Stories told to a child/Chapter 13

by Jean Ingelow

THE GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY.

 

NOT many things have happened to me in the course of my life which can be called events. One great event, as I then thought it, happened when I was eight years old. On that birthday I first possessed a piece of gold.

How well I remember the occasion! I had a holiday, and was reading aloud to my mother. The book was the 'Life of Howard, the philanthropist.' I was interested in it, though the style was considerably above my comprehension; at last I came to the following sentence, which I could make nothing of: 'He could not let slip such a golden opportunity for doing good.'

'What is a golden opportunity? ' I inquired.

'It means a very good opportunity.'

'But, mamma, why do they call it golden?'

My mamma smiled, and said it was a figurative expression: 'Gold is very valuable and very uncommon; this opportunity was a very valuable and uncommon one; we can express that in one word, by calling it a golden opportunity.'

I pondered upon the information for some time, and then made a reply to the effect, that all the golden opportunities seemed to happen to very rich people, or people who lived a long time ago, or else to great men, whose lives we can read in books—very great men, such as Wilberforce and Howard; but they never happened to real people, whom we could see every day, nor to children.'

'To children like you, Orris?' said my mother; 'why, what kind of a golden opportunity are you wishing for just now?'

My reply was childish enough.

'If I were a great man I should like to sail after the slave ships, fight them, and take back the poor slaves to their own country. Or I should like to do something like what Quintus Curtius did. Not exactly like that; because you know, mamma, if I were to jump into a gulf, that would not really make it close.'

'No,' said my mother, 'it would not.'

'And besides,' I reasoned, 'if it had closed, I should never have known of the good I had done, because I should have been killed.'

'Certainly,' said my mother; I saw her smile, and thinking it was at the folly of my last wish, hastened to bring forward a wiser one.

'I think I should like to be a great lady, and then if there had been a bad harvest, and all the poor people on my lord's land were nearly starving, I should like to come down to them with a purse full of money, and divide it among them. But you see, mamma, I have no golden opportunities.'

'My dear, we all have some opportunities for doing good, and they are golden, or not, according to the use we make of them.'

'But, mamma, we cannot get people released out of prison, as Howard did.'

'No; but sometimes, by instructing them in their duty, by providing them with work, so that they shall earn bread enough, and not be tempted, and driven by hunger to steal, we can prevent some people from being ever put in prison.'

My mother continued to explain that those who really desired to do good never wanted opportunities, and that the difference between Howard and other people was more in perseverance and earnestness than in circumstances. But I do not profess to remember much of what she said; I only know that, very shortly, she took me into my grandfather's study, and sitting down, began busily to mend a heap of pens which lay beside him on the table.

He was correcting proof-sheets, and, knowing that I must not talk, I stood awhile very quietly watching him.

Presently I saw him mark out a letter in the page, make a long stroke in the margin, and write a letter d beside it.

Curiosity was too much for my prudence; I could not help saying—

'Grandpapa, what did you write that letter d for?'

'There was a letter too much in the word, child,' he replied; 'I spell "potatoes" with only one p, and want the printer to put out the second.'

'Then d stands for don't, I suppose, was my next observation; 'it means don't put it in.'

'Yes, child, yes; something like that.'

If it had not been my birthday I should not have had courage to interrupt him again. 'But, grandpapa, "do" begins with d, so how is the printer to know whether you mean "do," or "don't?"

My grandfather said 'Pshaw!' turned short round upon my mother, and asked her if she had heard what I said?

My mother admitted that it was a childish observation. 'Childish!' repeated my grandfather, 'childish! she'll never be anything but a child—never; she has no reasoning faculties at all.' When my grandfather was displeased with me, he never scolded me for the fault of the moment, but inveighed against me in the piece, as a draper would say.

'Did you ever talk nonsense at her age—ever play with a penny doll, and sing to a kitten? I should think not.'

'I was of a different disposition,' said my mother, gently.

