LITMIR.BIZ

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seemed scarcely to hear these words of love. That is strange enough, I hear you say. So it is, perhaps, and it may be stranger still, that she read not the language of love and sympathy that was written so plainly in her cousin's countenance. It is true, though, for all that. She did not say much of any thing to this inquiry—she simply muttered, between her teeth,

      "I don't believe any body loves me."

      Jeannette was no philosopher. She could not read essays nor preach sermons. Her argument to convince her cousin that there was, at least, one who loved her, was drawn from the heart, rather than from the head. It was very brief, and very much to the point. She burst into tears, and sobbed,

      "Don't say so, dear."

      Jeannette could not stay long. Her mother had sent her on an errand, and told her she must make haste back. Perhaps it was as well that she could not stay—and perhaps not. Human nature is a strange sort of compound, as I said before; and it may be that the ice which had covered over the streams leading from Angeline's heart would not have melted under the influence even of the warm sun that, for a moment or two, beamed upon them so kindly. For one, however, I should like to know what would have come out of that conversation, if it had been allowed to go on. Jeannette went home, and Angeline was again left to her own reflections, which were any thing but pleasant. It was Saturday afternoon; and, there being no school, she had hoped to be able to ramble in the woods with some of her little companions. But here she was disappointed, too, and this increased her peevishness; though the reason why she could not go was, because she did not learn her lesson in season, and that was her own fault. Toward night, when Mrs Standish had leisure to sit down to her sewing, she called Angeline, and reminded her of the ill-natured spirit she had shown in the early part of the afternoon. The child was rather ashamed of what she had said, it is true; but she tried to excuse her conduct.

      "Every thing went wrong to-day, mother," she said; "I couldn't help feeling so. Oh, dear! I don't see how any body can be good, when things go in this way—I mean any body but Jeannette. I wish I was like her. It is easy for her to be good."

      "Your cousin has, no doubt, a very different disposition from yours," said the mother. "But it is much easier for you to be always good-natured and happy than you suppose, Angeline."

      "I wish I knew how, mother."

      "Well, you say things went wrong with you this afternoon. I think I know what some of these things were. They were not so pleasant as they might have been, certainly. They were troublesome. But don't you think the greatest trouble of all was in your own heart?"

      "No, ma'am. I was well enough until the things began to go wrong; and then I felt bad, and I couldn't help it."

      Mrs Standish laughed, as she said, "So, then, as soon as the things begin to go wrong, you take the liberty to go wrong too. Every thing works well inside, until it is disturbed by something outside?"

      "That is it, mother."

      "And when the things inside go smoothly, because every thing is smooth outside, you have a very good and happy disposition?"

      "Pretty good, I think."

      "And so, when there is a hurricane inside, because the wind blows rather more than usual outside, you are cross, and unhappy, and bad enough to make up for being so good before?"

      "Yes, ma'am, I am afraid I am, sometimes."

      "No, my child, you are wrong, all wrong. If all was right inside, the other things you speak of would not disturb you so, if they should happen to go wrong."

      "Why, mother, wouldn't they disturb me at all?"

      "They might, occasionally, but not near as much. Do you remember that our clock went wrong last winter?"

      "Yes, ma'am; we couldn't tell what time it was, and it used to strike all sorts of ways."

      "What do you suppose made the clock act so, Angeline? It goes well enough now, you know."

      "I believe Mr Mercer said one of the wheels was out of order."

      "That was all. It was not the weather—not because we forgot to wind it up—not because things did not go right in the room. Now, your mind is something like a clock. If it is kept in order, it will run pretty well, I guess—no matter whether it rains or shines—whether it is winter or summer. Milton says, very beautifully, in his poem called the 'Paradise Lost,'

      "'The mind is its own place, and of itself

      Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.'

      "He means by this, that our happiness or unhappiness depends more upon what is within us than it does upon what is without. And he is right. Do you understand, my child?"

      "I understand what you mean, but it is not so easy to see how I am to go to work and be good all the time, like cousin Jeannette. I'm not like her, mother, and I never can be like her, I know."

      "True, you will always be very unlike your cousin. But I don't know of any thing to hinder your being as good and amiable as she is, for all that."

      "Oh, mother! I'd give every thing in the world, if I only knew how!"

      "I think you can learn, my child, with much less expense; though, to be sure, you will have to give up some things that perhaps you will find it hard to part with. You will be obliged to give up some of your bad habits."

      "That would be easy enough."

      "Not so easy as you think, it may be. It is a good deal easier to let a bad habit come in, than it is to turn one out. But 'where there's a will, there's a way,' you know."

      "Well, mother, what shall I do? I should like to begin pretty soon, for scarcely any body loves me now,"

      "Before you learn much, it might be well to unlearn a little. When any thing goes wrong, as you say, you must, at least, not make it go worse. You must not make every body around you unhappy, if you do feel a little cross and peevish."

      "Oh, mother, I can't speak pleasantly when I don't feel so."

      "Then, in most cases, you had better not speak at all."

      "I never thought of that. I can stop talking, if I try."

      "So you can, and you can do more. You can get into the habit of finding 'the south or sunny side of things,' as Jean Paul says, and if you do, you will not be likely to have a snow-storm in your heart very often. Besides, you ought to remember, that all these disappointments and crosses are a part of your education for heaven, and you should endeavor to improve them as such, so that their good effect will not be lost. And another thing, my child: you ought to ask God to assist you in this self-government—to make you his child—to give you a new heart—to teach you to love Christ, and to be like him. Then you will seldom feel cross and fretful, because things go wrong. You will be cheerful and good-natured. You will make others happy—and you will very soon forget the old story, that nobody loves you."

      Now, many little boys and girls—possibly some who read this story—would have thought this task too hard. They would have regarded it as a pretty severe penance. Perhaps they would have concluded, after having put all these difficult things into one scale, and the thing to be gained by them into the other, that the reward was not worth so great a sacrifice. So thought not Angeline, however. She began the work in earnest, that very day. She went over to her uncle's, with an unusual amount of sunshine in her countenance, and made it all right with Jeannette. In the evening, she told her little brother James what she intended to do, and invited him to help her; and before they retired to rest that night, they knelt down together and offered up a prayer, that God, for Christ's sake, would help them in governing themselves.

      One day—perhaps some six weeks after this—Mrs Standish said, smilingly, to her daughter,

      "Well, my dear, does Lucy Wallace love you any better?"

      "Oh, mother," said Angeline, as a tear of joy stood in her eye, "every body loves me now!"

      A NOBLE ACT.

      A NOBLE ACT

      "What

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