 CHAPTER XII. The leper story, which has always interested me most, is that of Naaman the Syrian, said Lucius, when he had put back Dr. Kitto's large volume in its place in the bookcase. Oh, yes, yes! interrupted little Elsie. I know that story, too, quite well. I know that Naaman was a great man and rich, and a famous general besides, but he had the dreadful sickness which no doctor could cure. I remember how Naaman came in a grand chariot with prancing horses to the house of the good prophet Elisha, and how angry he was when only a servant came out and told him to wash seven times in the river Jordan. Elsie stopped almost out of breath from the rapidity with which she had spoken. All the young temples were familiar with the account of the cure of the Syrian, which was one of their favourite scripture stories. Was the leprosy of Naaman also a type of sin? inquired Lucius. I believe that it was, answered Mrs. Temple, and I am strengthened in this belief by Naaman's leprosy coming upon Gehazi as a direct punishment for his sin. Ah! that wicked Gehazi exclaimed Elish. He told a lie, a dreadful lie. It was right that he should be punished, was it not? The question was asked of Dora, Elsie's favourite sister. The child wondered at the unwanted silence which had come over Dora and wanted to draw her into conversing like the rest of the party. Dora winced at this question and only replied by a slight movement of her head. But little Elsie was not satisfied by this. Why don't you speak? she said bluntly. When people are so very naughty as to tell lies and say that they are doing nothing when they are doing something bad, don't you think that they ought to be well punished for it? Forced to reply, for Elsie's question had drawn everyone's attention towards her, Dora answered. Of course they should be punished. And having thus pronounced sentence upon herself, she relapsed into silence, feeling much inclined, however, to start up and escape from the room. Are you not well, my love? asked her mother, who could not help noticing that Dora's manner was different from usual. Quite well, Mama, only a little tired, was the evasive reply. Tired of doing nothing, said Lucius. The conversation on the subject of Naaman was then resumed by Agnes. When Naaman was cleansed of his leprosy mama, how was it that Elisha did not tell him to go and show himself to the priest, and that we hear nothing about a sin offering nor of a bird being set free? asked the elder twin. You must remember, replied Mrs. Temple, that Naaman was not an Israelite but a Syrian, a Gentile and that he was therefore not bound to observe the ceremonial law of the Jews. I think that Naaman was a type of the Gentile church, to which belong all Christians who are not descended from Abraham and Isaac. To which we then belong, observed Lucius. Notice my children, continued the lady, how we see, as if in a series of pictures, the history of a converted soul in the story of Naaman's cure. First there is the man possessing all that earth can give him, but afflicted with a deadly disease. Like the people who were bitten by the fiery serpents, interrupted Lucius. Here in the leprous Naaman we behold a type or picture of a soul with unforgiven sin staining and corrupting it, said his mother. Next we find the leper at the door of the prophet. Can any one of you tell me of what Naaman is now a type? A seeking soul replied Agnes after a little pause for reflection. Ah, but the next picture is of the leper turning away quite angry, because he was told just to wash and be clean, cried Elise. Then Naaman is a type of a proud soul, not content with God's simple but wonderful plan of salvation, continued the lady. There are some persons now who think that they can earn heaven by doing some great thing, who believe that because of their own goodness they can be clean in the sight of God. Such persons, like Naaman, are offended and hurt when they are told that all their good works cannot take away sin, that the leper can only be saved by living faith in him whose blood is the fountain open for all uncleanness. But Naaman did go and dip down seven times in the Jordan as he was bitten, cried Elise, and then he was made quite well, his flesh all soft and clean just like a little child. This is a picture, or type, of a believing, forgiven soul, said Mrs. Temple. The picture of one who has become a child of God and who is resolved by the help of his spirit to lead from henceforth a new life. These hypes are really beginning to be quite plain to me now, mother, said Lucius, and they make the Old Testament seem to me to be very much more beautiful than it ever seemed before. I remember how puzzled I have been by some words in one of the epistles about the rock which Moses smoked in the desert and from which the waters gushed out. St. Paul wrote, that rock was Christ, and I never could make out what he meant for how could the rock be the Lord. But now I understand, at least I think that I do, that the apostle meant that smitten rock was a type of Christ, and so everything becomes plain. Some of our Lord's own expressions required to be explained in the same kind of way, observed Mrs. Temple. When our Saviour declared that he was the vine and his disciples the branches, it was as if he had said, a vine is a type of me and its branches a type of my servant. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself except it abide in the vine, no more can ye, bear the fruits of holiness, except ye abide in me. And when the Lord said of the bread at the last supper, this is my body, his words must have meant that the bread was a type of his body, said Amy, with thoughtful reverence. She was a lowly-hearted girl, and she felt, as we all should feel, that when so very sacred a subject as the Lord's suffering or death is spoken of by us, it is as if, through the opening in the Tabernacle Vale, we were entering into the Holy of Holies. CHAPTER XIII. Can one object be a type of more than one thing, momma? asked Lucius. For there is something which we have just spoken of as being a type of what heals our souls. I mean by that true living faith in the Lord, and I have thought of something quite different, of which it seems also a type. Are you speaking of the River Jordan? asked Agnes, through whose mind the same thought had been passing. Yes, the river in which Naaman dipped seven times and was cleansed, replied Lucius, When Israelites, after their long wanderings in the desert, came to that same river Jordan, there was nothing but its waters between them and the Promised Land, which Mother told me to-day is a type of heaven. And the waters were divided to let the people pass over quite easily and safely, interrupted little Elsie, who never missed an opportunity of bringing out any knowledge which she had gleaned. Hush, Elsie, you distract my thoughts! said her brother, and make me forget with your prattle what I was going to say. Oh, it is this. When Christians have almost got over their long life journey, there is only one thing at last that divides them from heaven, their Promised Land. And that thing is death. Mother is not Jordan a type of death? I believe that it is, said his mother, and Amy silently thought of those beautiful verses which allude to this type. Oh, could we bid our doubts remove, those gloomy doubts that rise, and view the Canaan that we love, with faith's unclouded eyes? Could we but stand where Moses stood, and view the landscape or, nor Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood, could fright us from the shore? I also believe, continued the Lady, that the dividing of the waters, which enabled the Israelites to pass over without so much as wetting their feet, is a type of the terrors of death being taken away from the Christian. If through the atoning sacrifice, and happy in the love of his Lord, the believer can peacefully pass on to his Promised Land, heaven, with as little cause for fear as the Israelites had in crossing the dry-bed of the Jordan. Ah, the Israelites were a happy people, said Amy softly, think of their having God always to guide them by the pillar of fire and cloud, and Holy Moses always to pray for them, and the beautiful Promised Land Canaan before them, and so many wonderful miracles worked for their good. I almost wish, she added, that I had lived in those days. Happier are Christians in these days, my child, said her mother, for they know more, far more, of the Saviour's love than was ever made known to the people of Israel. We have God's sure word to guide us in our wanderings through the desert of life, and we have beyond that desert a far brighter land than Canaan, even heaven, promised and purchased by him who prepares good things for those who love him. And we have one far greater than Moses, one who ever liveth to plead for us at the right hand of God while we fight our battles against sin. Moses was a being of flesh and blood as we are, his arms grew tired, he needed to have them held up by Aaron and her. But the Lord Jesus in praying for his people never grows weary, and his love never grows cold. My children, when life was most like a desert to me, when your father had crossed the Jordan and left being behind, I cannot tell you what comfort and support I found in the knowledge of that prayer and the thought of that love. Mrs. Temple's voice faltered, and Amy felt the hand which she was clasping, tremble. The lady now very seldom gave way to any outward burst of sorrow in the presence of her children. Her manner was usually cheerful and bright, but the elder ones could well remember how great had been her grief in the first sad days of her widowhood, when their father's useful life had been closed by a peaceful death. The young temples all respected their mother's sorrow, and when she paused from emotion the room was so still that the crackling