'Ay,' said the old man, 'that you were. Why, I wouldn't trust this child, as I trusted you, for the world; you were quite a little woman, could pay bills, or take charge of keys; but this child has no discretion—no head-piece. She says things that are wide of the mark. She's—well, my dear, I didn't mean to vex you—she's a nice child enough, but, bless me, she never thinks, and never reasons about any thing.'

He was mistaken. I was thinking and reasoning at that moment. I was thinking how delightful it would be if I might have the cellar keys, and all the other keys hanging to my side, so that every one might see that I was trusted with them; and I was reasoning, that perhaps my mother had behaved like a little woman, because she was treated like one.

'My dear, I did not mean that she was worse than many other children,' repeated my grandfather; 'come here, child, and I'll kiss you.'

My mother pleaded, by way of apology for me,—'She has a very good memory.'

'Memory! ay, there's another disadvantage. She remembers everything; she's a mere parrot. Why, when you, at her age, wanted a punishment, if I set you twenty lines of poetry, they'd keep you quiet for an hour. Set this child eighty—knows 'em directly, and there's time wasted in hearing her say 'em into the bargain.'

'I hope she will become more thoughtful as she grows older,' said my mother, gently.

'I hope she will; there's room for improvement. Come and sit on my knee, child. So this is your birthday. Well, I suppose I must give you some present or other. Leave the child with me, my dear, I'll take care of her. But I won't detain you, for the proofs are all ready. Open the door for your mother, Orris. Ah! you'll never be anything like her—never.'

I did as he desired, and then my grandfather, looking at me with comical gravity, took out a leathern purse, and dived with his fingers among the contents. 'When I was a little boy, as old as you are, nobody gave me any money.'

Encouraged by his returning good humor, I drew closer and peeped into the purse. There were as many as six or eight sovereigns in it. I thought what a rich man my grandfather was, and when he took out a small coin and laid it on my palm, I could scarcely believe it was for me.

'Do you know what that is, child?'

'A half-sovereign, grandpapa.'

'Well, do you think you could spend it?'

'O, yes, grandpapa.'

'"O, yes!" and she opens her eyes! Ah, child, child! that money was worth ten shillings when it was in my purse, and I wouldn't give sixpence for anything it will buy, now it has once touched your little fingers.'

'Did you give it me to spend exactly as I like, grandpapa?'

'To be sure, child—there, take it—it's worth nothing to you, my dear.'

'Nothing to me! The half-sovereign worth nothing to me! why, grandpapa?'

'Nothing worth mentioning; you have no real wants; you have clothes, food, and shelter, without this half-sovereign.'

'O, yes; but, grandpapa, I think it must be worth ten times as much to me as to you; I have only this one, and you have quantities; I shouldn't wonder if you have thirty or forty half-sovereigns, and a great many shillings and half-crowns besides, to spend every year.'

'I shouldn't wonder!'

'And I have only one. I can't think, grandpapa, what you do with all your money; if I had it I would buy so many delightful things with it.'

'No doubt! kaleidoscopes, and magic lanterns, and all sorts of trash. But, unfortunately, you have not got it; you have only one half-sovereign to throw away.'

'But perhaps I shall not throw it away; perhaps I shall try and do some good with it.'

'Do some good with it! Bless you, my dear, if you do but try to do some good with it, I shall not call it thrown away.'

I then related what I had been reading, and had nearly concluded when the housemaid came in. She laid a crumpled piece of paper by his desk, and with it a shilling and a penny, saying, 'There's the change, sir, out of your shoemaker's bill.'

My grandfather took it up, looked at it, and remarked that the shilling was a new one. Then with a generosity which I really am at a loss to account for, he actually, and on the spot, gave me both the shilling and the penny.

There they lay in the palm of my hand, gold, silver, and copper. He then gave me another kiss, and abruptly dismissed me, saying that he had more writing to do; and I walked along the little passage with an exultation of heart that a queen might have envied, to show this unheard-of wealth to my mother.

