And she knew they would get nothing by it, as Mr. and Mrs. Morton had openly said, that, having been at much expense in setting up the school, they could not afford to clothe the children too: they should be quite satisfied to see them come decent and clean. Jane and Harriet were quite wild to go, because their schoolfellows went, and because they liked the idea of something new, and were tired of playing about the common. And Harriet, who was a good little child, repeated that we ought to go to God's house to pray to Him, for so her lessons taught her. Olive begged hard for them, and worked hard, and at last they were turned out very tidy and very happy. Ten souls from Brokenford, instead of one, were now regular church-goers. Three children from next door went with Jane and Harriet. And their father went too, because he knew not what answer to make when his children asked him why it was right for them and not for him. He was now coming up the path, and after him came two young girls, daughters of another Morrison, whom Olive too had brought there, though she hardly knew it herself. She would not have presumed to advise any one out of her own family; but these girls were struck by her going so regularly in all weathers, and without minding her lameness. They were struck too with her patience and cheerfulness, and the quietness with which she bore all kinds of teasing and crossness. While sitting together at the bark-scraping, they would sometimes talk to her, and notice how particular she was about church. And she would answer in her quiet way, that of course she always went when she could, and it was her greatest comfort. And being asked if she did not mind going among gentlefolks in such poor clothes, she said, that when once there, she did not think about her clothes,-that she should be glad to shew respect to Sunday by wearing better if she had them, but was obliged to be content without. The few words she said, at different times, in answer to their questions, shewed them how different she was from themselves-how peaceful, and serious, and contented. These girls were very unhappy; they were as rude and ignorant as their neighbours, and had a hard time of it from their childhood. Their father was idle and drunken, and their mother managed ill: so it often happened that they had scarcely bread to eat; and they grew up in want, and rags, and grumbling. They had gone to service, but could never keep a place, because they were so untidy and awkward, and knew nothing of servants' duties. So they resolved to try whether what was a comfort to Olive might not be one to them; though they did not well understand the services of the Church, or the blessing of public worship. The place, and the words they heard, awed them; and, sitting near Olive, they observed her reverent manner, and did not dare to stare about them and talk, as they might have been apt to do. And coming to church with some sincere wishes to be the better for it, they could not but gain a little, if it were but the feeling that prayer is a solemn thing. It was not only as to church-going that Olive's example was of use to them. At other times her being by was a check to their bold manners and rude or wrong words. Not that she ever reproved them, but she used to look shocked, and turn away, and she seemed determined always, whatever sin came in her way, to stand aloof from it. So they were ashamed to do or say what she thought improper; and, almost without knowing it themselves, they had been led by her, though she was younger than they, and they had no reason to mind her, except for her goodness. I believe that afterwards Mrs. Morton got them places at a distance, where they learned their duties, and were more out of the way of temptation. But to go on with Olive. She was a little disappointed that her grandfather did not say any thing about the service, or seem struck, as she had hoped. Perhaps his age made him dull in feeling. And though he continued to go to church on fine Sundays, and made no objection to her reading the Bible to him, she could not tell what was passing in his mind. Still she was thankful for what was gained, and more happy and cheerful than she had been. Old Isaac was taken very ill soon after this. He suffered much pain, and his head was quite confused. Molly, and the neighbours who came in, all settled that he was taken for death, and that it was no use to try any thing for him, " for sure enough he'd never get over it-he'd never go outside the door again," and so on. Olive hinted that the doctor might do something to relieve his pain, and at last got leave to go for him. It was a wild evening. The sun was nearly set, and the wind and rain were violent. Molly, who minded nothing, would, at another time, have gone instead of her; but having once said that the doctor would be of no use, she would not give up her opinion, or trouble herself about it. Thomas, her husband, offered to go; but he was just come in from his work, and Olive would not hear of that. However, when she got outside the door, the wind was so strong, that she did not know how to face it, and thought she would ask Stephen to go, who would be much quicker. She called at the house where he lodged; he was not there. "I daresay you'll find him at the beer-house," said Mrs. Philipson rather slyly for she well knew that Olive would not seek him there; but seeing the poor girl turn away with tears in her eyes, she felt for her, and asked her errand. Then she lent her an umbrella-I believe the only one in Brokenford, which she had because she went to market in her donkey-cart. Olive was very thankful for it, though she had a hard matter to carry it. She had a weary walk of it, fighting with the wind. The brook had risen to the top of the bank, and was out in some places, so that she had to scramble among the wood and the rough bits to get by. She felt very sad at the thought of losing her grandfather; and Stephen seemed to fail her at her need. The doctor was just come in from a long wet ride, and had hoped his day's work was over; but he was a goodhearted man, and set out directly, though he knew that he would gain nothing by his patient, as he would only attend old Isaac on the account of the ¦ parish. He said he thought it very unlikely the old man should recover, but he might be made more comfortable, and left some medicine to quiet the pain. Olive did not get home till just as the doctor was leaving the cottage. Her aunt, seeing how wet she was, sent her to bed, and sat up with the sick man. At daybreak Olive took her turn by the bedside. He had sunk into a quiet sleep, and ceased to moan. When she came down to get some breakfast, she said, "Grandfather is quite sensible, and wishes to see Mr. Morton." There was some wonder and grumbling at this. The lads did not like to have "the parson come praying there," as they said; "sure Olive had persuaded him to it." She answered, "He is uneasy in his mind, and afraid of dying. I asked him if it would be a comfort to him to see the minister, and he said-very great. He told me to go for him, and I shall go directly." She said this so firmly, that the others were not inclined to dispute it any more; but Molly said, "Where was the use of going now? it was raining worse than ever, and she could not think of asking the parson to come out in such weather." Olive said she should not feel easy till she had been; and was putting on her cloak, when the door opened, and Mr. Morton came in, saying he had just heard from the doctor of Isaac's illness, and called to see him. A sort of bed had been made up for Olive in the old man's room, which joined the kitchen, and lay at the back of the mud cottage. So she was not obliged to leave him at all; and though the others were not unkind, and offered to help her, she felt best able to get on alone. Old Isaac too said he liked to be quiet, and wished for no one but her. Real quiet there could not be in that house; but the door, and a curtain that Olive contrived against it, shut out most of the noises of the kitchen, and the sick man being rather deaf, this was enough. This night Ŏlive dared not lie down, but watched his disturbed slumbers. By degrees he grew more quiet; and having heard her uncle and aunt go up stairs, she hoped for a time of peaceful watching, that she might collect her thoughts, and pray-for she felt quite cast down and helpless. Presently she heard some one whistling in the next room, and supposed that one of the lads was sitting up for his brother or his friends, and that they were going, as usual, to carouse, after being out on some lark, as they called it. She waited long, and was trying to repeat some psalms, when she heard loud voices at the cottage-door. Some three or four came in. She heard nearly all their words,—and painful it was to be obliged to hear. She thought too that their business had been worse than usual, and understood something about taking a sheep. Determined to hear no more, if she could help it, she wrapped her head in her shawl, and leant against an opposite wall, when the sound of Stephen's voice struck her, and made her turn sick. He seemed to have had a chief hand in the adventure, and the rest were praising him. He answered at first sulkily, and as if ashamed; but, by degrees, as they went on drinking (probably smuggled spirits), his voice got more loud and merry. Olive could not bear to listen, and yet she dared not turn away. [To be continued.] THOU shalt have joy in sadness soon, Which brightens, like the eastern moon, |