of the fire and the tick of the clock were the only sounds to be heard. But Mrs. Temple was not willing to throw even a brief shadow over the cheerfulness of her little family circle, and would not now have given way to her feelings had not bodily weariness and pain made her less able to control them. Mrs. Temple very quickly recovered her usual tone and said in her wanted, cheerful manner, my little Elsie's eyes are growing sleepy, she can hardly manage to keep them open. My birdie had better fly up to her snug warm nest and prepare by a good long rest for a busy to-morrow. Oh yes, to-morrow will indeed be a busy day, exclaimed Lucius, I mean to be up with the lark. I hope, mother, he added, that you won't mind the noise of my hammer. Mrs. Temple, with a smile, assured her boy that she would not mind anything. She had not been a mother so long without being accustomed to noise, and she would be just as much interested in the progress of the work of her children as they themselves could be. You will like me to get on with my little red curtains? said Elsie in a rather drowsy tone. A fond kiss was the mother's reply, and then Mrs. Temple herself took her youngest child up to her bedroom, for the lady always liked to hear Elsie repeat her evening prayer. About an hour afterwards all the other young temples had wished their mother good night and retired to the several apartments in which they slept. The twins shared the same room. It was a very pretty one, adorned with framed pictures painted by their aunt Theodora, and laid it by candles in elegant green-glass candlesticks, which had been a birthday present to them from their mother. Both girls were, on the night in question, more silent than usual, but from differing causes. As Agnes set slowly brushing out her long plates of brown hair, stopped every now and then by her cough, her thoughts dwelt much on the subject of the Israelites and their journey through the wilderness, which she was now taught to regard not only as a historical fact, but also as a type of the life journey of Christians. Agnes was not by natural disposition, so Mary and Light hearted as her brother and sisters, and this difference between her and the rest of the family was all the more market at the time of which I am writing, from the health of the elder twin being a good deal shaken by her illness. Agnes had naturally a peevish, passionate temper, which greatly marred her own peace of mind and which prevented her from winning much love from her younger companions. Agnes had many faults, and she knew that she had them. They were to her a trouble and a burden. The young girl honestly wished to get rid of and conquer these faults, but she wanted energy and spirit to make a really good battle against her besetting sins. Agnes was too much disposed to conclude that because she was ill-tempered, she must always continue ill-tempered, and that there was no use in striving to subdue her evil nature. Mrs. Temple's elder twin was wont to feel vexed and to look sullen because Lucius never cared to sit and chat with her as he would with Dora, and because Elsie never threw her arms round her neck as she would round Amy's. I grieved Agnes to notice that no one ever called her pet or seemed to take delight in having her near. I know that it is partly my own fault, Agnes would often say to herself, in bitterness of soul, but I don't think that if I were to leave home for months there is anyone but Mama who would miss me or want me back. Such thoughts had only the effect of making the poor girl's temper more cross, and her manner more peevish. It is so hard for the face to look bright and sweet when gloom is within the heart. But better thoughts were in the mind of Agnes on that Sunday night as she sat silently brushing her hair. Sweet and comforting was the reflection that she was not left to fight her battle alone, that there was one who would not only hear her prayer, but who would himself pray for his feeble child, who would both watch her struggle against sin and give her strength in that struggle. It was sweet to poor Agnes when she afterwards knelt down to pray by the side of her bed, to feel that if she was, like an Israelite, bitten by the serpent of sin she knew where to look for a cure, that if she was like name in the leper there was the fountain open to her in which she could wash and be clean. Hope had sprung up in the young girl's heart and with hope came increase of courage. Agnes remembered that the Lord who had supplied all the need of the Israelites could supply hers also, and when temptations assailed her as the enemy assailed that people make her also more than conqueror through the power of his holy spirit. Very very different were the thoughts passing through the mind of Dora, though outwardly she was doing exactly the same things as were done by her twin sister. Dora was not making a brave battle against inward sin, but was, like a coward and traitor, going over to the enemy side. It is true that she still intended to unpick on the Monday morning all that she had sown on the Sunday afternoon, but this resolve was made on the false principle of punishing herself for the sin she would not honestly confess, and of which she had never truly repented. This idea of self-inflicted punishment was merely Dora's contrivance for quieting conscience, that conscience which had been very uneasy during the conversation on the subject of leprosy, the terrible type of sin. But Dora was trying, and with tolerable success, to banish from her mind all thought of that conversation. It was far more pleasant to think of the pattern of the tabernacle curtains than of the holy things of which that tabernacle should remind us. A great many persons, even grown-up persons, act alas, like Dora. They so fix their attention on outward things in religion that they quite overlook the inward meaning. Such self-deceivers are ready enough to work at what pleases the eye and amuses the fancy, and believe that they are making an offering to God. By the cleansing of the heart, the giving up, sin, these are duties which they shrink from, in which they willingly put off to a more convenient season. CHAPTER XIV WORK Almost every inmate of Cedar Lodge was up very early on Monday morning, Agnes being the only member of the family who did not rise till her usual hour. The first crow of the cock, strutting about in the yard behind the house, roused little Elsie from sleep. The child was restless and impatient in her white curtained cot, until she was suffered to rise, dress, and set about her turkey-red work for the model. She was bending over her strip of white linen almost before there was sufficient light for her to see how to thread her fine needle, for the morning was dark and rainy. Indeed the sun never showed his face during the whole of that cheerless day. Drip drip fell the rain, but none of the children regretted that they were not likely to go out of the house. I don't mind the rain one bit, cried Elsie. I'm glad that it rains. We'll get on so famously with our work. Drip drip fell the rain. Clink clink fell the hammer of Lucius, and Blythe sounded his whistle as he labored in the midst of his squares of pasteboard, strips of wood, and lengths of wire. The schoolboy set to his work with a will, and how pleasant is work when we have strength and spirit to do it, and feel that we have a worthy object before us. No one was up earlier than Dora. She sprang from her bed before twilight had given place to daylight, so impatient was she to get to her embroidery pattern again. The noise of Dora's rising awoke Agnes, who had not passed so good a night as her more vigorous twin had done, the sickly girl having been several times disturbed by her cough. What are you about, Dora, murmured Agnes, in a drowsy and rather complaining tone? I'm sure that it can't be nearly time to get up. Oh, I like to set about my new work quickly and get a good piece of it done before breakfast, was Dora's reply. There will be plenty of time for work between this and Agnes. I wish that you would keep quiet and let me rest, yawned Agnes. You can rest if you wish it. I won't make a noise, replied Dora, but for my part I like to be up and doing. You know that early to bed and early to rise is the way to be healthy, wealthy, and wise. Agnes said nothing in contradiction of the old proverb which her sister had quoted, but turned round on her pillow, and with a weary yawn composed herself again to sleep. She thought that it would be time enough to get up when Susan should call her at a quarter to seven, and she only wished that Dora had thought so also, for it fidgeted Agnes to hear her moving about in the room. But Dora had cared as little about disturbing the sleep of a sickly sister as she had about letting her mother go out in the rain. Dora admired her own energy and looked upon Agnes almost with scorn as being lazy, cold, and dull, with not a bit of enthusiasm in her nature. We should not have had a model worth looking at had the embroidery been left to her, said Dora to herself, not without a feeling of self-complacence, as she glanced at her twin who had again sunk into slumber. It will be remembered that Dora had resolved to unpick all the work that she had sewn upon the preceding Sunday, but as soon as the little girl had hastily finished her toilet, so hastily that she forgot to button her sleeves or put on her collar, she opened her work-book, took out her work, and seated herself as close to the window as possible, in order to catch as much as she could of the dim light of dawn. It might have been expected that Dora would also have forgotten to say her prayers, but such was not the case. She remembered to kneel down by her bedside and hurry through a mere form of words without paying the slightest attention to their meaning, thinking of her