I remember laying the three coins upon a little table, and dancing round it, singing, 'There's a golden opportunity! and there's a silver opportunity! and there's a copper opportunity!' and having continued this exercise till I was quite tired, I spent the rest of the morning in making three little silk bags, one for each of them, previously rubbing the penny with sandpaper, to make it bright and clean.

Visions and dreams floated through my brain as to the good I was to do with this property. They were vainglorious but not selfish; but they were none of them fulfilled, and need not be recorded. The next day, just as my lessons were finished, papa came in with his hat and stick in his hand; he was going to walk to the town, and offered to take me with him.

It was always a treat to walk out with my father, especially when he went to the town. I liked to look in at the shop windows, and admire their various contents.

To the town therefore we went. My father was going to the Mechanics' Institute, and could not take me in with him, but there was a certain basket-maker, with whose wife I was often left on these occasions. To this good woman he brought me, and went away, promising not to be long.

And now, dear reader, whoever you may be, I beseech you judge not too harshly of me; remember I was but a child, and it is certain that if you are not a child yourself, there was a time when you were one. Next door to the basket-maker's there was a toy-shop, and in its window I espied several new and very handsome toys.

'Mr. Miller's window looks uncommon gay,' said the old basket-maker, observing the direction of my eyes.

'Uncommon,' repeated his wife; 'those new gimcracks from London is handsome sure-ly.'

'Wife,' said the old man, 'there's no harm in missy's just taking a look at 'em—eh?'

'Not a bit in the world,' bless her,' said the old woman; 'I know she'll go no further, and come back here when she's looked 'em over.'

'O, yes, indeed I will. Mrs. Stebbs, may I go?'

The old woman nodded assent, and I was soon before the window.

Splendid visions! O, the enviable position of Mr. Miller! How wonderful that he was not always playing with his toys, showing himself his magic lanterns, setting out his puzzles, and winding up his musical boxes! Still more wonderful, that he could bear to part with them for mere money!

I was lost in admiration when Mr. Miller's voice made me start. 'Wouldn't you like to step inside, miss?'

He said this so affably that I felt myself quite welcome, and was beguiled into entering. In an instant he was behind the counter. 'What is the little article I can have the pleasure, miss'—

'O!' I replied, blushing deeply, 'I do not want to buy anything this morning, Mr. Miller.'

'Indeed, miss, that's rather a pity. I'm sorry, miss, I confess, on your account. I should like to have served you, while I have goods about me that I'm proud of. In a week or two,' and he looked pompously about him, 'I should say in less time than that, they'll all be cleared out.'

'What! will they all be gone—all sold?' I exclaimed in dismay.

'Just so, miss; such is the appreciation of the public;' and he carelessly took up a little cedar stick and played 'The Blue Bells of Scotland' on the glass keys of a plaything piano.

'This,' he observed, coolly throwing down the stick and taking up an accordion, 'this delightful little instrument is half-a-guinea—equal to the finest notes of the hautboy.' He drew it out, and in his skilful hands it 'discoursed' music, which I thought the most excellent I had ever heard.

But what is the use of minutely describing my temptation? In ten minutes the accordion was folded up in silver paper, and I had parted with my cherished half-sovereign.

As we walked home, I enlarged on the delight I should have in playing on my accordion. 'It is so easy, papa; you have only to draw it in and out; I can even play it at dinner-time, if you like, between the meat and the puddings. You know the queen has a band, papa, to play while she dines, and so can you.'

My father abruptly declined this liberal offer; so did my grandfather, when I repeated it to him, but I was relieved to find that he was not in the least surprised at the way in which I had spent his present. This, however, did not prevent my feeling sundry twinges of regret when I remembered all my good intentions. But, alas! my accordion soon cost me tears of bitter disappointment. Whether from its fault, or my own, I could not tell, but draw it out, and twist it about as I might, it would not play 'The Blue Bells of Scotland,' or any other of my favorite tunes. It was just like the piano, every tune must be learned; there was no music inside which only wanted winding out of it, as you wind the tunes out of barrel organs.

