake.”

We never knew the secret of that Thanksgiving basket, nor did we ever inquire into it, but we all had a notion that Dr. Armstrong could have thrown light upon the subject if he had chosen to.