embroidery all the time. It was a satisfaction to the conscience of Dora that she had repeated a prayer, and she never stopped to ask herself whether that prayer were not in itself a sin. Dora with needle and scissors set first to her work of unpicking, but every one who has tried such an occupation must know it to be one of the most tedious and disagreeable of tasks. It was doubly so to Dora, because she greatly admired the embroiderer work which she was thus beginning to spoil. It is a great pity to undo this, Dora said to herself, before she had been four-two minutes plying the scissors. I won't go on with this foolish unpicking. After all, my undoing every stitch of my pretty work would not undo the fault of my having put it in on Sunday. This indeed was true. A fault, once committed, no human being has power to undo. But while looking to the Lord alone for forgiveness, we are bound to prove the sincerity of our regret for a fault by making what amends lie in our power. Dora took the easier but far more dangerous way of trying to forget the fault altogether, or to make up for it by what she considered to be her zeal in charity work. She certainly sewed very diligently on that dull morning, scarcely lifting her eyes from the pattern which she had neatly traced on the linen. She was filling up the penciled outlines with chain stitch, satin stitch, and other stitches, in bright-colored silks and brilliant thread of gold. Oh, look! Just look how famously Dora has been getting on with her work! exclaimed the admiring Elsie, when summoned by the bell at half-past eight the children had assembled in the breakfast room, awaiting their mothers coming down to prayers. Why, you don't mean to say you have worked all that this morning? said Lucius to Dora. The question was rather an awkward one for Dora to answer. It took the girl by surprise. Dora replied to it by an evasion, which was another act of deceit. I couldn't begin my embroidery on Saturday night, she said, actually congratulating herself that she had this time spoken the exact truth, as if it were not the very essence of the falsehood to deceive, even though the lips may utter no lie. As Dora had not sewn on Saturday, she knew that Lucius would take it for granted that she had been so clever and industrious as to do all the work which she saw on the Monday morning, for he would certainly never suspect her of having put in one stitch upon Sunday. Don't you admire Dora's curtain? Is it not lovely? said Amy to Agnes, who was examining the work of her twin. Dora was the reply, uttered in a hesitating tone. Agnes could not truthfully have expressed warmer admiration, for she did not think that the figures of the cherubim were at all gracefully drawn, nor did she consider that the colors were perfectly blended, there being too little scarlet in proportion to the purple and blue. But the cold praise of the twin was not unnaturally set down by her family as coming from a mean, unworthy motive. She is as jealous as a cat, exclaimed Lucius. Agnes can't forgive poor Dora for having been trusted with the most difficult part of the work. The irritable temper of Agnes fired up in a moment and an observation which she felt to be unjust as well as unkind. But Agnes on that Monday morning had not merely said her prayers, she had really prayed for grace to conquer be setting sin, and now, though she could not help her cheeks flushing scarlet at the taunt of her brother, she pressed her lips closely together and kept down the passionate reply which it was so hard, so very hard not to utter. How much of your work have you done this morning, Agnes? said Elsie rather proudly, showing her own three inches of seam in the turkey-red cloth. I have cut out my mohair curtains, said Agnes, who had also, though she did not choose to say so, been mending her gloves, in obedience to the known wish of her mother. Cut out! Only cut out! laughed Lucius, who had been doing great things in the nailing and hammering line. If you take them at her so easily, Agnes, every one will cut you out, though you may not be made into curtains. Agnes was provoked at the joke, and all the more so because Dora and Elsie laughed, and Amy could not help smiling. Few persons like to be laughed at, and the peevish-tempered Agnes was certainly not one of the few. But the girl had made a resolve, not in vain trust in her own power of carrying it out, but in a spirit of humble prayer to set a watch before her lips, and if she could not speak kindly, not to utter a single word. Agnes could not, indeed, yet managed to take a disagreeable joke with smiling good humor, but she bore it in resolute silence. She did not utter any retort. No one admired Agnes' temple. No one praised herself command. She was thought lazy because she had not eagerly rushed into an occupation in which she took no particular pleasure, and for which she knew that she would find plenty of time without neglecting more homely duties. She was thought jealous because she had simply spoken the truth, and yet on that day Agnes had begun a nobler work than that of embroidering in purple and gold, and her offering was a far more acceptable one than that of which Dora was proud. CHAPTER XV What a busy, cheerful little party! exclaimed Mrs. Temple as she entered the study on the afternoon of that same day, and found all her children sitting together, sewing, cutting, gilding, and chatting merrily as they worked. You remind me of the busy, happy scene outside Jerusalem, beheld every year when the Feast of Tabernacles was kept. What was the Feast of Tabernacles, Mama? inquired Amy. Lucius would have asked the same question, but he dare not speak at that moment lest his breath should blow away the sheet of gold leaf with which he was trying to cover his wires. The Feast of Tabernacles was a yearly festival held by the Israelites in remembrance of the time spent by their fathers in Tabernacles or tents in the desert, replied the Lady. This was the most cheerful of all the Feasts, and was kept in a remarkable manner. The people made booths for themselves at the branches of palm, willow, and other trees, and for seven days lived in these booths. There were processions, glad Hosannas, and shouts of singing and mirth. The people enjoyed their out-of-door life, and blessed the Lord for his goodness in guiding the Israelites through the wilderness to the good land in which their children now dwelt. One could hardly keep such a Feast in England, observed Agnes glanting out of the window at the gray sky and the dripping trees, which were dimly reflected in the pools left by the morning's rain. I think that living in green, leafy booths would be delightful in summer, even in England, exclaimed Lucius who had managed to fix his gold leaf. I should have liked, had I been a Jew, to have kept the Feast of Tabernacles, better perhaps than to have helped to make this model Tabernacle, added the boy, who after several hours of steady work was beginning to feel rather tired. I should much prefer hewing down branches and doing the rough carpentering part of the business to gilding these tiresome, fidgety wires, which I am sure to ungild again as soon as I attempt to fix them into their frame. What? You are weary of your work already, exclaimed Dora, as she paused in her sewing to thread her needle. Not exactly weary of it now, answered Lucius, but I guess that I shall be so long before this model is finished. It is all very well, he continued, taking up his knife to hack away at some stubborn pasteboard. It is all very well to make pillars and curtains while the sky is cloudy and the rain falls fast, and I am kept prisoner at home. But suppose that the rain should stop and the sun shine out and the weather becomes settled at last. Wouldn't every one of us like running about in the fields all day, playing at cricket or croquet or rounders, better than measuring and cutting? And there, snap goes my knife, my new knife. And with a gesture of impatience, the boy flung the unmanageable pasteboard down on the table. There was much to justify the suspicion expressed by Lucius that the work so eagerly begun by the temple's wood before it could be finished, become a burden and a tax upon the patience of all. On the very next day began a season of warmth and sunshine which did more to drive away coughs and restore vigor to late invalids than could all the skill of a doctor. Even Agnes was able to spend hours in the open air, and, except at mealtimes, Lucius liked to be out all the day. His fidgety work, as he called it, could scarcely be done but indoors, and the boy found it a grievous task. But it would be a shame not to go on with the model now after putting Mama to so much trouble and expense, observed Lucius one morning to Dora. Besides I engaged to do it, and no English boy must flinch back from keeping his word. The new knife which I bought yesterday is not to be compared to that which I so unluckily snapped over the pasteboard, but I must hack away steadily and show a good example to that lazy puss Elsie, who, since the fine weather began, has not put another stitch into her turkey-red curtains. She has stowed them away in her doll's cradle, observed Dora laughing. Mrs. Temple was not surprised to find that the making of the model now progressed more slowly. She was rather pleased to see the amount of perseverance shown by her children after the charm of novelty had worn off. Even the lazy puss drew her work from its hiding-place and would so for five minutes at a time, just to please, dear Mama. All the five temples continued to work when work had ceased to be an amusement, but they worked from different motives. Those which influenced Lucius, a manly, honorable boy, have been mentioned already, as well as a simple wish to please Mother, which made Elsie prick her plump little finger under