My mother, coming in some time during that melancholy afternoon, found me sitting at the foot of my little bed holding my accordion, and shedding over it some of the most bitter tears that shame and repentance had yet wrung from me.

She looked astonished, and asked, 'What is the matter, my child?'

'O, mamma,' I replied, as well as my sobs would let me, 'I have bought this thing which won't play, and I have given Mr. Miller my golden opportunity.'

'What, have you spent your half-sovereign? I thought you were going to put poor little Patty Morgan to school with it, and give her a new frock and tippet.'

My tears fell afresh at this, and I thought how pretty little Patty would have looked in the new frock, and that I should have put it on for her myself. My mother sat down by me, took away the toy, and dried my eyes. 'Now you see, my child,' she observed, 'one great difference between those who are earnestly desirous to do good, and those who only wish it lightly. You had what you were wishing for—a good opportunity; for a child like you, an unusual opportunity for doing good. You had the means of putting a poor little orphan to school for one whole year—think of that, Orris! In one whole year she might have learned a great deal about the God who made her, and who gave His Son to die for her, and His Spirit to make her holy. One whole year would have gone a great way towards teaching her to read the Bible; in one year she might have learned a great many hymns, and a great many useful things, which would have been of service to her when she was old enough to get her own living. And for what have you thrown all this good from you and from her?'

'I am very, very sorry. I did not mean to buy the accordion: I forgot, when I heard Mr. Miller playing upon it, that I had better not listen; and I never remembered what I had done till it was mine, and folded up in paper.'

'You forgot till it was too late?'

'Yes, mamma; but, O, I am so sorry. I am sure I shall never do so any more.'

'Do not say so, my child; I fear it will happen again, many, many times.'

'Many times? O mamma! I will never go into Mr. Miller's shop again.'

'My dear child, do you think there is nothing in the world that can tempt you but Mr. Miller's shop? '

'Even if I go there,' I sobbed, in the bitterness of my sorrow, 'it will not matter now, for I have now no half-sovereign left to spend; but if I had another, and he were to show me the most beautiful toys in the world, I would not buy them after this—not if they would play of themselves.'

'My dear, that may be true; you, perhaps, would not be tempted again when you were on your guard; but you know, Orris, you do not wish for another toy of that kind. Are there no temptations against which you are not on your guard?'

I thought my mother spoke in a tone of sorrow. I knew she lamented my volatile disposition; and crying afresh, I said to her, 'O, mamma, do you think that all my life I shall never do any good at all?'

'If you try in your own strength, I scarcely think you will. Certainly you will do no good which will be acceptable to God.'

'Did I try in my own strength to-day?'

'What do you think, Orris? I leave it to you to decide.'

'I am afraid I did.'

'I am afraid so too; but you must not cry and sob in this way. Let this morning's experience show you how open you are to temptation. To let it make you think you shall never yield to such temptation again is the worst thing you can do; you need help from above; seek it, my dear child, otherwise all your good resolutions will come to nothing.'

'And if I do seek it, mamma?'

'Then, weak as you are, you will certainly be able to accomplish something. It is impossible for me to take away your volatile disposition, and make you thoughtful and steady; but "with God all things are possible."'

'It is a great pity that at the very moment when I want to think about right things, and good things, all sorts of nonsense comes into my head. Grandpapa says I am just like a whirligig; and, besides, that I can never help laughing when I ought not, and I am always having lessons set me for running about and making such a noise when baby is asleep.'

'My dear child, you must not be discontented, these are certainly disadvantages; they will give you a great deal of trouble, and myself, too; but you have one advantage that all children are not blessed with.'

'What is that, mamma?'

'There are times when you sincerely wish to do good.'

'Yes, I think I really do, mamma; I had better fold up this thing, and put it away, for it only vexes me to see it. I am sorry I have lost my golden opportunity.'

And so, not without tears, the toy was put away. The silver and the copper remained, but there was an end of my golden opportunity.

