a large closet in the entry filled with wood. The keys to this closet and the room were both put into Jack's hands, and he was given charge of the apartment. This post of trust did him a great deal of good, his self-respect was aroused, and he determined to deserve so much confidence; there was always now a clean bright room ready for the classes, a sparkling fire in winter, a bunch of fresh wild flowers, and a pail of cool water, in summer. Jack had grown to be neat, handy, helpful, and affectionate under Happy's persistent teaching, and Nan also had much improved; the rest progressed more slowly, with the exception of Pauline Lagré. Her quick French nature made her swift to see and adopt whatever she liked she too had learned to be neat and clean personally; but an inborn love of finery ruled her little bosom, and her attempts at dress were pitifully ludicrous at times. Mary's class was selected out of the girls, Julia took charge of the boys, while Happy kept the larger share of the older boys and girls both, and the school went on and prospered. Their own training in Sunday-school proved of much advantage to both Mary and Julia; they could follow Happy's simple, direct method of teaching with ease, and it became a habit with them to look over the afternoon lesson in their own class in the morning, and talk about all the points that were likely to come up with the children. This at last interested

Helen Sands; she begged to have "ever so little a class," too; and having given her charge of four children just learning to read, Happy was surprised to see with what tact and skill she managed the restless youngsters, and how patiently and pleasantly she taught them. She did not know that Helen was really at heart more attached to her than to any one out of her own family; what her father said was law and gospel to Nellie, and she added to her love for her teacher a respect that was borrowed from Dr. Sands' estimate of Happy. She never had forgotten what he said to her on that day when she hesitated about going to the class again because Happy was a servant: "I only hope you may live to be half as good as she is." This fired Helen's ambition: under all her levity and folly she had a good deal of affection and some sense, and all that was good in her, her teacher had gradually drawn out, as heat colors those sympathetic inks that were before invisible, and fills a blank space with valuable inscriptions. Her father noticed the change at home; he saw that his little girl was becoming more thoughtful, more loving, more unselfish, by slow degrees; and in his heart he thanked Happy; but never with his lips! Why do we not oftener say pleasant things to each other? We do not hesitate to find fault, to fret, to scold even, to let the law of unkindness rule our lips but how often we shut them on the tender

word, the well-earned praise, the hearty commendation, the real gratitude we feel! It is not so with Him who should be our example. "Well done, good and faithful servant!" is his language; and this reward is set before us in his word. "If there be any virtue, if there be any praise, think on these things." "Whatsoever is lovely, and of good report."

I remember well the saying of a little child whose unconscious wisdom taught me much while I was with her. Her father found fault with her once, as was his custom, for he was one of those who are more apt to criticise than to commend.

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"Papa!" said the little thing, looking up at him with soulful eyes. "Why does you always find fault wiz me, and nebber, nebber says I am a dood dirl, even when I is dood?”

It was a hard question to answer, and it betrayed a hard experience for a child. Why do we not all sweeten the lives of those about us with kindly words, since by words we shall be justified or condemned?

But Happy had learned this lesson out of her own need; her unselfish spirit ministered to others that for which she had pined herself, and Helen fed like an air-plant on her earnest commendation and her approving smiles. The winter Happy had so dreaded passed peacefully and pleasantly, to her

surprise and gratitude; her darkness was lightened by the light of heaven, and she said in her heart, looking back, the words of her favorite hymn:

"Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,

The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break

In blessings on your head."

CHAPTER XXII.

As the winter went on, Mrs. Holden seemed not quite as well. She was less exacting, but more helpless, and Happy was never so necessary to her as now; she would gladly have taken her from her Sunday work, but for the fear that she would leave her. Her dependence roused all Happy's generous and kindly feeling; she turned from her own trouble to help another's need, and so helped herself. It is to the selfish soul grief becomes a hopeless burden, not to those who aid and sympathize with their fellow-sufferers and so forget themselves. Toward spring the feebleness rather increased, for the weather was unusually damp and cold, and though the leaves came in their season they seemed to appear reluctantly and sparsely, and the few flowers shivered in the bitter east winds that prevailed. Mrs. Holden suffered from rheumatism now, the result of debility and the damper weather, and the doctor ordered her removal to a room up-stairs that might be drier. Happy's lameness made it hard for