her turkey-red cloth. But if you could glance at the hearts of the three other girls as they sit together industriously plying their needles, we should find an example of how the very same effect may be produced by different causes. Amy had from the very first considered her humble work as something to be done for her heavenly master, and this sweet thought made her take pleasure in labor, which without it would have been wearysome indeed. It was this thought which made Amy put fine hemming and stitching into the long strips of white lawn which represented the linen curtain surrounding the court of the tabernacle, and even unpick any portion which did not seem to her to be sewn neatly enough. Amy tried to give her best, her very best work, because she was giving it to the Lord, and some of the happiest hours which the little girl had ever known were spent over her tedious curtains. I cannot think, Amy, how you go on so patiently with what is so tiresome, with no variety in it, and a kind of work which will not look striking when all is done, exclaimed Dora one day as she unrolled some glittering gold thread from her reel. Amy smiled as she glanced up at her sister's far more amusing occupation. If I could have worked anything so pretty as the veil which you are making, I dare say that I should have liked it much better, she observed. But I am pleased to do the plain work as well as I can, as the embroidery would have been far too difficult for me. Amy's curtains might seem plain to the eyes of most people, but her mother looked upon them with special pleasure, for, as she said to herself, they are embroidered all over with faith and love. Agnes also made steady progress with her not very inviting work, though she took in it no great pleasure. Agnes regarded the sewing as a matter of duty, and therefore applied her needle in the same spirit as that in which she struggled to subdue her temper, and tried to put a bridle on her tongue. It was the work which had been given to her and she would do it without asking herself whether she liked it or not. This material, neither smooth nor pretty, is something like a type of me, thought Agnes, as she put the finishing stitch into one of her mohair curtains. But the goat's hair had just as much its appointed place in the tabernacle as loops of silver and sockets of gold. I shall never be as much liked and admired as Dora is. I may as well make up my mind to that, but if God help me by his grace I too may lead a useful life and be dear, at least, to my mother. And more and more dear was Agnes becoming to her mother, who watched with a keen eye of affection the struggle made by her eldest daughter against her besetting sins. Mrs. Temple guessed what it cost Agnes to bear a rough joke in silence, to lend pretty things which she feared that the borrower might spoil, to give up her own way and to show no jealous anger when another was preferred before her. My girl's character is becoming stronger and nobler every day, thought Mrs. Temple. I thank the Lord for my Agnes, for I am sure that it is his grace that is working in her heart. Agnes promises to grow up into a really valuable woman, one whom her mother can trust. Mrs. Temple could not have said as much for her dearly loved, Dora. The lady was perplexed and pained to feel that something. She knew not what it could be. Nothing to have come between her and her bright, clever, affectionate child. Dora, indeed, gave Mrs. Temple no cause to find fault with her conduct. Her lessons were well learned. Her temper was good. She was a favorite still with her brother and sisters. And yet her mother felt that there was a change in her Dora for which she could not account. Mrs. Temple was wont to have little quiet conversations separately with each of her children at night. In these meetings they were able to open their hearts more freely to their mother than they could have done had a third person been present, and their parent could speak upon religious subjects in the way best suited to the character and age of each. These quiet moments spent alone with mama had been greatly prized by all the children, but Dora could take pleasure in them no more, and her parent was conscious that such was the case. The girl generally managed, only too easily, to forget all about her unrepentant sin when the remembrance of it was not forced upon her now half-deadened conscious, but when her mother sat by her bedside and softly talked to her about heaven, Dora grew uneasy in spirit. She did not like to be reminded of the holy God whose law she had broken. What pleasure could the knowledge of his truth bring to one who was conscious of unrepentant falsehood? The returns of Sundays, nay even the hour for family prayer were never welcomed to Dora. When she repeated texts or hymns as the rest of the family did, she had the wretched consciousness that she was acting a hypocrite's part and taking God's name in vain. Dora's life was becoming one long act of deceit. She was secretly ashamed of herself for appearing so much better than she in reality was. But my work, my beautiful work, my work for the poor, I'll make up for what I've done wrong by taking extra pains with that, thought Dora. And so the poor girl usually succeeded in winning much praise from others, and in deceiving her own sinful heart, only too willing to be thus deceived. There is one thing which we can't do. It is too hard, even for Dora, observed Elsie one morning at breakfast, when, as was often the case, the children's tabernacle had formed a topic of conversation. We can't make models of the ark, or the altar, or the table of show-bread. Our pretty curtains won't cover anything, and the tabernacle will be quite empty. I really could not undertake to do more than I am doing, even if my fingers could manage to make such tiny models, said Lucius, who, as we have seen, already found that he had engaged in a difficult task. Dora and Amy were silent. They all felt that there would be certainly a great want in their tabernacle, but they did not see how that want could possibly be supplied. The young temple's little guest, that while their mother was in her own room, engaged as they supposed in reading or writing or making up her household accounts. She was preparing for them a pleasant surprise. Mrs. Temple was not less with her family than usual. She did not neglect her house affairs. She never forgot either to order the dinner or to pay the butcher and to bake her, but she stole time for her novel employment from her sleep and from her favorite amusement of reading library books. On the day when the model was completed, when the last silver socket had been fastened and the last little curtain hemmed, the children had the pleasure of setting up the tabernacle in the study to see how it looked. There was great satisfaction in surveying the finished work. Everyone felt glad that the long labor was over and that he had had a share in the work. How pleased Auntie will be, cried Elsie. And the ragged children, too, joined Amy. And now go out for your walk, my dear ones, said their mother. The morning is so frosty and bright that you may make your walk a long one. I should not be surprised should you wander as far as Burnley Woods. I shall not expect you back for a couple of hours. Mother, you will go with us, said Lucius. I will be particularly engaged this morning, replied Mrs. Temple as she shook her head with a smile. Elsie remarked afterwards that it had been a knowing kind of smile, as if there had been some very particular reason indeed for her mammas stopping at the home. The reason was clear enough to all the party when they returned from their work, and with their cheeks rosy from the fresh air and exercise re-entered the study. The children found their mother standing beside the model. Elsie, who was the first to run up to it, gave almost a scream of delight. Oh, see, see, what mama has been making! Clever mama, she cried, clapping her hands and jumping for joy. What lovely little models, exclaimed Lucius. Mother, it is you who have cut us all out. You have done what none of us could have done, said Agnes. And so quietly, too, observed Dora. There is nothing wanting now, cried Amy, putting her arm fondly around the parent who had so kindly entered into the little pleasures of her children. I thought that one thing more was wanting, said Mrs. Temple. The lady seated herself beside the table and took off the cover of a little pasteboard box which she held in her hand. The children looked on with mingled curiosity and pleasure as their mother carefully drew out from it a beautiful little figure about two inches long, exquisitely dressed in miniature garments, representing those which were worn by the High Priest of Israel. To imitate these garments in a size so small had taxed the utmost skill of the ingenious and neat-fingered lady. I need not set down all the exclamations of wonder and pleasure which were uttered by the younger temples. If their mother's great object had been to gratify her children, that object was certainly attained. The dress which I have tried to imitate, said the lady, is that in which the High Priest appeared on solemn occasions. The day of atonement was, however, an exception. On that most solemn day in the year, when the High Priest ventured into the Holy of Holies, he did so in simple garments of pure white linen. The mother then showed and explained to her family the different articles of dress on her curious model. The undertunic, or shirt of linen, and above it, the mantle of sky blue cutler, having at the bottom an ornamental border or fringe. This fringe, which as you see I have cut in the form of tiny pomegranates, ought to be interspersed with bells of gold, said Mrs. Temple, but my fingers could not succeed in making anything so very minute. And unless we had