My birth-day had been gone by a week, and still the shilling and the penny lay folded in their silken shrines.

I had quite recovered my spirits, and was beginning to think how I should spend them, particularly the shilling, for I scarcely thought any good could be done with such a small sum as a penny. Now there was a poor Irish boy in our neighborhood, who had come with the reapers, and been left behind with a hurt in his leg.

My mother had often been to see him. While he was confined to his bed, she went regularly to read with him, and sometimes she sent me with our nursemaid to take him a dinner.

He was now much better, and could get about a little. To my mother's surprise she found that he could read perfectly well. One day, when she met him, he 'thanked her honor for all favors,' and said he should soon be well enough to return to old Ireland.

As we walked home one day my mother said to me, 'Orris, if you like, I will tell you of a good way to spend your shilling. You may buy poor Tim a Testament.'

I was delighted, and gave my immediate assent.

'Well, then,' said my mother, 'that is settled. I should have given one myself to Tim, if you had wished to spend your shilling in something else. And now, remember, you must not change your mind; papa is going to the town to-morrow, you may go with him and get one then.'

To-morrow came, and with it a note to me from my two cousins, saying that they were coming over to spend the afternoon with me, and see my Indian corn, and my tobacco plants, which I had planted myself.

I was very proud of my corn, and still more proud that my cousins should think it worth while to come and see it, for they were three or four years older than myself, and did not often take part in my amusements.

By dint of great industry I finished my lessons an hour earlier than usual, and ran into the garden to see how my corn looked. Old gardener himself admitted that it was beautiful; the glossy, green leaves fell back like silken streamers, and displayed the grain with its many shades of green, gold, and brown.

I thought how delightful it would be if I could build a kind of bower over against it, in which my cousins could sit and admire it at their leisure. There were some hop plants growing just in the right place; I had only to untwist them; and there was a clematis that could easily be pressed into the service.

I set to work, and, with a little help from gardener, soon made two or three low arches, over which I carefully trained the flowering hops, and mingled them with festoons of clematis. The bower seemed to be worthy of a queen at the least; and no doubt it was really pretty.

I was just carrying some pots of balsams in flower to set at the entrance, when my father came up. 'Well, Orris,' he said, 'mamma tells me you want to go to the town. Be quick if you do, for I am just ready to start.'

'Just ready! O, papa, surely it is not one o'clock? If I go this bower will never be finished by three.'

'Certainly not, we shall scarcely be home by three; but why need it be finished?'

'Don't you remember, papa, that Elsy and Anne are coming?'

'O, I had forgotten that important fact. Well, then, if they are to sit in this bower, I think you must stay at home and finish it; you can go with me some other day.'

Now my father knew nothing about the Testament, or he would doubtless have given different advice. While I hesitated, anxious to stay, and yet afraid not to go, my mother drew near, and I thought I would leave it to her to decide.

'The child wants to finish her bower, my dear,' said my father, 'therefore, as it is not particularly convenient to me to have her to-day, she may stay at home if she likes, for, I presume, her errand is of no great consequence.'

My mother made no answer; in another moment he was gone, and I was left with a long hop tendril in my hand, and a face flushed with heat and agitation.

I thought my mother would speak, and advise me to run after my father, but she did not; and I went on with my work, conscious that her eyes were upon me.

Presently, to my great relief, gardener came up, and asked her some questions about the flower-beds. She went away with him, and I breathed more freely, comforting myself with the thought that I could easily buy the Testament another day.

I worked faster than ever, partly to drive away reproachful thoughts. The little bower was lovely, it was scarcely high enough for me to stand upright in, but it would be delightful I knew for us to sit under. Gardener had been mowing, and when I had brought a quantity of sun-dried grass, and spread it thickly over the floor, I thought my bower an eighth wonder of the world. My cousins came shortly, and confirmed me in this opinion; they spent a very happy afternoon, seated under it; and, but for remembering the Irish boy, I might have been happy also. We were very quiet till after tea, and then I am sorry to say that our high spirits quite carried us away; we got into mischief, and my share of it was throwing an apple into the greenhouse, and breaking two panes of glass. This was on a Saturday.

