LITMIR.BIZ

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      "''Aint begun yet,' replied Davy. 'Shall shave some day, but I 'aint got too much yet.'

      "As he said this, he fondled away at his whiskers. They were few in number, but evidently of great value in his eyes. Then he began to stroke his chin, on which there was a little down visible—more like mould in its association with his curious face than anything of more healthy significance. After a few moments' pause, his tormentor began again:

      "'Well, I can't think where ye got them whiskers as ye're so fond of. Do ye know where ye got them?'

      "Davy took out his pocket-handkerchief, spread it out before him, and stopped grinning.

      "'Yaas; to be sure I do,' he said at last.

      "'Ye do?' growled the man, half humorously, half scornfully.

      "'Yaas,' said Davy, nodding his head again and again.

      "'Did ye buy 'em?'

      "'Noa,' answered Davy; and the sweetness of the smile which he now smiled was not confined to his mouth, but broke like light, the light of intelligence, over his whole face.

      "'Were they gave to ye?' pursued the man, now really curious to hear what he would say.

      "'Yaas,' said the poor fellow; and he clapped his hands in a kind of suppressed glee.

      "'Why, who gave 'em to ye?'

      "Davy looked up in a way I shall never forget, and, pointing up with his finger too, said nothing.

      "'What do ye mean?' said the man. 'Who gave ye yer whiskers?'

      "Davy pointed up to the sky again; and then, looking up with an earnest expression, which, before you saw it, you would not have thought possible to his face, said,

      "'Blessed Father.'

      "'Who?' shouted the man.

      "'Blessed Father,' Davy repeated, once more pointing upwards.

      "'Blessed Father!' returned the man, in a contemptuous tone; 'Blessed Father!—I don't know who that is. Where does he live? I never heerd on him.'

      "Davy looked at him as if he were sorry for him. Then going closer up to him, he said:

      "'Didn't you though? He lives up there'—again pointing to the sky. 'And he is so kind! He gives me lots o' things.'

      "'Well!' said the man, 'I wish he'd give me thing's. But you don't look so very rich nayther.'

      "'Oh! but he gives me lots o' things; and he's up there, and he gives everybody lots o' things as likes to have 'em.'

      "'Well, what's he gave you?'

      "'Why, he's gave me some bread this mornin', and a tart last night—he did.'

      "And the boy nodded his head, as was his custom, to make his assertion still stronger.

      "'But you was sayin' just now, you hadn't got a kite. Why don't he give you one?'

      "'He'll give me one fast 'nuff,' said Davy, grinning again, and rubbing his hands.

      "Miss Cathcart, I assure you I could have kissed the boy. And I hope I felt some gratitude to God for giving the poor lad such trust in Him, which, it seemed to me, was better than trusting in the three-per-cents, colonel; for you can draw upon him to no end o' good things. So Davy thought anyhow; and he had got the very thing for the want of which my life was cold and sad, and discontented. Those words, Blessed Father, and that look that turned his vacant face, like Stephen's, into the face of an angel, because he was looking up to the same glory, were in my ears and eyes for days. And they taught me, and comforted me. He was the minister of God's best gifts to me. And to how many more, who can tell? For Davy believed that God did care for his own children.

      "Davy sauntered away, and before my friend came back with the children, I had lost sight of him; but at my request we moved on slowly till we should find him again. Nor had we gone far, before I saw him sitting in the middle of a group of little children. He was showing them the pictures on his pocket-handkerchief. I had one sixpence in my purse—it was the last I had, Mr. Smith."

      Here, from some impulse or other, Mrs. Bloomfield addressed me.

      "But I wasn't so poor but I could borrow, and it was a small price to give for what I had got; and so, as I was not able to leave the carriage, I asked my friend to take it to him, and tell him that Blessed Father had sent him that to buy a kite. The expression of childish glee upon his face, and the devout God bless you, Lady, upon his tongue, were strangely but not incongruously mingled.

      "Well, it was my last sixpence then, but here I and my husband are, owing no man anything, and spending a happy Christmas Day, with many thanks to Colonel and Miss Cathcart."

      "No, my good Madam," said the colonel; "it is we who owe you the happiest part of our Christmas Day. Is it not, Adela?"

      "Yes, papa, it is indeed," answered Adela.

      Then, with some hesitation, she added,

      "But do you think it was quite fair? It was you, Mrs. Bloomfield, who gave the boy the sixpence."

      "I only said God sent it," said Mrs. Bloomfield.

      "Besides," I interposed, "the boy never doubted it; and I think, after all, with due submission to my niece, he was the best judge."

      "I should be only too happy to grant it," she answered, with a sigh. "Things might be all right if one could believe that—thoroughly, I mean."

      "At least you will allow," I said, "that this boy was not by any means so miserable as he looked."

      "Certainly," she answered, with hearty emphasis. "I think he was much to be envied."

      Here I discovered that Percy was asleep on a sofa.

      Other talk followed, and the colonel was looking very thoughtful. Tea was brought in, and soon after, our visitors rose to take their leave.

      "You are not going already?" said the colonel.

      "If you will excuse us," answered the schoolmaster. "We are early birds."

      "Well, will you dine with us this day week?"

      "With much pleasure," answered both in a breath.

      It was clear both that the colonel liked their simple honest company, and that he saw they might do his daughter good; for her face looked very earnest and sweet; and the clearness that precedes rain was evident in the atmosphere of her eyes.

      After their departure we soon separated; and I retired to my room full of a new idea, which I thought, if well carried out, might be of still further benefit to the invalid.

      But before I went to bed, I had made a rough translation of the following hymn of Luther's, which I have since completed—so far at least as the following is complete. I often find that it helps to keep good thoughts before the mind, to turn them into another shape of words.

      From heaven above I come to you,

       To bring a story good and new:

       Of goodly news so much I bring—

       I cannot help it, I must sing.

      To you a child is come this morn,

       A child of holy maiden born;

       A little babe, so sweet and mild—

       It is a joy to see the child!

      'Tis little Jesus, whom we need

       Us out of sadness all to lead:

       He will himself our Saviour be,

       And from all sinning set us free.

      Here come the shepherds, whom we know;

       Let all of us right gladsome go,

       To see what God to us hath given—

       A gift that makes a stable heaven.

      Take heed, my heart. Be lowly.

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