looked through a microscope, we could not have distinguished bells no bigger than needle's eyes, observed Lucius. And what is this fine uppermost garment reaching to the knees, inquired Dora, looking admiringly on the delicate embroidery in gold and color similar to that which she had herself worked for the veil, only a great deal finer? This is the ephod, replied Mrs. Temple. On the front of it, I have, as you see, worked in very small beads of various colors in imitation of the high priest's breastplate, which was formed of 12 precious stones. The minute breastplate excited more attention than any other part of the high priest's dress, and had, perhaps, given the skillful worker more trouble than all the rest. Every one of the little beads was of a different tint. They were closely set together in rows so as to form a square ornament, and were fastened to the shoulder parts of the ephod by little threads of gold. How very splendid the real breastplate must have been, exclaimed Dora Temple. Had it also some typical meaning, asked Lucius, I suppose so, he added, as everything about the tabernacle and the high priest seems to have been a type of something greater. On each of the precious stones in the splendid breastplate was inscribed the names of one of the 12 tribes of Israel, replied Mrs. Temple. I believe that the breastplate was worn by the high priest, who was to pray in the tabernacle for the people, and then to come forward and bless them, as a token that he bore their names on his heart. Oh, that is a beautiful meaning, cried Amy, especially when we think, she continued more softly, that the high priest was a type of hour-blessed savior himself, who bears all his people's names on his heart, observed Mrs. Temple, both when he pleads for them in heaven and when he blesses them upon earth. The high priest must have looked very noble and grand in his rich garments, observed Lucius, and yet it seems too much honor for any mere man to be called a type of the Son of God. Ah, my boy! Poor and mean indeed must any earthly type appear when compared to the heavenly antotype. Exclaimed Mrs. Temple, that thought came strongly to my mind as I was sowing together these little worthless glass beads to form the model of the glorious breastplate. Can these wretched little atoms of colored glass, I said to myself, give any idea of magnificent jewels sparkling in light set in gold and each engraved with a name? But even so mean and small and insignificant was Aaron in all his splendor, compared to this sacred being who deems to call himself our high priest, and to make intercession for us above. All the party were silent for several moments looking down at the little model and thinking over the words of their mother. I'll see them pointed to the curious headdress which appeared on the figure. It was not exactly a turban, though it was formed of tight rolls of linen. It had the representation of a plate of gold in front fastened on to it by a blue thread. That headdress is called the High Priest's Bonnet or Miter, observed Mrs. Temple. There are rather different opinions regarding its exact shape. It cost me a good deal of thought to contrive it, and here again I felt how impossible it is to give anything like a just idea of the real object in a model so small as this. You see that I have not neglected to put a little gold plate on the front of the Miter, but I had no power to form letters so minute as to represent on it what was engraved on that which the High Priest wore. This was Holiness to the Lord. Then the High Priest had the Lord's name written over his brow, observed Agnes. It makes one think of the promise in the Bible that the saints in heaven shall have his name written on their foreheads. Revelation 22.4. All will be holiness to the Lord in that happy place, observed Amy. It was pleasant her to Dora to examine the little model before her and to admire and praise her mother's skill, then to think of what was inscribed on the Miter worn by Aaron and his successors. It is the sad, sad effect of sin concealed in the heart that it keeps those who indulge it from daring even to wish to be holy. The tabernacle was now carefully taken down piece by piece to be packed in a box, ready to be carried along with the rest of their luggage when the family should quit their home for a while. Every curtain was neatly folded and all the pillars carefully wrapped up in paper. The figure representing the High Priest was gently put back into its own little box, and all the other little objects were packed in cotton, so as to bear without injury a little jolting on the journey before them. With additional pleasure the young temples now looked forward to the coming Christmas season, and the long expected visits which they were to pay their Aunt Theodora. End of CHAPTER XVI. Several months have passed away since the temples began making their model of the tabernacle of Israel. The leaves which were then green on the trees have become yellow, have faded and fallen, save those on the evergreens which wear a silver crusting of frost. But it is not to Cedar Lodge that I shall take my young readers, but to a large and rather plain brick house in the city of Chester. It is a house by no means beautiful to the eye, and its only lookout is into a narrow paved street. But still that house has a charm of its own, it is dear to many a heart for its owner, Miss Theodora Clare, is the friend and benefactress of the poor around. Many have entered sadly through the dark green door of that red brick house, who have left it cheerfully, blessing the kind heart and liberal hand of its lady. It is just two days before Christmas. On the morrow Miss Clare's ragged school is to have its annual treat. A feast and gifts of warm socks or mittens knitted for each child by the lady's own hands are not to form the only or perhaps the chief attractions of the treat. The little scholars have been promised a sight of the model tabernacle which its young makers are to bring from their country home about ten miles away. Christmas Eve has been fixed upon by Miss Clare as the time for her ragged school vet, because it is the birthday of her twin nieces, the younger of whom is her namesake. The arrival of a temple family is expected almost every minute, and Miss Clare sits by the window with the red glow of a December sun upon her, glancing up with a look of pleasant expectation whenever she hears the rattle of wheels along the narrow paved street. You might guess at once by the likeness between them that Miss Clare is the sister of Mrs. Temple, though her figure is a little taller, and her locks a little wider than those of the widow lady. Miss Clare is evidently thinking. She looks a little perplexed and doubtful as she examines the contents of a large old-fashioned ebony mox which holds her little treasures. Not treasures of silver or gold, there are but few indeed of such things in the possession of Theodora Clare. Her silver spoons have fed the hungry, her gold chain has paid for the benches on which her ragged scholars sit, and her bracelets for the books which they learn from, and the big blackboard on the wall. A good many pairs of stout little shoes have come out of Miss Clare's silver teapot. But there is one article of jewelry which the lady still possesses, and this is to her the most precious of all. It is the likeness of her sister, Mrs. Temple, in a brooch, that round with pearls. This was the gift of Mr. Temple on his wedding day to the bridesmaid Theodora. It is very beautiful as an ornament, and as a likeness almost perfect. But not even this jewel does the generous lady intend to keep for herself. It is to be her birthday present on the following day, Theodora. Miss Clare has for years settled in her own mind that her god-daughter should receive the precious brooch on completing the twelfth year of her age. It is no doubt upon this subject that perplexes her now. For the lady does look a little perplexed as she searches her old-fashioned box for something which she seems to have some difficulty in finding. She opens this little packet, then that little packet, then silently shakes her head, or murmurs, no, that will not do, as she replaces it in a large box. The reader knows that Dora has a twin sister, and that the birthday of the one is also the birthday of the other. Miss Clare does not like to give to Dora without also giving to Agnes, and as her hospitality and her charities leave her very little money for buying presents, she wishes to find some suitable article already in her possession of which to make a birthday remembrance. But which should that article be? Almost everything that would please a young girl had already been given away. I have nothing, nothing that can be compared in value or in beauty with the brooch, said Miss Clare to herself, as she locked the box where she had been vainly searching amongst locks of hair neatly wrapped in separate papers, old letters, and little pictures faded and yellow with time. I hope that Agnes is too sensible a girl to expect that my precious brooch should be given to herself instead of to my namesake, who is to me almost as a daughter, but still Agnes is the elder of the twins. She is, I fear, of a rather jealous temper. Her character has not, or had not, a year ago the generosity and sweetness of that of my Dora. I should be grieved to hurt the feelings of either of the dear girls. What can I find that will really please Agnes? Miss Clare had really given the subject a good deal of consideration, though apparently to little purpose, when a thought occurred to her mind which brought a smile of satisfaction to her kind, pleasant face. Miss Clare rose from her seat by the window and went to a table which had, in it, a drawer, hidden by the neat brown cloth that hung over the sides. The lady lifted the cloth, drew