On Sunday no one mentioned either this or the Irish boy; but on Monday, just as I had finished my lessons, I saw my father pass the window, and ventured to ask mamma if he was going to the town, and whether I might walk with him.

'Why do you wish to go, Orris?' she inquired.

'To buy the Testament, mamma, for poor Tim.'

'He is gone, said my mother; 'he went away early this morning.'

I put on my garden bonnet, and went out, with a curious sensation, as if, when I did wrong, all circumstances conspired to punish me. I turned the corner of the greenhouse, and there stood my father, looking at the broken panes.

'Orris,' he said, 'did you do this mischief?'

'Yes, papa.'

'This is the third time it has happened. I have repeatedly forbidden you to play in this part of the garden.'

'I am very sorry, papa.'

'Your sorrow will not mend the glass, and I am afraid it will not make you more obedient another time.'

He spoke so gravely, that I knew he really was displeased. After a pause, he said,

'Have you got any money?'

'I have a shilling, papa, and a penny.'

'It will cost more than that to repair this damage; I shall be obliged to claim forfeit of the shilling.'

I wiped away two or three tears, and produced my little silk bag; he turned it over, and bit his lips; perhaps its elaborate workmanship made him understand that a shilling was much more for me to give up than for him to receive.

'Is this all you have got?' he inquired.

'Excepting the penny, papa,' I replied; and, child as I was, I perfectly understood his vexation at having to take it from me. He remained so long looking at it as it lay in his palm, that I even hoped he would return it, and say he would excuse me that once. But no, he was too wise; he put it at last into his waistcoat pocket, and walked away, saying, 'I hope this will make you more careful another time.'

He went towards the house, and I watched him till he entered. Then I ran to my bower, sat down upon the dried grass, and began to cry as if my heart would break.

Repentance and regret, though they may be keenly felt by a child, are not reasoned on very distinctly. I had often been very sorry before, but whether for the fault, as distinct from the punishment, I had scarcely inquired. I was heartily sorry now, not only for my disobedience, and because my father had forfeited the shilling, but because I saw it had vexed and hurt him to do it not only because I had preferred pleasure to duty, neglected the opportunity for doing good, and lost it but because the feeling, if not the words of St. Paul pressed heavily upon my heart: 'When I would do good, evil is present with me.'

I was still crying, when, on a sudden, looking up, I saw my father standing before me, and watching me with evident regret. My first impulse was to say, 'O, papa, I was not crying about the shilling.'

He beckoned me to rise out of my bower, and said, 'Then what were you crying about, my little darling?' I tried not to sob; he led me to a garden seat and took me on his knee; then, with a great many tears, I told him all that I have now been telling you, and ended with a passion of crying. O, papa, do teach me to be different, and to wish the same thing when I am tempted, that I do when no pleasure tempts me. Pray teach me to do good.'

'My dear child, God is teaching you now.'

'What, papa? when my golden opportunity is gone, and my silver opportunity has come to nothing?'

'Quite true; but then you are doubly sure now, you know by ample experience, do you not that of yourself you can do nothing?'

I was so convinced of it, that I was verging on an opposite fault of self-confidence. I was almost doubting whether any assistance that I could hope to have would make me proof against temptation.

But now was my father's 'golden opportunity,' and he availed himself of it. Although I cannot remember his words, their influence remains to this day. Certain sensations and impressions connected with that wise and fatherly conversation return upon me often, even now. It conveyed to my mind the idea that this weakness itself was to be my strength, if it made me depend upon a stronger than myself; that this changeable disposition would make more precious to me the knowledge that 'with God is no variableness, neither shadow of changing.'

When he ceased to speak, I said, with a sorrowful sigh, 'And now, papa, there is only one penny left of all my opportunities!'