open the drawer, and then took from it a flat parcel wrapped in a peculiar kind of yellowish paper, with that sent about it which usually pervades articles which have come from India. Here is the delicate little embroidered neck scarf which was sent to me years ago and which I have always thought much to find for my wear, said the lady as she opened the parcel. This will, of course, be a gift not to be compared to the brooch, but still it is pretty, very pretty. I think Agnes is sure to admire it. It was indeed impossible not to admire the exquisite embroidery in gold and colors on the small Indian muslin scarf. The natives of India excel in this kind of work, and the little scarf was a gem of beauty for richness of pattern and brightness of hue. Miss Clare's only doubt was whether such an article of dress were not too gay to be given to her young niece. Miss Clare had little time to think over this matter, for hardly had she put back the pretty piece of embroidery into its paper wrapping, and then replace it in the drawer when the rattle of wheels was heard on the stones, and a large carriage, well filled within, and with plenty of luggage without, was driven up to the door. Well Miss Clare knew the smiling eager faces which crowded the carriage window, and the merry young voices which sounded through the clear, cold winter air. The lady ran hurriedly to meet and welcome the party, and was at the open door notwithstanding the cold of frosty December, before Mrs. Temple and her five children could manage to get out of the carriage in which they had been too closely packed for comfort, but in which they had been very noisy and merry. All trace of whooping cough had long since departed, and the sounds which had been heard in the carriage had been only those of talking, laughing, and singing. CHAPTER XVIII. THE ARRIVAL Mind, Coachman, mind! You must hand down that box very carefully, shouted Lucius to the driver, who was now engaged in taking down the luggage. The boy had been the first of the party to spring out of the carriage, but he was the last to enter the house, for all his thoughts seemed to be taken up by the long, flat deal box which had been put under the special care of the Coachman, with many a charge to see that no harm should come to it on the journey. Had the box been a cradle containing a baby, it could hardly have been more gently and carefully received from the Coachman's hands, and then carried up the door steps and into the red brick house by Lucius. Did it not hold the result of the labor of many weeks? Was there not in it the work completed by the family's united efforts, the beautiful model of the tabernacle made by the children of Israel? Oh, Auntie, here is our great work, our model, where shall we set it up? Have you a table ready? It is all finished, every loop. Oh, you must see it, you must see it. Such were the exclamations which burst forth from the children as Lucius appeared in the hall, laden with the long, flat deal box. Miss Claire had not yet seen the model, though she had heard a great deal about it, and had given notice to many friends and neighbors of the little exhibition of it. Footnote. A-L-O-E remembers attending many years ago exactly such an exhibition at the house of a friend of a model of the tabernacle made by a lady and her children for some charitable purpose. And a footnote. To be held in her house through the following week for the benefit of her school. She was amused at the eager impatient shown by the youthful workers, except Agnes, who took the matter more quietly, none of the temples cared even to warm themselves by the blazing fire after their wintry journal, until the model tabernacle had been unpacked from its box. Miss Auntie, please don't look at it till it's all set up, exclaimed Elsie in a tone of entreaty. You can talk to Mama, you know, while we are unrolling the little curtains. I did the turkey-red curtains, and fastening them upon the gilded pillars by the wee-wee loops which are made of silver thread. Miss Claire was quite willing to indulge the humor of her young guests, so that she did not even remain in the room while the tabernacle was being put up on the table set apart for the purpose. She took her sister, Mrs. Temple, upstairs, and helped her to take off her cloak and furs, and talked over many subjects with her, while the young people below were busily engaged with their model. It was not until nearly two hours had elapsed, and after the party had all partaken of a dinner of roast-beef and plum pudding, that Miss Claire re-entered her own sitting room to have her first sight of the wonderful work. For wonderful it was in the eyes of its youthful contrivers, who knew the trouble which it had cost them to finish and fix those numerous pillars and curtains with sockets and loops. The temples regarded their model as a triumph of art and patience, much as the builder of one of the pyramids may have regarded his own gigantic work. Miss Claire was expected to look and feel a good dear more astonished than she could in sincerity do. But if she was not astonished, at least she was pleased and showed that she was so. It's a pity, Auntie, that you can't see more of my turkey-red curtains. I wish they'd been the top ones, cried Elsie, lifting up a corner of the marino covering to show her own work beneath. These linen curtains round the court of the tabernacle are neatly, very neatly made, observed Miss Claire. With so many silver loops they must have required a great deal of patience in the worker. Amy colored with pleasure at the praise. She had not expected her own share of the work to attract much notice. She now silently drew her aunt's attention to the pretty little gilded pillars upon which her curtains were hung. But the beauty part, the real beauty part, is the broidery, the inner curtains, and the veil exclaimed Elsie. Oh, Auntie, you will be astonished at them. Just stoop down and look in. Just look in. We've managed to leave the front open, and the veil is half-drawn aside, so that you can see the inner part quite well. No one could see the inner part of the real tabernacle you know, but then ours is only a model. The lady stooped as requested, and looked through the space between the front pillars, not only into the outer tabernacle, but beyond the veil into what, in the model, represented the Holy of Holies. Dora, who had for months been looking forward to this moment, listened eagerly to hear what her darling aunt would say of her work. Miss Claire, it will be remembered, had that day been examining a lovely specimen of some of the most finished embroidery to be found in any part of the world. Dora's work was clever, regarded as that of a girl not as twelve years of age who had to contrive her own pattern, but it was, of course, very poor compared to that on the Indian scarf. Is it not splendid broidery persisted Elsie who wished others to share her own unabounded admiration for the work of a favorite sister? It is nice, said Aunt Theodora quietly, but once a little more scarlet, I think. And was this all that could be said of that which had cost Dora hours of thought and many hours of patient labor? These few words of qualified praise? Dora was bitterly disappointed, far more disappointed than Agnes, whose curtains, whether Mohair or Merino, seemed to win no notice at all. There was good reason why Dora should feel pain, which Agnes was spared. It was not time and labor only which the younger twin had given to gain success. She had made a sacrifice of conscience, she had forfeited her own self-respect, she had lost the blessing of confidential intercourse with her mother, and all pleasure and comfort in prayer. Dora had given up all this and for what? To hear the observation, by no means unkindly uttered. It is nice, but once a little more scarlet. If Dora had ever believed that in working her embroidery she had really been laboring for anything higher than earthly, pleasure, or human praise, the extreme vexation which she now experienced must surely have undeceived her. Why should she care so much for what was said of her performance if her real object was but to please her heavenly master? Agnes and Amy, who had worked from the motives of duty and love, were safe from any such keen disappointment. They both looked, with pleasure, on the completed model, informing which they had taken inferior parts, while Dora had to walk to the window to hide from the eyes of her family the mortification which she felt. That day was a very happy one to all the members of the Temple family, Dora alone accepted. She felt a kind of dread of the evening conversation which she knew that she would have with her aunt. The eve of her last birthday, Dora remembered, as perhaps the happiest time of her life. Aunt Theodora had come to sit with her and talk to her of her coming birthday—a new milestone, as she called it, on the pilgrim's path toward heaven. Dora had on that evening opened her heart to her aunt, and the two had loved each other more fondly than they had ever loved before, and their parting embrace had been so sweet that Dora had felt that she could never forget it. Miss Clare was certain to come again this evening to her room—in this house, Dora had a little room to herself—and must the niece act the hypocrite's part to an aunt so loving and true? Must the girl so trusted and loved to make a show of openness while concealing a secret from her aunt, which if confessed, must lower her in the eyes of that tender relative and friend? Miss Clare did indeed come that night, as Dora had expected that she would come. The girl soon found herself sitting on a stool with her arms resting on her aunt's knee, as they had rested twelve months before, and she heard the same, dear voice, speaking to her of holy things, as she had heard on that well-remembered