'Well, my darling,' he replied, 'it is possible that you may do acceptable good even with that. Remember what our Saviour said about the cup of cold water.'

'Yes,' I said; 'but the person who gave the cold water had nothing better to give; he had not a cup of milk, or a cup of wine, which he first wasted and threw away.'

'My dear, you need not inquire into that; you might have done better; but as there it still something to be done, "do it with thy might."'

When I was quite calm again, and almost happy, he sent me into the house to play at ball. As I passed the kitchen door, a poor old woman, whom my mother used sometimes to help, turned from it, and I heard the housemaid say, ' Mistress has just walked out, and I cannot say when she will be at home.'

She was hobbling away, when I bethought me of my penny, took it out of its bag, and pulling her by the cloak, offered it to her.

At first she did not seem to understand me, but when she saw my copper opportunity, which was as bright as sand-paper could render it, she gave me just the shadow of a smile, and taking it in her skinny hand, said, 'I thank you kindly, my pretty.'

'Poor old creature,' said the housemaid, 'that will buy her a trifle, mayhap; she and her husband are going into the workhouse to-morrow.'

I passed into the house penniless, but in a subdued and humble state of mind. The lessons I had had were not without good effect; but it cannot be expected that I can remember much of the working of my mind. I only know that time did pass; that I went to bed, got up, said my lessons, and had my play for a long time, perhaps a fortnight. At the end of about that time my little sister Sophy and I went out one day for a long walk with Matilda, our nurse, and took a basket with us to put flowers in, and blackberries, if we should be so fortunate as to find any.

We walked a long way till Sophy was tired, and became clamorous to sit clown; so Matilda led us to the entrance of a wood, and there we sat and rested on the steps of a stile. There was a cottage near at hand; presently an old woman came out with a kettle in her hand, and I recognized her as the woman to whom I had given my penny. She hobbled to the edge of a little stream which flowed close to our seat, and dipped her kettle in, but did not notice us till Matilda called her.

'How are you, Mrs. Grattan, and how's your old gentleman?'

'Thank you kindly, girl, we be pretty moderate,' was the reply. 'He,' and she pointed with her stick to a field opposite, where several men were at work, 'he be among them picking up stones—ha! ha! He be as blithe as a boy.'

'We was all very glad up at the Grange to hear of your good luck,' said Matilda, in the loudest tones of her cheerful voice, for the old woman was rather deaf. 'Our mistress was main glad, I'll assure you.'

'Ah! very kind on you all. How be the old gentleman?'

'Quite hearty.'

By this time she had reached us, set down her kettle, and taken her place beside Matilda. I was busily plaiting straw, but I listened carelessly to their conversation.

'And so you got your rent paid and all,' said Matilda, turning her eager black eyes on the old woman. 'What a good son Joe is to you!'

'Ah, that he be, dear,' was the reply; 'that he be; wrote he did, so pretty, "My dear mother," he says, "don't you go for to think I shall ever forget how good you was to me always, for I shall not," he says'—

Matilda's eyes flashed and glistened; she took a particular interest in this young man, though I did not know that till long afterwards.

'Tell us how it all was!' she. said, quickly.

'Why, you see, dear, he .was not my own, but I did as well as I could by him; and he be as fond of me like, ay, fonder, than he be of his father.'

'Yes, I know,' said Matilda.

'Well, dear, I went to Mr. T.'s house' (my father's), 'and I was very down at heart—very, I was; for Mr. Ball, he'd been that morning, and says he, "It signifies nothing that you've lived here so long," he says, "if you can't pay the rent." I says, "Mr. Ball, will you please to consider these weeks and weeks that my poor old man has been laid up wi' rheumatize." "But," he says, "I can put in younger and stronger than him; and besides that," he says, "I know you owe money at the shop, over all you owe to my employer."'

'He was always a hard man,' said Matilda.

'Well, dear, he says, "It ain't no use my deceiving of you, Mrs. Grattan, but I must sell you up, for," says he, "the money I must have, and you must go into the workhouse; it's the best place by half for such as you." And, dear, it seemed hard, for, I'll assure you, we hadn't a half-ounce of tea, nor a lump of coal in the house, for we was willing, my old man and me, to strive to the last to pay our owings, and we was living very hard.'

'How much did you owe?' asked Matilda.

'Over thi'ee pounds, dear; and then the rent was four. I hadn't one half-penny in the house; I paid the baker Thursday was a week; t'other four was for the doctor, and we was hungry and cold, we was; but the Lord be praised, we ain't now.'

'Ah! Joe's a good son.'

'As good as ever breathed, dear; but we hadn't heard from him of a long while, by reason his regiment was up the country, but you'll understand I didn't know that till I got his letter. And so we was to be sold up, and go into the House. I fretted a deal, and then I thought I'd go and tell your missis—she be a good friend. But deary me! I owed such a world o' money; only, thinks I, she'll be main sorry to hear we must go, and a body likes somebody to be sorry.'

'Ah! to be sure they do,' said Matilda.

'But she was out, and so I got nothing, only this child, bless her! she runs up and gives me a penny; but, deary me, thinks I, what's a penny to them as owes £7, 2s. But, thinks I, my old man and me, we won't cry together in the dark this last night; so I walked on to the town with it to buy a half-penny candle of Mr. Sims at the post-office. I was halfway there from my place, and when I got into the shop, "Sit you down, Mrs. Grattan," says he, for he saw I was main tired; "I haven't seen you of a long time." '" And that's true, Mr. Sims," says I, "for it's little enough I have to lay out, and the shop t'other side of the turnpike be nigher."

'Well, I sat me down; maybe a quarter of an hour after I'd bought my candle, and just as I was a-going, in comes Mrs. Sims, and, says she, "Is that Grattan's wife?"

'"Ay," says he.

'"Well," says she, "I reckon you remembered to give her that letter."

'"A good thing you spoke, my dear," says he, "I should have forgot it—that I should."

'If you'll believe me, I trembled like a leaf, to think I should so near have missed it. "Be it a letter from the Indies?" says I.

'"Ay," says he, "that it is, and nothing to pay on it; and it's marked, 'To be left at the post-office till called for.'"

'Well, dear, I took it home, and waited for my old man to come home, by reason I can't read, and about dusk he comes in, and we lights the candle, and my old man he read it right out, for he's a fine scholar. And there was two five-pound notes inside, bless him; and he says, "Mother, I've got made sergeant, and now I shall send to you regular.'"

'Well, I've heard no better news this many a day!' said Matilda.

'It was good, dear. Well, I paid the doctor, and when Mr. Ball came next day, says I, "There's the money, sir," and he stared. "Indeed," he says; "I am surprised, but them that pay can stay." So, you see, there's money to spend, more money, dear, when we be laid up with the rheumatize." Upon this she laughed with genuine joy, and, taking up her kettle, wished Matilda good afternoon, and hobbled away.

And I knew, though it had never occurred to the old woman, that all this happiness was owing to my penny! If she had not had it to spend, she would not have walked to the post-office, she would not have got her son's letter—that precious letter which had saved her from misery and the workhouse.

How happy I was as we walked home; I seemed to tread on air, and yet I knew of how little value the penny really was; it was only my having been permitted to give it under such peculiar circumstances that had made it such a worthy and important coin.

The lesson taught me by these little events I did not easily forget, and I think their moral is too obvious to need elaborate enforcing. It may, however, be summed up in few words.

First,—Do not expect that in your own strength you can make use of even the best opportunity for doing good.

Second,—Do not put off till another day any good which it is in the power of your hand to do at once.

And thirdly,—Do not despond because your means of doing good appear trifling and insignificant, for though one soweth and another reapeth, yet it is God that giveth the increase; and who can tell whether He will not cause that which is sown to bear fruit an hundred fold; who can tell whether to have even a penny to give under certain circumstances may not be to have no Copper—but a Golden Opportunity.