night. The room was the same, the furniture, the pictures were all the same, but Dora felt in her own heart a miserable change. Half a dozen times was the poor girl on the point of laying her head on her aunt's knee and sobbing forth a full confession to relieve her burdened heart. But to own repeated falsehood and long deceit to one herself so truthful, to lose the good opinion of one whose regard she so greatly valued, O! Dora could not muster up courage sufficient for this. And now that you are making a new start in life's journey, my child, such were the aunt's concluding words as she rose to depart. Give yourself anew to the best of masters, the most tender of friends. Ask his blessing upon all that you do. Without that blessing our best works are but like building on sand or writing on water. All end in vanity and vexation of spirit. The great lesson taught us by the history of ancient Israel is this. The path of obedience is the path of safety and happiness also. When God's people followed where He led and did what He commanded, then were their hearts filled with joy and their harps tuned to glad songs of triumph. But when the Israelites turned aside to paths of disobedience, sorrow followed close upon sin. They hung their harps on the willows and, exiles from their beautiful land, they wept when they remembered the blessings which would still have been theirs had they not forsaken their God. CHAPTER 19 Disappointment The birthday of the twins had arrived, but the sun rises late on the 24th of December, and Dora was up dressing by candlelight, long before his first beams shown on the sheet of pure white snow which had fallen during the night. It might be supposed that Dora's thoughts would be on the words of advice which she had heard on the previous night. But though these words had made some impression at the time, it was by no means upon them that the girl's mind was running when she awoke in the morning. Dora was thinking of her embroidery work, that work of which she had been so proud, that work which had cost her so dear. Nothing that Ms. Clare had said dwelt so much on the memory of her niece as the simple observation, it wants a little more scarlet, I think. For on the mantelpiece of the room now occupied by Dora, their chance to stand a glass bottle, corked and labeled, and by the light of her candle Dora had noticed that scarlet ink was printed upon the label. The sight of that little bottle had roused in the mind of the girl new hopes, and again turned her energy into the channels of work. My supply of scarlet silk ran short, and I was not able to get another skein at the shop, thought Dora. Aunt is quite right. There is not enough of scarlet mixed with the purple and blue. It is that which spoils the effect of my curtains. I wonder that no one noticed that before. But I have a skein of white silk with me, and why should I not dye it myself with that beautiful scarlet ink? This is a capital idea. The school children do not come till the afternoon. I should have time to dye my silk before breakfast, and after breakfast to work enough scarlet into my pattern to give a brilliant effect to all that part which is most easily seen. How pleased Aunt Theodora will be to find that I have taken her hint, and that I grudge no extra trouble to make my work complete. How very lucky it is she put that ink into my room. Dora actually forgot both her prayers and her scripture reading on that birthday morning in her impatience to get downstairs and quietly remove her inner veil and curtains from the model, before any other member of the family should enter the room where it was kept. With rough hair and dress only half-buttoned, Dora noiselessly opened her door, and then crept down the staircase and into the sitting-room in which the tabernacle stood, covered from the dust by large sheets of silver paper. There was no one in the room except the housemaid who was employed in opening the shutters to let in the light of morning. The model, as we know, was made to be taken to pieces at will, but as Dora's set of curtain was the innermost of all, it cost her some time and trouble to remove them. She pursued her occupation, while the housemaid went on with that of lighting the fire and dusting the room, and was at last able to disengage the whole of the embroidered portion of the drapery of the little tabernacle. With this Dora returned to her own apartment, and she laid her work on the pretty little table which her aunt had placed for her convenience. I must be quick about the dying, said Dora to herself, for I can hear Lucius whistling upstairs in the passage and little Elsie running about in the room just over my head. The family is now all astir, and in a quarter of an hour the prayer-bell will ring. If I don't dye my silk scarlet at once I shall be sadly delayed in my work, for I cannot, of course, use it for sewing until it is perfectly dry. So Dora took the bottle of ink down from its place on the mantle-piece, and in a great hurry set about removing the sealing wax which covered the cork, for the bottle had not yet been opened. It was a tolerably easy manner to break off the edges of the red wax, but Dora did not find it easy at all to pull out the cork, which was low in the narrow neck of the bottle and happened to be a very tight fit. Dear, dear help troublesome this is, exclaimed Dora, hunting about for her stout pair of nail-scissors to help her in forcing out the obstinate cork. Good morning, Dora, dear. Many happy returns of the day to you, cried the merry voice of Elsie as she tapped at the Dora for sister. Thank you, darling. Don't come in now. I'll soon be downstairs. I'm not quite ready, called out Dora, who had just succeeded in finding the scissors. She heard the little feet pat her down the stairs. Happy birthday to you, Dora. Mind you're not late, miss twelve years old. This time it was the voice of Lucius at the door. No, no, I'll not be late. I'll be down in ten minutes, cried Dora. Digging her scissors vigorously into the cork. The clatter of Lucius's boots showed that he had followed little Elyse. Oh, this cork, this tiresome cork, exclaimed Dora. There, it's out at last. In setting the open bottle on the table she turned round in a great flurry to get from her box the skein of silk which was to be changed from white to scarlet. More haste, less speed. Dora was not the first who has proved the truth of that proverb. She whisked round so rapidly that her dress struck the top of the bottle which she had carelessly set down in a place that was not very safe. The bottle was knocked over, but it fell upon something soft which lay on the table so that it was neither broken nor did it make enough noise in falling to attract the attention of Dora. It was not till she had found the skein, which she had some trouble in doing, that on turning back to the table she perceived the mischief caused by her hasty movement. At a start an exclamation of distress were given by poor Dora when she saw on the table her embroidery lying actually under the overturned bottle, and soaked through and through with the scarlet ink which had flowed in abundance from it. Dora stood for a moment as if rooted to the spot, scarcely able to believe her own eyes. She then darted forward, caught up the half-emptied bottle in one hand and the stained, dripping linen in the other. The first glance at the embroidery showed the poor girl that the mischief done was utterly beyond repairing. In one minute the fruit of all her long toil had been completely destroyed. Oh, it is all my own fault, all my own fault. It could not have prospered, cried out Dora, in a loud tone of anguish. As she put down, first the bottle, then the embroidery, and then hiding her face with her scarlet-stained fingers, she burst into a passion of weeping. That cry, that weeping, reached the ears of her aunt who had just approached her door carrying with her the destined gifts for the twins, the Indian scarf, and the brooch with the miniature set and pearls. My darling girl, what is the matter? exclaimed Miss Claire, opening the door in alarm. There was no need to repeat the unanswered question. The bottle, the little heap of embroidered linen dripping with scarlet ink, told their own story plain enough. Miss Claire saw the nature of the accident which had happened, and with kind sympathy for her niece's great disappointment, folded her affectionately in her arms. CHAPTER 20 It is vexatious, my Dora, very vexatious, said Miss Claire, in a tone of condolence. It is trying to you, after all the pains which you have bestowed on your work, to see that work suddenly spoiled. But still take comfort, dear child, in the thought that no labor undertaken for our master can really be lost. Dora sobbed more bitterly than before, for she knew that hers had not been labor undertaken for the master, and she felt that her time and toil had been worse than lost. Miss Claire did all that she could to comfort her favorite niece. She showed Dora the beautiful brooch which she herself valued so greatly. She told her that she had brought it as a birthday remembrance, but much to the lady's surprise Dora only shook her head sadly and sobbed forth, not for me, not for me. Oh! that model! I wish that I had never touched it. I wish that I had never set a stitch in one of those curtains. I see that you are distressed, naturally distressed by the mishap which has befallen your curtains, fearing that thereby the whole model may be spoiled, observed Theodora. You are thinking of the disappointment of your brother and sisters, of the ragged school children who are coming to-day, of my friends who are invited to see the model. You think that there is no time to repair the effects of the spilling the scarlet ink, but I think that I see a way to remedy the mischief, and Miss Claire, as she spoke, placed before the weeping girl her beautiful embroidered scarf. I had intended to give this to Agnes when I gave you the miniature brooch, but I will now alter my plan. I will try to find out, or purchase, some other remembrance for Agnes, and with a little alteration, do you not think, my sweet girl, that this work will do nicely for the inner curtains and veil? A thousand times better than mine could have done, exclaimed Dora, darting a glance of almost fierce dislike at the embroidery, now stained and marred, which she had once surveyed with such proud admiration. No indeed, said Miss Claire, very kindly. For though the Indian scarf may be—certainly is, in itself, more beautiful than your curtains—we cannot see in it the same token of patient perseverance in making what was intended to be a humble offering of love to the Lord. O aunt Thea Dora, I can stand this no longer, exclaimed Dora, almost choking with the violence of her emotion. You must know all. I can hide it no more. You must hear what a naughty, naughty girl I have been. Then as well as she could through her tears and her sobs, Dora relieved herself of the burden of concealment which had become at last intolerable. She told everything to her aunt, the first fault, the breaking of the fourth commandment, then the falsehood, the deceit which had followed, for when did an unrepentant sin ever stand alone? Dora concluded by passionately exclaiming, You cannot, you must not give me the brooch. Agnes has deserved it much better. She has been conquering her temper, and doing all that she can to please Mama, while I have been only a hypocrite. Please give the brooch to Agnes, and the scarf for the model. I could not bear now to take either. I who have only deserved to be punished. Miss Clare was surprised, pained, disappointed by what she now heard, yet there was comfort to her in seeing that now at least her poor niece was heartily repenting. I cannot tell you, my child, how thankful I am that this accident has happened to your work, and that you have been led to speak out bravely at last, said her aunt, putting her arm around Dora, and drawing her tenderly towards her, so that the poor girl could weep on her bosom. Then you don't despise me. You won't give me up, murmured Dora, crying still, but much more softly. Give you up! Never! cried the aunt, and she pressed a kiss upon Dora's brow. It may be a question indeed whether I had not better reserve the brooch till next birthday. Oh, I never could take it! Never! cried Dora excitedly. Let it be given to Agnes. Do you think, Dora, that by giving up the brooch you are winning a claim to forgiveness, that by this sacrifice you are atoning for what you have done wrong? asked Miss Claire. If so, I am bound to tell you that you are mistaken. No, aunt, replied Dora, for the first time raising her eyes heavy with weeping and looking at her godmother full in the face. I know that nothing that I can do can atone for my sin, that there is but one atonement, but I feel as if I could not take the brooch which you meant to give to a good girl, and which I have so little—Dora could not finish the sentence. Tears came again, and she hit her face on the bosom of her aunt. Miss Claire hesitated no longer. She felt that it would deeply impress on the mind of Dora the painful lesson which she was learning if she saw the brooch in possession of her elder twin. What Thea Dora had heard from Mrs. Temple of the market improvement in the character of Agnes convinced her that she was the sister who best deserved to receive the miniature of her mother. Miss Claire made a sacrifice of her own inclination in thus deciding to follow her judgment, but she was in the habit of doing what she thought right, instead of what she thought pleasant. I will confess all to Mama, now, just as I have done to you. I won't be a hypocrite any longer, Mermin Dora, as soon as she had recovered the power to speak. And there is another to whom my child must also confess, said Miss Claire, still with her arm round her knees, still with Dora's head on her breast. There is one who is ready freely to forgive every penitent who approaches the mercy seat pleading the merits of Christ. We have no power to remove one spot from our souls. The eyes of Miss Claire chanced to rest as she spoke on the embroidery, stained and destroyed. But there is the Lord's promise to comfort the broken and contrite heart. Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow. Though they be read as crimson, they shall be as wool. Dora and her aunt knelt down together and together prayed, but in silence. When Dora rose from her knees, though she was still very sad and subdued, there was a peace in her heart, a sense of sin forgiven, which she had not experienced for months. CHAPTER XXI Dora is late, shockingly late, on her birthday, too. I am surprised, exclaimed Elsie, who was in a fidget of impatience to present her sister with a marker on which she had made. An aunt has kept us twenty more than twenty minutes waiting for prayers, cried Amy. I am surprised, for she is always so punctual. And Agnes has employed the time on mending my gloves the most surprising thing of all, laughed Lucius. Why so surprising? asked Elise. Because a few months ago Agnes was much more given to picking holes than to sewing them up, answered the boy. I liked to plague her and she to tease me, and I thought that we should always live a kind of cat and dog life together. But now we're going to be grand allies, added the merry boy, clapping Agnes upon the shoulder. By your example you'll help to mend my manners as well as my gloves. Lucius spoke in his saucy, playful way, but there's many a true word spoken in jest, and he was but expressing what all the family had observed, that there was a gradual but steady improvement in the outer conduct of the once peevish and selfish girl. But the sharpest conflict of Agnes upon her twelfth birthday had been against a jealous spirit within. From a few words dropped by her aunt on the previous evening, Agnes felt sure that her mother's likeness would be given as a birthday present to one of the twins, and she had not a doubt that the younger would be the one thus favored. It was just the same last birthday, thought Agnes with bitterness. I am given some makeshift. Dora has what is really of value. It is rather hard that she should always be preferred before her elder sister because she is called after my aunt, whilst I am named after my mother. But oh, how wicked is this feeling of jealousy! How sinful these unkind and covetous thoughts! Lord, help me to overcome this secret temptation and to feel pleasure, real pleasure, when I see Dora wearing that which is so precious to us both. As the thought, or rather the prayer, passed through the mind of Agnes, the door opened and Miss Claire entered, followed by Dora. The lady held the beautiful brooch in her hand, and going up to the elder twin, whom she had not met before on that morning, with a kiss and a whispered blessing, fastened the precious jewel on her breast. That twenty-fourth day of December was a day long remembered with delight by many a poor child in Chester. For large was the number of scholars. It would be scarcely just to call them ragged, who enjoyed the feast and the varied amusements provided for them in the large Red House by their benefactress, Miss Claire. Especially was the beautiful, the wonderful model which the young gentlefolk had made, the theme of many a conversation in the low courts and lanes from which the guests had been gathered. Worn weary mothers at their sewing or washing, paused needle in hand or with arms whitened with soap suds to hear of the golden pillars and silver loops, and above all of the splendid embroidery that adorned the inner part of the model, that part which, as Miss Claire had told them, was called the Holy of Holies. And the young ladies looked just as pleased and happy as we, a bare-footed little urchant observed at the end of a lively narration of all the wonders that he had seen. All but one, and her eyes were red as if she had been a crying. What could she have had to make her cry? But she smiled, too, when we clapped our hands and shouted for joy as we saw the beautiful tent. What delighted their eyes and pleased their fancy was what naturally made the greatest impression on the ragged scholars who had stared in wondering admiration on the model of the Tabernacle of Israel. But the concluding words of a little address made by Miss Claire to the children were what sank deepest into the memories and hearts of her twin nieces. I have described to you, my dear young pupils, the various parts of this model, she said, let me now briefly point out a few lessons which we should all carry away. In Israel's Tabernacle we see a type of every Christian, in whose body, as St. Paul tells us, God's Holy Spirit deigns to dwell. First Corinthians 316. In that living Tabernacle the lowly heart is the Holy of Holies because it is cleansed by the blood of sprinkling. In it the commandments of God are treasured, and the light of his love shines within. But as the Tabernacle was not intended to last forever, but to give place to a far more splendid building, so is it with these bodies of ours. As Solomon's magnificent temple, glorious and fair and firm on its deep foundation, far surpassed the Tabernacle made to be moved from place to place, so will the glorified bodies of saints, when they are raised from their graves, surpass these weak mortal bodies in which they served their Lord upon the earth. For what sayeth the Apostle Paul? We know that if our earthly house of this Tabernacle were dissolved we have a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. Second Corinthians 5.1. End of chapter 21. End of the Children's Tabernacle, or Handwork and Heartwork, by Charlotte Maria Tucker.